Over the weekend, Poppy and I attended a Birth Without Fear conference. It was an inspiring day, filled with so many inspirational women and moving moments. But the one that has stuck with me was unexpected.

I first saw her early in the day, when I went to the talk about loss. The speaker was a doula who lost a baby at 34 weeks and, as you might expect, the audience was filled with women who had tear-streaked cheeks and tissues balled up in their fists. The one who sat in front of me wept openly and there was something about her that told me her pain was new. Raw. She had long hair, a full face, a striped shirt, and a swollen belly. A belly that held life, or death, or at least did not so long ago.

I never did speak to this woman. Her vulnerability makes my heart look at her as a girl, but no. She was a woman. Probably around my age. I don’t know her story. She won one of the giveaways and asked if it had any baby stuff in it. I heard her say, “I can’t do baby stuff right now.” I can only assume that she lost a baby very recently, or was in the process of losing one, or was going to lose one that wasn’t compatible with life outside her womb. Or something. I don’t know. But I felt drawn to her.

Our paths crossed many times in the day. I held my Poppy tight against me and watched her quietly, felt the sadness that radiated from her, and thought of Teddy Graham. I ached for her, and ached to reach out and provide some meaningful words of comfort and support, but I felt lost. I may have three children, but I still relate to loss mamas and infertile women more than anyone else. I am not so far removed from the pain and trauma caused by those experiences. And yet, I also am painfully aware how lucky I am and I know — I so very much know — that my loss cannot possibly compare to the loss of someone who loses a baby much farther into her pregnancy. They’re the same thing. And they aren’t. So I feel in limbo. Like I don’t quite fit in anywhere. And when I saw that woman on Saturday, I yearned to provide comfort, but I was holding my perfect baby and felt tongue-tied and idiotic, so I said and did nothing.

When the conference was over, I found a window seat on which to sit and feed Poppy before we made the drive home. And as I sat there in the warm sunlight and thought about the day, the woman with the round belly walked by, carrying her prize basket of non-baby items, quietly leaving the conference alone. She glanced my way ever so briefly and I gave her a small smile, but I don’t even know if she noticed, if she saw that I saw her. Her pain. Her loss. Her baby.

I wish I would have chased after her then and asked to hug her. I wish I would have expressed how sorry I was for her pain and given her an opportunity to talk about her baby. But instead I watched her go and thought of how heavy her heart must be in that moment, but also how strong and courageous she must be in order to attend that conference, a place full of bumps and babies, with such a heavy heart. And to do it alone, no less. As she turned the corner, I said a silent prayer for her, because that was all there was left to do.

And now I remember why I make such an effort to do things that are important to me, despite how fearful I am. Because I hate the feeling of regret. I feel haunted by this woman and her loss, haunted by the fact that I didn’t do something when I felt called to do it. That I said nothing when I was in a position to do so. And I don’t know if it what I would have said or done would have been the right thing to say or do; I just know that I should have acted. I expect better of myself.

And so next time — if there’s ever a next time — I will. I will do better. I will be better. I will continue to try to live a life that doesn’t have room for regret and to connect with other women heart-t0-heart even when I feel my attempts are lacking, insignificant, or pointless.  Doing something is better, I am reminded, than doing nothing. I didn’t expect that to be my takeaway from the BWF conference, but alas…it is what is. Unexpected lessons in unexpected places.

Six Years Ago Today

Six years ago today was a very dark day. We had been struggling to conceive our first child for well over a year. I had just learned that a close, childhood friend had given birth to her son just days before. I was about to take a pregnancy test that I knew would be negative. And it was time to finally accept that the Clomid wasn’t working and we needed to try something else.

I didn’t know then what was in store. I couldn’t have know then, on that dark, lonely day, that I would give birth three times in the next six years. I was sad and scared, desperate and distraught. And yet, everything was about to change. Because six years ago tomorrow, I would get a positive pregnancy test. My very first. For the first time in forever, I would see two lines on that pee stick instead of one. What a glorious moment.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of a day of celebration. A celebration of so much hope, anticipation, and joy. But today? Today, I remember what it was like before. Before this all began. The heavy heart. The quiet house.

Six years ago today, I was in so much pain. I will never forget that.

Left Behind

Another friend is pregnant.

But she’s not just any friend. No casual acquaintance or Facebook psuedo-friend. Lillian is a very close  friend and the one who has helped me along through the last nine months. She’s 36 and, in many ways, she’s one of us. Technically, she doesn’t have trouble getting pregnant. She has trouble staying pregnant. She has a daughter now who will be three in April, but before conceiving her little lady in 2009, Lillian suffered three miscarriages over the course of nine months. She knows the ins and outs of charting and temping. She’s all-too-familiar with the pain of wondering if she will ever hold her precious child in her arms. She understands why pregnancy announcements and baby showers are hard for me, why it’s difficult to see or hold a newborn right now, without explanation.

When I lost Teddy Graham, Lillian was there like no one else could be. At the time, she was one of only two people whom I personally knew who had experienced the loss of a pregnancy, and she was the only local one. No other friend even knew I was pregnant. Lillian had guessed just by looking at me, and I feel that must have been something orchestrated by God, because she was the best one to turn to in my loss. She guided me through all of it. She invited me over for playdates and out for ice cream so we could talk. She offered to watch Cupcake if I just needed to be alone in my grief. And I give her all the credit for this blog. She may not have written the words for each post, but she is the one who encouraged me to do so because that is how she navigated this when she was facing RPL. Because of Lillian, I have all of you.

Last night, Lillian and I had dinner at a local Indian restaurant. Because we both started TTC at the same time after my miscarriage, and have spent many hours in the past sharing the nitty-gritty details of our cycles, she knew we would be discussing the most personal things over our curries. And she did not want to lie to me, so she sent me an e-mail last week to break the news, an e-mail because she remembers that’s what I wanted from my sister. She did and said all the right things. She treated me with the tenderness, gentleness, and sensitivity that my sis never has (which, until now, has been my barometer to judge all of this). She gave me the option of canceling our dinner date and she welcomed me to express to her how I felt about her news. And when I did, completely and truthfully, she responded not with hostility, bitterness, or condemnation, but repeated thanks for my honesty. I did not know it was possible that someone like this existed.

Last Wednesday, when I read that e-mail first thing in the morning, it crushed me. I cried until sundown. I felt more defeated, more hopeless, than I ever have since the start of this journey. I could not respond to Lillian’s e-mail at the time. I was not a pleasant person to be around. This one little pregnancy announcement from someone I love and respect felt like the end of the world. And I said things I am not proud of and did not mean, things like how much easier this would all be if life just didn’t continue. That was a very dark day.

Let me be clear: I have no ill will towards Lillian. None at all. She has done everything perfectly. She has treated me exactly the way I hope I would treat someone else if I was in her shoes. At dinner, she did not go on and on about her pregnancy, but apologized whenever she did mention it. She let me talk and worry over my journey, and sympathized with everything I said. She is the friend I have always wanted. I would be lying if I said I was not jealous, but that jealousy does not lead me to anger or bitterness or ugly thoughts. It only makes me weepy, and thankful that she understands.

It is still early for Lillian. This pregnancy is very new. She is only five weeks along. She is scared because she does not know if history will repeat itself. I am scared for her. And happy for her, too. And sad for me. But most of all, I feel left behind. By everyone. My Reader is full of bumpdates and positive peestick photos, but that is the very least of my heartache. Every one of you deserve this. I am happy and hopeful for all of you, my friends. But there are pregnancy announcements everywhere I turn. I was *lucky* enough, while TTC my darling Cupcake, to know only one person who was pregnant…and I didn’t learn about her pregnancy until two months before my own BFP. I did not have to wade through any of this kind of pain. In this moment, I have cousins, old and new friends, acquaintances, and a sister who are expecting or have recently given birth. Some of them are first babies, but many are second or third or even fourth. And now, my own in-real-life ally has crossed to the other side, too. I will be the only regular in our mom’s group who does not have more than one child. It is not fair of me to feel abandoned because I know Lillian will be there for me whether she gets to have this baby or not…even whether she has ten or twelve or a hundred babies. But I do. I feel utterly alone.

But this is not all about me. I know that. Lillian is worried about and fearful for what these next few weeks bring. I want to support her like she has supported me. I will be checking in with her frequently. And I have offered to watch her daughter if she just needs some rest or has a bad bout of morning sickness. This is what friends are for. She has given me permission to pull away, to take time off from our relationship, to not feel any joy about her joyous news, but I will not do any of that. I pride myself on being thoughtful and selfless in my friendships, on being everything my sister has failed to be to me. In my relationship with my sis, I have been there for her in other ways. I have really tried to be the kind of sister she wants. I have made gifts for her and I spent way too much money on a baby that hasn’t even been born yet. But in my relationship with Lillian, I want to do better. This is my opportunity for redemption. This is my second chance.

A Promise for Positive Thinking

Since the turn of the year, I have been in a slump and I can’t climb my way out of it. Especially now that my mom is back home and I spend my days essentially alone, and my sister’s baby shower is looming closer every day, I find myself feeling melancholy and forlorn. Freakishly without hope and only filled with dread. In times like this, it is easy to forget my list of 100 blessings. Pathetic but true.

But I am tired of feeling like this year is just going to be a series of sadnesses, losses of hope, cycles which bring nothing but an empty bank account and a broken heart. I don’t want to perceive life in this way. Am I not more than my infertility and loss and struggle? Question mark because sometimes I don’t feel that I am. This infiltrates every part of my world, every thought, every moment and memory, every relationship. But 2013 does not have to be an endless dark tunnel with no light, no fleeting time in the sun. I still have plenty to be thankful for. There is deep sadness in my life, but there is intense happiness too. And while I do not yet know what this year holds for the future of our family, there are other foreseeable things, events and days and plans, that lay ahead for me to wait for and countdown to. Like:

  • Monthly Bunco nights with my girlfriends, good food, and lots of wine (and sometimes a surprise win, like the $20 I came home with this week).
  • Daily moments of laughter, delight, and wonder as I watch Cupcake grow and become and experience and create.
  • Deliciousness. I worry about my weight, but I do love to eat, and I know there will be many fantastic meals, snacks, and treats that I can live for this year.
  • A church service at the end of this month that is specifically for infertile couples and offers a lot of prayer on their behalf.
  • Fat Tuesday, a day when my husband and I go to a nearby bakery, order a ridiculous amount of their pretty chocolate pastries and desserts, and spend one night indulging ’til our stomach’s content (and beyond).
  • Our wedding anniversary in March. It will be our 5th and my husband and I are spending the night in a nice hotel in the city to celebrate. (This, however, will also be the anniversary of Teddy Graham’s conception, but I’m trying not to think of that…)
  • My mom will possibly be spending another two weeks with us in March, if she is able to get the time off work.
  • The birth of my sister’s baby in the spring. This is on the list because it can be a joyous occasion if I let it. This will be the birth of my first biological niece or nephew, which means a great deal to me. I never thought I would have this, so I’m torn between the pain and joy it brings me.
  • A long weekend visit from my mom at the end of May. (Yes, this lady has the ability to bring me lots of joy with her presence alone.)
  • A July road trip back to Idaho for my cousin’s wedding, where I will get to see some family and enjoy some hot and sunny weather.
  • My 30th birthday in August. I am not looking forward to thirty, nor am I excited about a birthday spent without a baby in my belly or arms, but my mom will probably be here (again!), and we will take Cupcake to the zoo for the first time and I do like presents, if I’m being completely honest. 🙂
  • The holidays. I dread another holiday season spent without a newborn, but Christmas can still be fun and special and memorable in the most beautiful way, if only I allow myself the freedom of focusing on all that I have rather than on the one thing that I do not.

This is my attempt at positive thinking. I struggle with it more often than not, but I do NOT want another year filled with so much self-pity, and bitterness, and darkness. It’s okay if that’s the way I feel in the moment and if I need to wallow. That’s okay. But I do not want it to define this year. I will not let it. This is the promise I am making to myself right this minute.

But I do reserve the right to renege on this promise at any time. Please forgive me if I do.

Countdown to the End of a Dream

My daughter’s (very small, but very lovely) birthday party was this afternoon  and, on Wednesday, she will turn two. As the first birthday presents arrived, I realized there is no denying it anymore: Cupcake is growing up. She’s not a baby anymore. It’s been two years since what was, until recently, the hardest period in my life came to an end. Two years since the baby I longed for and dreamed of filled my empty arms.

This momentous occasion should be one of joy, of celebration. And it is. Nothing, no amount of sadness, can stop me from appreciating and rejoicing in the life of the child I was not certain would ever exist. Of the child I wanted more than anything else in this world and the next. But with this day also comes a rock of dread sitting in my stomach. I imagine part of this is normal stuff that mothers feel as they watch their tiny, helpless babies morph into real people with their own opinions and desires. But for me, it is more than that. It is tangible proof that time is passing. The clock is ticking. And nothing in my life is changing, evolving, or improving.

There was a time when I expected to have a ginormous belly for my daughter’s second birthday party. I do not. I do not have a baby bump of any size, in fact. And then I prayed that I might become the mother of a second living child by my 30th birthday. As the calendar pages flip one-by-one for this month, though, that dream is fading. My next hope, my forever hope, is to have another baby in my arms by the time my daughter celebrates her third birthday. I have always wanted my children to be two to three years apart. To make that happen, I must conceive in the next three months. Cupcake’s second birthday is the start of the countdown. And while I know that the world will not end if this doesn’t happen, and that I will welcome any baby whenever s/he comes, it is hard to see your dreams diminish. It is hard to accept that the way you envisioned your future may be nothing more than fantasy.

Please do not mistake this whiny, listless post as a lack of gratitude. I know I am lucky. I am reminded every day as I read all of your blogs that I have been given a great gift. So many of you would give anything for one child. I am forever thankful to be in this position of worrying over having another baby. If it comes to it, my daughter, sweet beautiful precious perfect Cupcake, will have to be enough. She is enough. I love her more than air, water, and chocolate and I couldn’t ask for anything better. But having just one child is not the dream. Having a big family, a house full of noise and laughter, screaming and too many toys, is what I want. Having now what I never had as a child is what I want. I want that more than almost anything. (And yes, I did say almost, because good God, I do not want it at the sacrifice of the life of the child I already have or that of anyone else I deeply love…but that it is it. That is the only thing more important to me than this.)

And as days like today pass me by, it feels as if that dream I have been holding onto is slowly slipping away.

Thinking It Over

I’ve done some serious thinking over the last couple days, since getting the results of my husband’s semen analysis, and I know ya’ll are right. I need not make a hasty decision right now. I shouldn’t feel pressured to do anything that I’m not comfortable with. And I must get Honey re-tested.

Which is just what we’ll do. Soon (I hope). I’m not exactly sure how Honey is taking this news of his ill-shaped swimmy friends, but I do know he’s been googling himself into delirium trying to get all the facts. And we all know how *reliable* Dr. Google is. But there are some suggestions for supplements and herbs to consider, which we will, after getting a second SA. And because my husband is a skeptic and suspicious of everybody, we will be retesting at a lab that is not associated with the fertility clinic that is pushing for IUI. Our insurance will allow us to go to a specialist without a referral, so Honey plans to make an appointment to see a urologist (hopefully one specializing in male fertility) and will then get another SA from there, if all goes according to planned (which, you know, it rarely does).

I’m not particularly hopeful that the results will be any different, but I’m also not particularly panicked by it anymore. All of a sudden, I feel sort of indifferent. I don’t know what to think. I keep coming back to the same thing that so many of you reminded me of. I’ve had two pregnancies that happened rather quickly after I started ovulating. That has to mean something, right? Either that…or those babies really were true miracles.

I will say this, though: while not all hope is lost, I have lost my confidence. Confidence that this will happen. Even after my miscarriage, I was certain that that we would have another child, though I wasn’t so arrogant to think that it would happen quickly or easily. But now…I can’t say even that. There is more doubt than there ever has been before (at least since we began TTC #2). More uncertainty. I still hope, but no longer am I sure, that Cupcake will be given a sibling. Instead, this journey is just starting to feel long and endless and sometimes I question the value of it. Is it worth it? Is all this pain, heartache, frustration and fear worth it? The problem is, we don’t really know the answer to this ever-important question until our journey is over — one way or another.

And so I march on. I will not let our fertility clinic talk me into a step that I am not ready to accept or embark on. IUI is our last resort, for there will be no IVF/ICSI for us, and I’m not ready to tap it just yet. For now, we will continue as though my husband’s sperm are the macho men we wish and once believed they were. I will go forward with this monitored cycle. I will do a trigger shot when the time comes. We will get naked together every other night until we know we don’t need to anymore. And next month…we will do it all over again.

Old Wounds Reopened

I’ve been having a hard time lately. In the last few days, I have faced sadness, disappointment, and this pervasive feeling of worthlessness. And strangely, none of it has to do with infertility or loss.

Instead it’s because of two relatively minor things that took place last week:

  • I am a part of a mom’s group here in our suburban town, a group filled with mothers of all ages with kids of all ages (but mostly under 5). While it took everything I had as a shy, new mom to seek this group out, over the last year and a half, they have become my friends. All of them, but two in particular. They are the only local friends I have. But while at a playdate last week, I learned that many of these moms are going “cabining” together on November 17 — that is, they’ve rented a bunch of cabins in a nearby forest and will be spending the weekend away, moms, dads, kids, and all. I was never invited. Many other moms weren’t either, but I am one of them, and I’m a group regular. I can only assume this is because I declined their offer over the summer to go camping and they thought (probably rightly so) that we would say no again. Or perhaps they don’t even realize I wasn’t invited. I don’t know. All I know is that I never will know exactly why I was excluded.
  • I am in the process of planning my daughter’s 2nd birthday party. We have invited a large handful of close friends and family to our home for cake and ice cream and fun. So far, more people than not have declined. Many more. So many more, in fact, that our party is turning out to be quite, quite small. Nearly everyone who came to her party last year will not be there this year. They already have plans — a play to go to, a baby shower to throw — things that have been in the works for months. See the first bullet point for why a few of my daughter’s friends (and mine) won’t be coming either. And while Cupcake probably couldn’t care less who comes to her party, I do care. I want to celebrate the life of my girl, a child I once believed would never exist. I want everyone in my life to celebrate with me and to believe that she is worth it. I am immensely grateful to those (including my sister) who will be at her party, but it still hurts that others will not.

Now, I will be the first to admit that I am ultra-sensitive and it does not take much to hurt my feelings. If you cross your eyes at me, I will somehow convince myself that you are making fun of my (improving) acne. If you ask if I’d like a glass of water, I will believe that you are trying to usher me out of your home because, otherwise, you would have offered me a cup of coffee so I could stay and linger for a while. It’s pathetic and pitiful.

I am trying not to take these two things — the cabining and the lackluster birthday party — too personally. I am failing. While I am less broken up about it than I was over the weekend (when I cried, many times a day), I’m still crushed.  I feel discouraged and let down. I know some of you may be rolling your eyes. I know, in the big scheme of life and with infertility weighing on all of us, that these are two very insignificant things. I know I need to buck up and get over it…or thicken my skin.

But that is not me. I have been this way most of my life and, while I have matured and grown, I have not stopped feeling pain, however small it is, very deeply. And so my most recent happenings have done nothing but make old insecurities resurface. Once again, I feel “less than,” undeserving, unworthy, inadequate, and rejected. It makes me want to curl into myself and hide. To stop putting myself out there and risking my heart. To stop giving others the opportunity to hurt me.

But that is not me either. I may be timid, shy, reserved, quiet, and a wallflower, but I do not hide. I do not run away if there is a chance I should take. I don’t stop loving, or letting myself be loved. So I will go on. I will still meet with my mommy group. I will still try to build upon the friendships I have made. I will throw my daughter a fantastic party and thoroughly appreciate those who care enough to come. And next year, I will do it all over again. And hopefully, along the way, there will be other moments that build my confidence, strengthen me, and show me that others believe I am a person worth knowing, and a friend worth having. And I will hope that it’s true.

Tears in Idaho

Well, I called it, you guys. I’m no fool.

My sister is pregnant.

She called me when we were halfway to Idaho and I cried the rest of the way here. Why oh why did she have to call me? I sent her an e-mail so that I could get a quick response from her and later reply with my own congratulatory e-mail that I had carefully planned out. Instead, she caught me off guard while I was on vacation and I had to figure out what to say on the spot.

And as a result, this was how the conversation went:

SIS: Blah blah blah. (Small talk)

ME: Blah blah blah. (Small talk right back at her, but the whole time I’m thinking, Just get on with it, will ya?)

SIS: So I was calling about that e-mail you sent me…

ME: Yeah.

SIS: Well, I wanted to wait until I was further along to tell you, but I am pregnant. I’m about 8 weeks. (At which point, I wanted to ask, If you were trying to hide it from me, then why did you keep dropping the most obvious hints ever? But I didn’t.)

ME: Congratulations.

SIS: Thanks! We’re very excited!!

ME: Well, congrats.

SIS: Thanks so much.

(Silence. Utter silence. Did she want me to say something more? Because I really had nothing left.)

ME: So….when are you due?

SIS: Oh, like, in the middle of March, somewhere in between the 13th and 17th.

(More silence because I am thinking, Great! That is just flipping fabulous. March 14th is our wedding anniversary. AND will be the anniversary of Teddy Graham’s conception. Thank you, God, for making this even HARDER.)

SIS: I just wanted to call and tell you. I didn’t think it would be right over e-mail.

ME: Oh, well, it probably would have been easier that way, but it’s okay.

SIS. Oh. (Pause.) Well, I guess I’ll know for next time. (And I think, Next time?! You think I’ll have to go through this AGAIN???!!!)

ME: No, it’s fine. I just thought we had talked about that? But it’s okay. You did what you felt was right and that’s fine.

SIS: (sounding slightly miffed) Well, fine then.

ME: (feeling crushed by guilt and remorse) Listen, I can tell you’re upset and I don’t want that. This is a hard time for me, but I’m happy for you. I really am. I want to be there for you and help you celebrate this baby.

SIS: (sighing and sounding just as pissed)  Okay. Well, drive safely.

ME: (now highly annoyed too) We will.

SIS: Talk to ya later.

ME: Yep.

And that was that. And I can’t decide if I handled it well or if I said all the wrong things. Because apparently my sister thinks it’s the latter one and I hung up feeling horribly guilty. And how fair is that?! I already feel like sh*t and now I have to feel guilty too? My Honey says it’s because I didn’t give her the response she was hoping for. But what did she really expect? If I’d had time, I could have formulated the perfect, warm, sisterly congratulations. But I need to process in order to do that. I cannot do it in the heat of the moment, when my heart is breaking all over again. I can’t.

But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about her.

Because she’s pregnant.

And I’m not.

The End.

Some Thoughts on Hurting, Home, and the Things in Between

Today, I hurt.

I hurt today because yesterday I came to the conclusion that my sister is pregnant. She has not confirmed this, but I know. I know that she and her new husband started trying during my short-lived pregnancy in April. I know that she has always had regular periods and will probably have no problems conceiving.  I know that she has dropped hints such as being the designated driver at a bachelorette party, feeling so tired all the time, and in an e-mail yesterday she mentioned that she hasn’t been feeling well for a few weeks but said nothing more. And I know that she is probably afraid to tell me her good news.

I know she is pregnant, and I think I have for a while, though I have tried to convince myself otherwise. Either way, I sent her an e-mail last night to ask if my suspicions are true. Was this out of line? I hope not. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. But if she is expecting, I want to know so I can accept it and move on. So we don’t have a pink elephant hanging around every time we talk on the phone or send an e-mail.


This, in the aftermath of my loss, is one of the things I have been fearing the most.

As you may remember from a previous post, my sister is no ordinary sister. She is a half-sister whom I learned about just this year. At this point, we are bonded only by blood and quite a few common interests and personality traits. We don’t have a history. Not really. And the history we do have is short and shadowed by the fact that I feel as if she did not support me through my miscarriage as I had expected. This has left me with a bad taste in my mouth and a lot of resentment. I’m trying to forgive, to believe her intentions were always good, to fake it until I make it. I think I have done a good job at that, but it doesn’t mean I want to celebrate her pregnancy with her.

I am happy for her but sad for myself, torn between wanting to hear every detail about every second of this pregnancy and this baby (my niece! my nephew! my very flesh and blood!), but also afraid to experience all of that. Afraid of the jealousy and contempt and pain it will cause me. There have been times that I wished she would have to deal with my same infertility issues (that somehow it was genetic) and, in the last 24 hours, there have been times when I wished that this pregnancy didn’t exist. Not that I would wish her and her unborn child any harm or tragedy. Just that this had not happened for her quite so quickly and not yet, not until there is another life growing inside me too. Maybe then it would hurt a little less.

I just want to stop hurting.

Someone please tell me I’m not a horrible person, or a bad sister. Because I’m new to this sister thing and I don’t know if these feelings and thoughts I have make me the very worst sister-friend to ever exist.

But on to other things…

It’s cycle day 3! Officially. Not long after my last post, the flow started to pick up and blazed throughout yesterday and into this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see that much blood! (TMI?) So of course, I was worried for no reason. Like always. It’s still not as wicked as it has been at times in the past and I’m not nearly as crampy either, but maybe that’s a good sign? I’ve heard extraordinarily heavy and painful periods are not healthy either. And now I’m at a point where I’m hoping for a little mercy and for the flow to slow waaaaaay down by the end of the day. And I took my first 100mg of Clomid with breakfast this morning. It’s always exciting to me, because it gives me new hope, even if that hope wavers. Often.

(And btw…thank you so much to everyone who offered their advice about cycle days, spotting, and Metformin. I needed to hear all of it and, with each new comment, I breathed a sigh of relief.)

As for the Metformin, I am still on the fence. I go back and forth about a hundred times a day. I did fill the prescription and pick it up from the pharmacy, but I’m going to leave it sitting on our bathroom counter for a few days. I want to ponder it and give my decision time. On one hand, I find it deliciously tempting not to take it and not to have one more obligation and worry in TTC-land. Especially when there is no proof that I actually need it. But on the other hand, I want to do everything I can to up my odds and help my body to ovulate and hopefully ovulate earlier than is standard for me. But at any rate, I won’t be taking it until next week (after my birthday and road trip) and I will definitely be taking it if this round of Clomid doesn’t work at all. I think.

And speaking of our road trip…

We leave today!  Going back to Idaho. Back home…or at least to the only home I had ever known until the place that we now call home became our home. (Hey…that was a lot of fun to say!) I’m so excited for this return to our “roots.” There was a time when I hoped I would be returning with a growing belly and, for a short while during my Teddy Graham pregnancy, I really believed I would. In the weeks after my miscarriage, I lamented that this picture I had of myself in a cute sundress attending the wedding of a family friend in Idaho would never come to be. I cried for days over that silly image. But I’m stronger now, and looking forward to going back to a place that is so familiar to us. It will be good to get away for a short while and, when we return, I will already have made it through the first week of this cycle…with only one (but probably two) more weeks until the anticipated ovulation date. I will welcome anything that can make time go faster right now.

And with that being said, I will probably be off the grid for a few days. If there’s time (perhaps in the evening while watching the Olympics!), I will stay caught up on my blog-reading, but I don’t anticipate that I’ll do any of my own posting. Unless, perhaps, I hear back from my sis about her suspected pregnancy. In that case, I might have no choice but to come here to whine and cry over the unfairness of it all.

Just a warning, friends.