Lag Time

So, maybe it wasn't the best idea to schedule my ultrasound - on the other side of LA - while I'm still eight hours ahead of local time. It might have been okay in the morning (we've all been up since about 4:00), but by this afternoon my eyelids were drooping and I couldn't finish my sentences. I probably should have rescheduled, but my sanity had been pinned to this ultrasound for so long that it didn't occur to me that I might not go.

I had to stop for a 7Up in hopes that the sugar rush would perk me up, and I cranked the oldies station and tried to channel some of that boppy energy. And it worked, to the extent that I did make it to the clinic without actually falling asleep at the wheel. But I had the bizarre wish that there was such a thing as eyelid-propper-uppers, which can't be a good sign.

The nervousness was crazy. There were all sorts of billing issues and it took forever to get into the little room. Then I sat there with the giant napkin over my lap, waiting and waiting for the doctor to finally come in and read the verdict. When he did get the probe in I couldn't even look at the screen. After so many scans I can say that when there is a lot of wand movement and the doctor/tech doesn't say anything for a while it's not a good sign. That was all I could concentrate on - how long would it take him to say something. I think I actually closed my eyes until I heard him start talking.

The first thing he said was that the baby was really moving around a lot. Suddenly, everything else seemed less crucial - the exact beats per minute, the specific crown-rump length - it all just became "everything looks normal". Such a relief! At 11w1d the baby measured 11w3d, but was moving around so much that it can't be particularly accurate. I guess the 7Up did perk things up, after all...

So, alive and well. So far, so good. I even drove home without even thinking about my eyelids. I have another scan on Friday (nuchal translucency) so at least I know I can make it through this week without worrying myself into a frenzy. I'm so relieved that I don't even know what would have happened if it had been bad news. And I know that this isn't the end of worrying, I know that there are no guarantees, but for now, I'll take it. It finally feels good to be home.

Cream and Pudding

After almost a month of British food - not at all the mush it used to be, we have had fantastic food here - I am so ready for a California diet. I am way too big for ten weeks, and I can't blame it all on the hormones. I have only had fish and chips once (so good, though - the main thing that keeps me from going back is the line out the door) but the butter and cream and oil in everything has surely contributed to this:

The camera doesn't lie, people. I am really that big at ten weeks. At five months, in a cute little maternity top, this might be adorable. Here at "maybe, maybe not", it's just frustrating. If I could take this as a positive sign that things are going well it would be so much easier, but that idea seems polly-anna-ish ridiculous. 

I won't say that I'm not happy, in general, about being supposedly pregnant. I've just created such a neutral approach to the whole thing that I actually can't feel much of anything in the way of joy or love or hope. I mean, in the rest of my life, sure. No problem. But this is different. Which is fine - I guess this is what I wanted, really.

Anyway, off to Paris for pastries and whatever cheese I'm allowed - then home! Ultrasounds! What a difference that will make.

Hulloo and Cheerio

I feel as if I am writing from the wild, wild west and not one of the most urban places on the face of the earth. I am like a pioneer woman, gaging my pregnancy by the tightness of my waistband rather than anything scientific or even semi-reliable.

The thing is, I have never miscarried in any kind of obvious way. No bleeding, no cramps. The last time I kept gaining weight for at least two weeks as my body produced unnecessary amniotic fluid. I want to believe that my tight pants are a good sign, but I'm still wary of anything that might be considered optimism.

I am huge, by the way. Gigantic. The IVF weight-gain - two cycles worth - plus the dexamethasone bloat have added so much to my girth that I can barely fit into anything but yoga pants. Which is fine in LA - yoga pants is what most people wear around anyway - but going out to dinner in London in gym clothes is a bit odd. I've been wearing nice tops and big necklaces in an effort to draw the eye up (as they always say in fashion magazines) (although I myself am never fooled by that tactic and consider it a lame-ass trick) away from my baggy-kneed lower legs.

And, worse than anything that I might wear out to dinner, today I actually put on a swimsuit. Our hotel is one of the few in London with a pool - this city just isn't big on swimming, and most buildings couldn't be easily retrofitted to accommodate the weight of a pool. So, they are few and far between. Our hotel isn't necessarily super-fancy, it just happens to be built next to a spa, with access for hotel guests.

I bought a new suit before we left. Not a maternity suit - too jinxy - but a loose tankini top and the kind of high-rise bottoms that nobody in their right mind would consider wearing under normal circumstances. It was fine when I bought it, two weeks ago. Now it's like a girdle.

In any case, can I just tell you about this pool? It's in the sub-sub basement of a health club, below the workout rooms and the locker area. It smells like a thousand bottles of chlorox spilled everywhere. Children are only allowed in for one hour each day (maybe good for infertiles?) and all swimming must be done in an "anti-clockwise" direction.

For some reason there are four teak lounging chairs at the side of the shallow end. And for some stranger reason there were people actually lounging on them. A fat hairy guy lying on his stomach with a towel over his rear end, and a grandmotherly woman on her back with her eyes closed. They were there the whole time we swam, used the hot-tub (knees-only for me) and showered off. Weird, right? How relaxing can it possibly be to lie on a wooden bench in the chemical aroma of a dark echo-y basement, during the one hour children (about eight screaming splashing whining children) are allowed in?

Magical Thinking

I am engaging in a willing suspension of disbelief, continuing to imagine that I am pregnant. I am mostly avoiding wine (sampling a bit from my husbands glass) and coffee (just decaf) and taking my jillion medications as if I am sure that I still need them. After all, why not?

It would help if I actually felt pregnant, but I am so conditioned to be cautious that I'm not sure I will notice any symptoms until I lose a mucous plug. I did tell my friend here about it, but only for the selfish reason that she is a resident on her ob/gyn rotation and I am hoping for some ultrasound love, although she has just started a break so it may not be possible. I am still crossing my fingers for some string-pulling, though.

Speaking of string-pulling, I have to say that I have managed to pull the longest strings ever and wrangled an tour of a certain movie set here in the UK which I will not name directly but if I say the the first word starts with H and the second one with P, and that there are six films out so far and another two being filmed at the same time...

Yep, we went to THAT set. It was unbelievable, every stage was enormous, every set so crammed with details that it is mind-boggling to imagine how they will ever dismantle any of it. The design is simply astonishing. The level of detail, the scale, the technical considerations - the degree of craftsmanship alone is worthy of the term "magical".

Of course, for my daughter the highlight was meeting the three young stars. They were so friendly and welcoming and chatty - especially Dan - and for an eleven-year-old nothing could be better. She's not old enough to be too cool to act like she cares, but not so little that she can't hold up her end of a conversation for a few minutes. They talked about being short vs. being tall (my daughter is quite tall for her age - almost as tall as Dan, since he's really short) and why it shouldn't matter even though it does. Then they talked about being eleven, school, books - all good topics, couldn't have been better.

So, all in all, an excellent day. I think the rest of the trip will be denoument for her, but maybe the glee will last at least a few days?

My Friend Flicker

The ultrasound technician in my OB's office (my RE is on vacation) actually offered to go on my trip with me, and I said yes. I think she might have been joking, but I was absolutely serious. Of course, she'd have to bring her machine along with her...

Things are still looking like they may actually work out. At 6w4d we saw an embryo measuring 6w5d, and a flicker of a heartbeat at 129 bpm. So far, so good. But it's a hollow kind of reassurance. I used to think that those of us who have gone through losses really had to get past the point of the loss before we could begin to relax and believe things might work out. But now I'm not sure even that will be enough for me - I can't imagine losing this feeling of "maybe" and "we'll see". My OB was so excited for me, hugging and kissing me and almost literally jumping up and down. It just seemed like too much, too soon.

The nurses offered me their pre-natal welcome package, which includes lots of samples of vitamins, a copy of WTEWYE, coupons for pregnancy yoga and massages and gift certificates to maternity stores. I got the same package last fall, so I still had most of the things in my big box of IVF leftovers. I just said thanks, I have everything I need. But I was shocked by how naive it seemed - not even 7 weeks and they are already assuming I'm going to need this stuff? Don't they of all people know that these things are not guaranteed?

I'm going to be out of the country for almost a month - my OB said I could come in the day after I get back, but the ultrasound lady suggested I wait just four more days and then we can do the nuchal translucency scan at the same time. So, okay - but my RE will be back by then, and you can bet I'm going to try to get in there for a scan as soon as my plane lands. I guess it's just going to be a tentative time for me, and I'll have to figure out how to be okay with that.

If anyone has a sister (cousin, friend-of-a-friend, etc.) who's an ultrasound tech in London, let me know!

Six Weeks Exactly

Because my retrieval was on a Monday, we are measuring weeks and days starting on Mondays - which is very convenient. Of course, it doesn't make time go any faster, but it's easy to keep track of as it goes creeping by.

At 6w0d, I feel tired. No nausea, no sore boobs. Maybe my boobs have been pregnant too many times (this is #7, including the probable early miscarriages before I knew enough to recognize that my period wasn't just oddly two weeks late). Maybe they've been plumped up and stretched out enough that it doesn't really matter any more? They seem a teensy bit firmer, but alas, not really anything more in terms of cleavage.

I think my daughter suspects. She hasn't said anything outright, and I'm not going to bring it up, but she has remarked, at separate times, that I'm not drinking coffee, that my clothes are all really floppy, that I'm going to a lot of acupuncture and doctors appointments. It was only five months ago that I was fully pregnant, that all those things were completely well-known to be related to that, and that she was asking a million questions about everything.

When we were in Yosemite in December and had to run from the bear (I know you're not supposed to run from a bear, but it's impossible not to) I had grabbed her hand and pulled her through the woods. Afterwards, she said it was fun and I told her that I wasn't supposed to run so fast, so haphazardly, because of the baby. (Yes, I've wondered if that could have been a factor in the demise - I wonder about everything.) And today when we were taking a walk in the hills, she started running down a grassy slope and calling for me to come after her. I told her that I can't run right now. She turned and looked me in the eye and said "Like that time with the bear?"

The problem with high-IQ kids is, well, they can figure things out for themselves. If it weren't summer, if my husband weren't out of town, if her camp hadn't ended last week, then maybe she wouldn't have noticed? But now, after only a few weeks, I know she knows. There is some unspoken agreement that we aren't really saying it out loud, but I think she's just waiting for me to say something first. I've been weighing the options - being openly truthful, ignoring the topic completely, waiting for her to bring it up - but I have no idea what to do. I know she probably just wants reassurance - I do too! - but I'm not sure I can give her much at this point. What would you do?

Teeny Tiny Someone

So, one gestational sac with a yolk sac. (It's too early for cardiac activity, but I have an appointment for next week and we should be able to see something then.)

All I could think of was that if there were two I would have had a back-up. It is just such a measure of how much loss and failure and disappointment come into play with infertility treatments that I couldn't even muster up some genuine enthusiasm for what is actually normal. And the crazy thing is, I quite emphatically don't want twins. I can understand why it's so appealing after IVF - two for the price of one! - to get even more of what you were hoping for. But the possibility of added complications, especially at my "advanced" age, seriously frightens me.

Anyway, even though I never wanted two take-home babies, I did like the idea of a spare in there, just in case. Which is horrible, because it assumes that the odds are so bad that one by itself doesn't have much of a chance, that something drastic will happen. And I know (really, I do) that it's enough that there is one, that it seems to be doing well so far, that hoping for a back-up is ridiculous when there is still every reason to just go ahead and hope for one that's successful. As long as I'm just hoping, might as well hope for what I really want, right?

If I weren't so nervewracked by by infertility I would be amazed that I have seen my child at such an early stage. I wish I could blithely assume that this is my baby, that in March I'll get to meet this little whitish circle. Shouldn't it feel incredible to be able to watch these earliest moments of your own child's life, to see and know and verify such a teeny tiny existence?

Instead, I'm bracing myself for the next scan, hoping for a good heartbeat and the idea that this one might actually make it.