Jen Has A Pen

I Love You, Fuzzy Face.

by Jen on May 15, 2012

Home isn’t about geography. I feel “home” in lots of places. I’m home in New York City where George spoons me while I sleep. I’m home in Kansas where I eat my grandmother’s pickles and grab Taco Tico with my mom. I’m home in San Antonio where I listen to old-school folk music with my dad. And I’m home in Tallahassee where I drive under moss-drenched canopy roads and share margaritas with my friends.

We just returned from Tallahassee. Our former home. We spent eight days in Florida, driving back and forth between DeLand and Tallahassee trying to suck every possible minute out of our vacation. We had a list of restaurants we aimed to visit, things we planned to do, and a list of friends we hoped to see. While we couldn’t fit in everyone and everything, I think we did pretty well considering we spent a majority of our time getting to know the newest member of our family.

Enter our first and only nephew (although we are fortunate enough to be considered honorary aunts and uncles to a handful of other totally spectacular rugrats that mean the world to us). I call him “Fuzz” and George calls him “Lil Easton Bruno” (said super fast and with no change in inflection), but his birth certificate leaves off the “Lil”.

We’ve been staring at his pictures and watching and re-watching videos of him since he was born. We were already in love, but NOTHING could have prepared either of us for how insane we’d be once we actually got to smooch on him and smell his sweet little neck. The whole time I kept thinking, “We will love our own child more than this??? Impossible.”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to some anxiety about meeting him. The scars of my miscarriage are still fresh, leaving me surprised by instant rushes of sadness from time to time. Easton would be the first baby I’d hold since losing mine, and I wasn’t sure how it would make me feel. Heartsick? Hopeful? Healed? And then I was nervous that maybe I’d be emotional from how much I love him, and the people around me would misinterpret my tears for sadness instead of gratitude. Maybe I was unnecessarily paranoid? Maybe nobody would notice, but still, I didn’t want my first meeting with my first nephew to be soiled by emotions I couldn’t explain.

When we arrived at their house (HIS house, really), he was lying on an activity mat watching it like it was the fireworks show at Disney. His hands jerked and waved, his legs pumped and kicked, and his eyes were fixated on the blinking lights and rotating elephants and hippos. We watched him for a few minutes, allowing our excitement to settle before whisking him off the floor and onto our laps.

When I finally cradled him in my arms, I felt all my anxiety go away. I wasn’t thinking about the baby I lost. I was enamored by the baby our family gained. If I did cry, everyone would know it was because I loved him, because I was fascinated by him, and because he was the coolest miniature person to ever share my last name. All the clichés are true. I was overwhelmed by his purity and innocence, his blank slate primed to record all of life’s ups and downs, and the faces that seemed identical to his father in one moment and identical to his mother in the next.

He is exactly what our family has always needed.

Knowing our time in Florida was limited, I spent as many moments as I could staring at him, photographing him (poor kid!), and watching my husband and in-laws go nuts over him. Each moment seemed more special than the last. He studied his mother when she bathed him, stared adoringly as she fed him, and calmed instantly when she scooped him into her chest and shushed him. He yawned and relaxed his body as Josh wrapped him tightly in his swaddle, trusting that his dad knew what was best for him. He buried his head into George for cat naps, and squirmed like a slippery fish when I’d lotion him after his nightly baths. Every part of it? Awesome.

His life hasn’t always been so routine and relaxed, however. After years of fertility struggles, he was born via c-section, and shortly after being discharged, returned to the hospital for jaundice. Two days after the release for jaundice, Renee (SIL) went to the ER for severe stomach pains. She was diagnosed with gas, told to drink hot liquids and take stool softeners, and was sent on her way. Two days later, she went back to the ER with unbearable pain and was rushed into emergency surgery for intussusception (a rare and serious condition where part of your intestine or colon slides into another part of your intestine causing a blockage and cutting off blood supply). The surgeon removed her right colon, part of her intestine, her gallbladder and her appendix. HUH?!?!? Who knew you could survive without all those guts??? And, who knew you had distinguishable sides to your colon? Not I.

The surgery kept her in the hospital for a week, terminating her ability to breast feed and care for her new baby boy without major assistance. When she was finally able to go home, she still required ’round the clock help since she was unable to pick him up and perform simple parental functions. Near the third week of recovery, she was finally able to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, only to go back to the ER for chest pains. A CT found a blood clot near her liver, leading doctors to put her in ICU for a possible pulmonary embolism.

She is now home, taking blood thinners, keeping her activity level to a minimum and trying to make up for lost bonding time with her son.

It’s an exhausting story to TELL, let alone LIVE.

While it’s hard to find much of a silver lining to all of this, she is alive. Her experience speaks volumes to the power of motherhood. Both she and Easton were cheated. Their early bonding time was cut short, her dream of breastfeeding was shot down, and their fairytale was far different than anyone imagined. BUT, you wouldn’t know it. You wouldn’t know they’d spent nearly three weeks of Easton’s eight week experience outside of her stomach in and out of the hospital. You wouldn’t know they didn’t bond right away. That kid is healthy and happy and completely in love with his mother. That bond, more specifically, their bond is an absolutely beautiful thing to observe.

George and spent the days with them and the nights before we fell asleep recounting all the amazing things we’d been lucky enough to witness.

“I loved when he fell asleep on my chest today!”

“I want to make a mixed tape of all the sounds he makes when he chugs his bottles.”

“Did you see his determined little bobble head when he sat in the Bumbo earlier?”

“He peed on Renee in the tub tonight.”

It’s gratifying to witness the exact moment it clicks in a baby’s brain to smile at you. It’s humbling to watch a list of “firsts” that you have always taken for granted. Babies are such masterpieces.

It was painstaking to board the plane back to New York. We had to come home. We love our home, but DAMMIT, we love that kid too. How can a ten pound butterball have that sort of impact? Dang you, Fuzz!

The privilege of being that baby’s aunt is overwhelming. He can’t even talk, and I already know he is smart and funny and thoughtful and enthusiastic. The privilege of watching my husband be that baby’s uncle makes me more sure than ever that George will be the best baby daddy I’ll ever know.

Fuzz, you are such a little star.

Josh, Renee, and Fuzz.

Chillin' out. Maxing. Relaxing All Cool.

Copycat

Fuzz, George, and Yours Truly

My MIL and my Fuzz

Makin' It Rain.

Smug.

{ 16 comments }

Don’t Ignore

by Jen on April 27, 2012

These last two years have taught me a lot about dreams and fears and hard work and hope and loss. I’ve wanted a family my whole life, and when George and I set out to build one, we found ourselves fighting tooth and nail to obtain something that appeared to come so easily to others.

We are infertile. Or we were? We still are? I’m not sure anymore.

I have a handful of minor medical afflictions that complicate our chances of reproducing. For 21 months, we followed a sometimes simple, sometimes complicated, sometimes emotional, often frustrating, and consistently disappointing theorem of optimizing our fertility. I never ovulated. I never fertilized. We never succeeded.

Until we did.

We gave up trying. We called in the big guns. We met with a highly recommended, well-respected, and über qualified New York City Reproductive Endocrinologist. In that meeting, he discovered that somehow, in a miraculous, completely shocking, totally thrilling way, we were already pregnant.

I spent nearly two weeks trying to rationalize how, after all our efforts, it just happened. Like magic. I was overflowing with the kind of happiness that would bring me to tears. I had graduated. I was infertile no more. I could move on with my life without fear. The family I dreamt of was within my reach. In fact, it was within my belly.

I felt excitement and wonder and optimism and… guilt???

I’d made such friendships during my time as an “infertile”. I learned about women who struggled much longer and much harder than I did. I learned about women who knew they never had a fighting chance of ever conceiving. I learned about women who’d attempted eight failed in vitro fertilizations and women who’d miscarried up to six times. I learned about women who spent years undergoing operations and procedures, spending their last dollars, struggling to keep their marriages strong under such difficult circumstances, and never finding the happy ending they’d hoped for.

And there I sat. A pregnant infertile. My two years of painful infertility proved too heavy a cloak to shed even when I’d found myself face to face with a toilet during a blessed moment of morning sickness. I was pregnant, but I knew I shouldn’t be.

I wanted to shout my victory from atop Rockefeller Center, yet I couldn’t escape the survivor’s guilt. I deserved this baby. I did. Building a family had become our top priority. We had savings. And stability. And more love than anyone could ever hope for. But I knew I was no more deserving than any other woman who yearned for this experience. So why me and not her? Or her? Or them?

And more importantly, why was infertility creeping into my pregnancy? Infertility had been my enemy for two years, so how did it still manage to tap me on the shoulder while I relaxed in the stirrups and watched our baby’s heart beat on the ultrasound screen?

Because it’s a disease. An evil disease.

It affects your mind and your body, your hopes and your dreams. It’s an affliction that I’ve learned affects women even after they’ve persevered and built large, beautiful families. Infertility is the fear that your lifelong dream may never come true.

I miscarried my baby at ten weeks and two days. Not a day has passed that I don’t wish I could go back. Not a day has passed that I don’t wonder if that was my only shot.

One in eight couples struggle with infertility.

One in eight.

Our stories vary. Our experiences vary. Our timelines vary. And our reactions vary. But we are all fighting the same fight.

And even when we think we’ve won, we realize infertility never really goes away.

In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week (NIAW), I support Resolve’s efforts to educate the masses with this year’s “Don’t Ignore” campaign. For more information on this disease and how you can help or better understand, please visit www.resolve.org.

{ 7 comments }

Forward Focus

by Jen on April 24, 2012

Last Thursday I got an after-hours call from my Reproductive Endocrinologist. The most “in tune” doctor I barely know. He offered his most sincere condolences about our miscarriage. He asked lots of questions, wanting to know the most delicate details. He validated my feelings, discussing how painful the actual “delivery” of the baby must have been, and how hormonally out of whack my body must now be. He predicted the gobs of lactation and the face full of painful, embarrassing acne, and verbalized how completely unexpected it is to lose a “normal” 10 week pregnancy.

He listened to me for several minutes, genuinely interested in every detail and emotion I felt like sharing. Instantly, he became more than my doctor. He was my therapist, my friend, and my advocate. He “gets” me. FINALLY someone in the world of gynecological medicine gets me.

Without hesitation, he doubled my dose of pituitary medication, scribbled notes for his nurses to get a prescription of Clomid ready for me whenever I start my next period, and eased my fears of trying again too soon.

I love a take-charge kind of fellow.

He lifted my spirits, encouraged my faith, and gave me something to look forward to.

“You wanna have a baby, Jen? Let’s get you a baby.”

Music. To. My. Defeated. Ears.

My determination took a hit the day I miscarried. His determination was infectious and reminded me that while I’d been knocked down- I hadn’t been knocked out.

He reiterated the negative effect stress plays in infertility and says there is no greater stress than trying to conceive month after month without a positive result. He is a proponent of giving conception the best shot from the start to lessen the number of months a couple puts themselves through the emotional gauntlet of complicated reproduction. Prior to his phone call, I felt like we should slowly tiptoe back into the waters of conception, but everything he said, made such sense. Tiptoe schmiptoe. This miscarriage has rocked me to the core, and I would imagine the wound will reopen with every month that passes without a positive pregnancy test. Why do that to myself if I can help it?

We’ve decided to combine Clomid with ultrasound monitoring, (to help determine precise ovulation) and then we will opt for an intrauterine insemination (IUI). In layman’s terms, I will be artificially inseminated when the ultrasound shows my body is in it’s most “accepting” phase. It’s not as romantic as our “surprise” conception in February, but the details don’t matter anymore. Becoming a parent does.

George will provide a sample to our doctor. The doctor will “wash” his sample to prepare it to be placed directly into my uterus. He’ll inject it whilst humming, “This Is How We Do It” by Montell Jordan (I assume).

Bada bing, bada boom.

And then we wait to see if Mother Nature does the rest.

Anybody care to start making “Just Do It, Mother Nature!” posters???

For now, we wait for my next period. And boot knock… just in case Mother Nature has natural conception plans for us. (I’d make her a friendship bracelet if she did, by the way.)

My spirits are high. Higher today than they’ve been since our pregnancy ended. I miss my pregnancy. I miss our baby. I miss feeling like a mother. But thanks to one very encouraging Reproductive Endocrinologist, I am able to look forward once again.

That feels good.

{ 16 comments }

Survival, Sweat Beads, and Summertime

by Jen on April 17, 2012

My current work assignment is a pregnant woman’s dream. I work alone in a room that connects to a bathroom and another office that belongs to a woman who is, coincidentally, out on maternity leave. I worried about starting a job in my first trimester and how my constant dry heaving would affect my new co-workers. The increased blood flow in my southern hemisphere put my already small bladder in overdrive, and I worried about the funny looks I’d get as I made my ninth trip to the bathroom in an hour.

When my supervisor introduced me to my current workspace, it was as though the angels had gift wrapped it for me.

I work alone. I could pump classical music through the speakers of my computer making my fetus smarter by the second. I could pee as often as I wanted. I could dry heave in peace. I could sit in a comfy chair and work at my own pace. This assignment was slated to last for the duration of my first trimester, making it the most ideal pregnancy scenario in the world.

And then I miscarried.

I took a few days off and had massive anxiety about returning to the place that seemed so perfectly fit to nurture the first delicate months of my baby’s growth and development. This room that seemed so Kismet was now going to be a mosaic of reminders of what I no longer needed.

I walked into the bright office, heart thumping, and spent the next eight hours playing catch up, re-organizing, and moving forward.

I survived. I survived a seemingly impossible day without even so much as a tear. It felt good. The distractions were nice. The accomplishments felt amazing, and best of all, I found evidence that I’m going to be just fine.

Bruised, but fine.

George and I had our first “plan of attack” conversation over pork chops last night. While I’d give anything to have my first pregnancy back and to carry that baby to term, I want to take advantage of the possibility that my miscarriage may have opened my cervix enough to make conceiving again a little easier. I put a call into the Reproductive Endocrinologist that discovered our first pregnancy and hope to meet with him in a month or so. I’ve been pretty discouraged about the obstetric care I’ve received in NYC thus far, but the Reproductive Endocrinologist and all of his staff have been nothing but a pleasure to deal with. I think I need that kind of support moving forward.

We had air conditioners installed last night. One in our living room and one in our bedroom. It’s been a million years since either of us have lived without the luxury of central air conditioning, but pre-war living in New York City ain’t equipped for such modern conveniences. We’ve learned many New Yorkers go the entire summer without air conditioning, but our brains aren’t capable of understanding this. I can handle hot, but sleeping in the heat? Not a chance. We’d sooner divorce than brave a sweaty slumber.

The signs of an early summer are abundant. The bright red Spring tulips that line the street are starting to wilt. My dogs are drinking more water. The stairwell to our building is mimicking a sauna, and I recently experienced the joys of a solitary sweat bead originating at the base of my neck and traveling down my spine and terminating at the top of my panties. On the bus. Sexy. I thought I was bidding farewell to humidity when we left Florida, but it turns out, New York is a hot, sticky mess too. Yippee.

Sticky or not, this will be my first summer in The City. My first anything in New York always feels so exciting. And after living here for nearly four months (holy hell… four months!), I’m pretty sure it will just keep getting better. A positive pregnancy test this summer would be the icing on the cake.

No pressure. :-)

: Via

{ 17 comments }

Let Us Heal.

by Jen on April 15, 2012

It’s a beautiful day in New York City. The sun is shining, the birds are flirting with one another, and a man in the building across the street is screaming victoriously over what I can only assume is a sporting event leaning in his favor.

I can’t bring myself to shower or to bake the cake I intended to tackle today. Today is the hardest day yet. Today I feel like I need to pull it together. I feel I need to get some control, and instead I want shut the windows, silence my phone, and swim shamelessly in the pool of “poor me”.

Yesterday felt good. I got up early. I shed my elastic waist bands for a pair of respectable jeans. I carefully applied a swipe of mascara and held George’s hand as we explored the West Village in search of hipsters and gourmet salts. We dirtied our fingers in sloppy BBQ in the Flat Iron District and laughed about things that probably weren’t terribly funny. I went to bed with tired feet and an accomplished spirit, knowing that I’d wake up today feeling even better.

Whatever.

I stopped my pituitary medication when we discovered our pregnancy, but my lactating boobs reminded me that I should start taking it again today. My t-shirt is stained and gross. My back and jaw line are dotted with the acne that my pregnancy had seemed to cure. My shiny hair is greasy and my grays are starting to show.

The body that amazed me two weeks ago, is now disappointing me in every aspect.

I go back to work tomorrow. At first I thought taking a few days off seemed a bit too indulgent, but it may have been the very best thing for me. Going back to work symbolizes that life, pregnant or not, must go on. And that makes me angry. And sad. George reminded me today that going back to work didn’t mean I have to forget about my feelings. It simply meant I have to go back to work, and that I am still entitled to grieve.

I’ve heard several stories recently about a window of increased fertility a few months after miscarriage. Part of me feels like I can’t imagine trying again anytime soon and part of me wants to give it every effort I’ve got. I think this miscarriage will probably sting for a long time, but I think a positive pregnancy test might medicate the burn a bit. I don’t know.

I’m all over the place.

But no matter how involved my pity party may be, I have a jillion reasons to be thankful.

Many of my friends and most of my family lives in Kansas. Last night Kansas was hit with a slew of terrible tornadoes, causing millions of dollars in damage, tons of injuries, and a handful of tragic deaths. I am thanking my lucky stars that my friends and family were spared any major hardship, and only hope the people who experienced the brunt of the storm recover as quickly and easily as possible. These types of tragedies make no sense to me.

But then again, I can’t think of any tragedy that does make sense.

I cross my fingers we all experience a sunny sky tomorrow. I’d say we deserve it.

Via

{ 17 comments }

One Foot In Front Of The Other

by Jen on April 12, 2012

Via

I went to see my OB today. An ultrasound confirmed I’d shed most of the tissue from my pregnancy on my own, and a D&C was not going to be necessary.

The receptionists, the nurses, the ultrasound technician, and the doctors seemed to know my situation, all looking at me with sympathetic eyes and rushing me into rooms to prevent me from sitting in the baby bump saturated waiting area.

I appreciated them.

The couple in the ultrasound room before me exited holding their scroll of ultrasound photos and beaming at them with pride. I blinked quickly and looked away, doing my best not to fall apart in front of anyone. George rushed to tell me a story, locking his eyes on mine to keep me from letting their valid happiness evoke my pain.

The ultrasound screen showed a bunch of indecipherable shadows where our baby used to live. The technician stood in front of the screen, blocking most of my view, which was probably for the best. She indicated a small spot that could either be leftover tissue that I would soon shed or a possible endometrial polyp. Either way, neither scenario provided any answers as to why our pregnancy ended or gave any indication that I may have additional health concerns on the horizon.

I left the office hoping I’d have a reason to go back there someday soon.

I can’t stop wondering what it was I was doing at the exact moment my baby’s heart stopped beating. Dishes? Was I on the subway? Watching Modern Family? Talking to my mother on the phone? I don’t suppose it matters, but if I could know, I think I would do my very best to never do it again.

I’d give just about anything to wake up and discover this was all a big, fat nightmare.

When my grandfather died, my grandmother said that had she known how bad it hurt to lose a spouse, she would have made a point to be nicer to the widows in her life. I understand what she meant more today than ever before. You truly can’t know pain until you’ve lived that pain. I had gobs of empathy for others, but really, I had NO idea how badly they were hurting until now.

This. Shit. Hurts.

I consider myself strong. I’ve cried in front of very few people, and today I cried to an OB that I’d never met. My poor dogs are nearly crunchy from absorbing all the tears that drip onto them while they sit in my lap. My contacts are destroyed, and I couldn’t wear eye makeup if my life depended on it.

I’d like to think that a lot of my emotion has to do with reconciling hormones and that as soon as they regulate, I’ll be able to go four hours without a breakdown. Fingers crossed.

At times I feel silly for letting this tear me apart. I mourn what I’ve lost. I fear what I may never experience again. And I doubt my ability to cope with another heartache like this. But things could be worse, and I have to buck up and remind myself of that. Sadness makes me selfish and tunnel-visioned, I suppose, and I don’t find this version of me to be very likable.

I whisper standard encouragements to myself.

“This will all make sense someday.”

“Anything worth having is worth fighting for.”

“You are capable of this.”

“What doesn’t kill you…”

But all of it feels like bullshit. Each day it’ll probably feel less like bullshit and more like inspiration, but today… bullshit.

My best friends have been working in hyperdrive, sending me pictures and videos of things they know will make me laugh. Meredith even had wine, baguettes, a triple cream, and the sharpest cheese my tongue has ever tasted delivered to my door. George is busting out some of his retired dance moves and has tolerated sushi for dinner more times than he can stomach. Our families have proven their salt by swallowing their own heartaches to tend to ours, and most overwhelming of all… our cyber support system has blown us away with sensitivity, understanding, and words of encouragement.

I don’t know how the words of someone I’ve not seen in fifteen years or the words of someone I’ve never even met can provide such therapy, but they do. My real-life support system is deeeeeeep, but add the support system I find here on the pages of Jen Has A Pen, and I can’t help but feel like I owe everyone. You can’t know how much your words mean to me. There’s no way. When my own friends have miscarried, I never knew what to do or what to say. But somehow, all of you guys know exactly what I need, and there has never been a time I’ve been more grateful for my corner of the internet than right now. I read your messages to George. I cry through some of them, laugh through others, and feel like we’ve completed a therapy session by the time I’m done.

I don’t know how people survive a crisis alone. I’m not made that way, so thank you for lending me a hand.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll attempt eye liner?

Or maybe I’ll say screw it for another week?

One foot in front of the other.

{ 32 comments }

Empty

by Jen on April 10, 2012

I’m sitting on my couch trying to decide which hurts more. The lump in my throat or the sting in my eyes?

I miscarried our baby Sunday. Easter Sunday. At 10 weeks and 2 days pregnant, our baby, described as being the size of a kumquat with a normal growth rate and a strong, miraculous little heart, lost his way.

I don’t know why. Probably there is a reason, but today, there is no reason that I care to hear.

I am not a religious person. I don’t usually believe in miracles, and I have little faith in few things other than myself. But finding out we were pregnant, pregnant against so many biological odds, was nothing short of a miracle. And with that, I was given a sense of faith I’d never felt. I felt such a confidence in my pregnancy. How could I be blessed with such an unexpected gift only to have it taken from me? I had faith, even after finding myself at the emergency room with bleeding at five weeks and again at seven. I was a ball full of nerves and worry, but still, I had peace. Or faith? Or both?

Because of my subchorionic hematoma, I didn’t instantly panic at the sight of some minor spotting on Saturday. I was told by my OB and the doctors I’d seen at my previous ER visits that unless I was filling more than a pad an hour, I was probably fine. My bleeding was minor, so I got off my feet and tried to relax.

By Sunday afternoon, my bleeding was accompanied with some abdominal cramping that went from bad to brutal in just a few hours. When we finally reached the emergency room, I struggled to stand. A few hours after that, I felt I was being ripped in two and knew well before the ultrasound was performed there was no way our baby had survived.

Because of my previous LEEP, my cervix was sealed shut with scar tissue, preventing my body from being able to expel the tissue it was trying to release. I was shaking and sweating and freezing and crying and pleading with thin air. My physical and emotional reaction was completely unexpected and out of control. I was in labor with no hope of holding our baby in the end.

A determined obstetrician stepped in and was able to manipulate my cervix enough to flush out a bulk of “the products of conception”. That’s what they call the baby and the placenta.

Products of conception.

Releasing that pressure eliminated much of the burning, but brought to life the reality of our loss.

It’s a horrifying experience. It was messy and painful and even though I’d experienced miscarriage through the eyes of so many of my friends, nothing could have prepared me. The pain kept me in a blood soaked hospital bed in a blood soaked gown for far longer than was normal, and I wonder how George kept from getting sick.

I spent much of the day yesterday numb on pain pills and passing additional tissue, trying not to think too much about what my body was actually shedding. I felt an overwhelming appreciation for my partner and what he’d just witnessed and wondered how any women could possibly endure this sort of loss without such a strong and sensitive hand to hold. Had it not been for George, I don’t actually know if I’d have been able to leave the hospital.

But today, I have curled up inside myself. I feel angry and empty and unsure of what I will do to occupy my mind. I spent every second of my pregnancy thinking about names, staring at isolated features on George and praying our baby would be lucky enough to inherit eyes like his. I spent hours contemplating ways to transform our one bedroom apartment into a space fit for our son or daughter. I wanted nothing to do with diet coke and bloody marys and sashimi and blue cheese. I took my vitamins like clockwork feeling such a personal satisfaction that those vitamins were helping to develop our baby’s brain and spinal cord and bones and chambers of his heart. I watched my breasts swell with purpose and my belly protrude. Meredith taught me breathing exercises that helped calm my prenatal anxieties, and I did them no fewer than ten times a day. There wasn’t one moment of any day that I wasn’t vividly aware of the miracle that was taking place inside of me.

And now, I don’t know how I’ll distract myself. I don’t know what I’ll spend my time thinking about.

I’ve heard people say, “Well at least now you know you can get pregnant!”

But really, that doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment or consolation to me if it leaves you feeling as empty as I do today.

My sister-in-law, who battled two miscarriages prior to giving birth to my most perfect nephew, once said that she could be pregnant thirty times, but if it never resulted in the healthy delivery of her child, it was torture. I am torn. On one hand, I never thought I’d become pregnant. The bonding I did in just a few short weeks is incomprehensible. I loved (love?) that baby more than I could have imagined. On the other hand, had I never known pregnancy, I would have just speculated about what I was missing. I’d have never really known that it really was as cool as I’d thought it would be. Maybe ignorance would be bliss?

I don’t know.

My bleeding and clotting seems to be slowing today. I feel an eagerness to get it all out of my system and a strange desperation to hang on to it. My mind is a huge contradiction, obviously, and I have a feeling the hormonal roller coaster isn’t going to let me off for a few days. Or weeks? I see my OB on Thursday for a final ultrasound to confirm whether or not I was able to pass everything on my own. That appointment sounds like a nightmare.

I’m not sure when or how this will ever make sense to me. George and I will survive. I know we will. We will be strong for one another, and we’ll get back on the saddle and try again someday when we feel the time is right. I have a life worth living despite the emptiness I feel today, but I don’t feel guilty grieving. I don’t feel rushed to put this past me, and I don’t feel ashamed to admit I’m hurting like hell.

Time will heal this pain. Please let it heal this pain.

{ 51 comments }

8 Weeks

by Jen on March 25, 2012

Today I am 8 weeks and 3 days pregnant.

I feel like so much has happened in the last month and I have all sorts of desires to record each detail, yet, for whatever reason, I have been creatively zapped. Some people get forgetful when they are pregnant, but since I am already on the verge of having Alzheimer’s, I think my creativity is taking the hit.

When we found out we were pregnant, I was completely stunned. I had no medically documented history of ovulation, my periods have been sporadic and sometimes non-existent for months and months at a time, and our sex life had been hit or miss. I joked that had we not gone to the Reproductive Endocrinologist, I’d have gone nine months just assuming I was eating too much and would have eventually birthed my baby in a toilet.

But, as with most everything else surrounding the act of bringing a child into the world, I was wrong. My body, in totally amazing and miraculous ways, has already changed so much.

I have this habitual feeling of bloat- like I’ve eaten a bunch of fried food and then tried to exercise immediately thereafter. NOTHING sounds good to eat and then EVERYTHING sounds good to eat. I crave something (hummus, cheese, cereal, ramen, cole slaw, tuna salad, edamame, ravioli, and orange flavored San Pelligrino) like if I don’t eat it I might die, so I load up on it at the store, bring it home, take two bites/sips/sniffs and want to throw it ALL away.

I have experienced extremely mild morning sickness. I’m more dizzy than nauseous and have yet to actually barf. Hallelujah.

But the biggest pregnancy indicators of all? MY BOOBS. I don’t know who these boobs belong to, but they aren’t the ones I used to have. They are remarkably more full, remarkably more heavy, and my nipples are already gearing up to feed something. If I could wear a bra in the shower, I would. What the heck?!?!? I’m like two minutes pregnant.

The human body is an absolutely awe-inspiring thing.

But even more than the changes in my body, my emotions are evolving at rapid speeds. I have read and heard countless stories about how pregnant women develop hormonal split personalities. I’ve fought hormone battles with my pituitary tumor for years, so I was pretty prepared for this, but honestly, I’ve never felt more even keel – more emotionally clear. I am not saying I’ve not had highs and lows, but compared to life pre-pregnancy, I feel like a pillar of emotional strength.

Amen.

The emotional changes I have experienced have come from the anxieties of losing our pregnancy and not doing everything possible to develop a healthy baby. I hold my breath when I pass big exhaust spewing trucks on the streets. I feel horrible guilt when I can’t stomach a piece of fruit and when chocolate ice cream seems like the only palatable dinner option. I didn’t exercise before I was pregnant, so it’s not advised that I start that now, and I feel regular anxiety about how my weight problem might affect our developing baby.

And then there are all the miscarriage fears. Oh. My. God. I’ve had bleeding (some severe gushing and some mild spotting) since we were five weeks pregnant. I’ve gone to the emergency room twice, absolutely positive we’d lost the baby each time, and completely overjoyed to discover we hadn’t.

At our first OB appointment, I laid back with confidence in a dark room and watched the large television screen mounted on the wall in front of me, waiting to see another glimpse of our baby’s beating heart, only to hear the ultrasound technician sadly tell us she was so sorry, but we’d lost our pregnancy. My stomach dropped and I pursed my lips doing my very best not to lose it while still in the stirrups. I felt George tense up and he wrapped both of his hands around mine, drawing it to his lips kissing me repeatedly in an effort to fight back his own tears.

The technician went to go get the doctor to give the final confirmation that our pregnancy was no longer and George spoke up. He told her he didn’t understand- that I hadn’t experienced anymore serious bleeding since our last ER visit and it just didn’t make sense to him that we’d miscarried between then and now. She reluctantly grabbed the ultrasound wand again and gave me one more look. And there, hidden behind a large mass of blood in my uterus, was our baby- our strong, determined, beautiful, and resilient baby.

I’ve been sure my pregnancy journey has come to an end three times now, only to find myself feeling like I’ve won the lottery with each ultrasound proving otherwise. Five ultrasounds later, a different ultrasound technician discovered a subchorionic hematoma. Sounds scary, right? It’s actually pretty minor, and since it finally provides an explanation for my bleeding, I’m oddly kind of appreciative of it.

The anxiety of miscarriage still exists, but I’m doing everything I can to swallow my fears and enjoy every miraculous moment of this process.

I think about baby names most every minute of every day. We are narrowing down our favorites, and I find myself praying Jessica Simpson doesn’t inadvertently steal one of them. Hehehe.

I fantasize about our baby’s first bedroom and then realize, we live a one bedroom apartment in New York City. That kid will probably not have “his” own room for a while. Good thing the wiener dogs like to share. It’s ’bout to get a smidge more crowded up in here.

Bring it.

I have never wanted anything more.

Here is our baby’s first photo. It’s a 3D image, but in case you haven’t been staring at ultrasound photos for the last two years like I have, I’ll clarify what you are looking at. His head is at the top. He’s facing left. His legs are jutting to the left and he has almost lost his “tail”. Make sense?

{ 23 comments }

Wienerful Wednesday

by Jen on March 21, 2012

{ 4 comments }

My Newest Love.

by Jen on March 18, 2012

On March 13th, my first nephew was born in Tallahassee, Florida. George and I are a thousand miles away, surviving on photos and the sounds of his grunts, gurgles, and cries over the phone.

His name is Easton, but will be “Fuzz” to me forever (for no other reason than I read about his peach fuzzed skin in utero).

I have loved him since the moment Renee and I huddled in the corner of a Tallahassee pizza legend and stared at the unclear blob on her ultrasound photo. The first trimester of her pregnancy with Fuzz was scary, as the two previous pregnancies had ended in miscarriage.

While she and Josh survived each miscarriage, they were bruised . They spent four years trying to conceive, and were understandably crushed with each failed attempt. The day of her first miscarriage, she began to lose her hair in large clumps, leaving quarter-sized bald spots at first, then apple-sized bald spots, and eventually leaving her with only about 5% of her hair. The doctor’s explained it as an auto-immune response triggered by the stress of the miscarriage. It took only about two months before she lost it all.

When she discovered her most recent pregnancy – the one that brought Fuzz into her life, she started growing some of her hair back, and today has a thin, but approximately two-inch long hair do that has become a proud medal of overcoming her previous losses.

: This photo was taken at the beginning of her second trimester.

It wasn’t until well in to her second trimester that she – that we all – started to breathe a little easier, but even then, we were riddled with obvious concerns of loss.

She is now home from the hospital with a button-nosed, chubby cheeked, and completely perfect baby boy. I talked to her on the phone the other night, and she was as happy as she’s ever sounded, telling me, “Oh Jen, this is even cooler than I dreamt it would be!”

The road to becoming a parent isn’t always an easy one. My experience has certainly been more difficult than I ever imagined, but I hold on to the hope that we all eventually get what we want. My Fuzz makes me a believer in that.

I couldn’t be more happy for my family. I am proud of Josh and Renee and so in love with their son.

This kid is special. So, so special.