A Not-So Happy Ending

It's tempting to just walk away from this blog without an update, to leave my happy ending intact for those who may stumble upon this later. But it would be disingenuous at best. Because my happy ending at the birth of my second child didn't signal a happily ever after, not in any sense.

Perhaps long-time readers will not be surprised to hear that Mo and I are getting divorced. Given the turbulence of our Life Before Babies, is it any wonder that our marriage has finally crumbled beyond repair? More likely, there will be those whose surprise lies only in the fact that they never thought I would leave. I know Mo didn't. And yet, that's exactly what I've done.

It's a long, long story - not one I care to rehash in detail at the moment. Not in this space, not at this time. Maybe later, maybe never. Suffice to say that there are myriad factors at play, many of which surfaced at some point during our journey to become parents. My sister, who has a knack for speaking truths no one wants to hear, told me that Mo held out the promise of ART as a dangling carrot for me for many years, and she isn't entirely wrong. I stayed far longer than I should have, for selfish reasons. I wanted that family I had always dreamed of, and I was willing to tolerate a lot of bullshit in order to achieve that dream.

Until, one day, I wasn't. They tell you that having kids changes everything, and "they" are right. Once my boys were watching, and absorbing, and learning from us how to have a relationship, things became far less tolerable.

When their safety came into question, though, it moved past intolerance and right into Nopesville. As in - nope. Not today, motherfucker. Not ever again.

So there you have it. Fifteen years after this journey began, we finally have the children we fought so hard for. They are not only the best thing to come out of our marriage, but likely the only thing of true value. My boys are my light: my sun, my moon, my stars. They are the reason I continue to fight, for a better life for all of us.

Mo and Jo are, to put it mildly, no longer working. While this reality shatters my heart into a million pieces, I'm also old enough to realize that time will put those pieces back together again. Like all of us who have experienced loss, I will never again be the person I was. But having traveled the winding and treacherous path of infertility, and survived, I am confident that somehow I will emerge from the other side of this, too.

If you care to follow along as I start over, I can be found here. Thank you, my bloggy friends, for all the love and support over the years. I wouldn't have made it to this point without you.

Two

My miracle is two.

Two years old. It's hard to wrap my head around. Not only has this:

Turned into this:

But....

I am also now the mother of two. 

Two perfect, precious, amazing little boys. 

My lucky charm arrived, quite fittingly, on St. Patrick's Day. He was 8 lbs 7 oz, 21 inches long. He had a tight nuchal cord at birth and spent three days in the NICU, but he's fine. 

More than fine. He's perfect. 

Those of you who have followed our journey know how much I doubted this would ever be our reality. Our story is a "worst case scenario" - over a decade of TTC, 4 failed IVF's, 3 losses, and THEN. Our final shot, our last chance, gave us our darling BB. And he's my world, y'all. He is smart and affectionate and curious and gentle. He makes my face hurt from smiling. He was worth every single tear, every shot, every invasive procedure and heartbreaking setback. 

And now he has a brother. A hopeful someday best friend, a confidant, a supporter. And I have the great pleasure of watching them grow, of loving them until I feel like my insides will explode from happiness. There is literally joy bubbling up from inside of me at numerous points in the day. Sometimes I feel like I can't contain it, and I marvel at the changes the last three years have brought. 

After everything we've been through, they are here. 

They are real. 

And they are mine. 

Another BOY!

With this pregnancy, we elected to get the Verifi chromosomal analysis done. This is a non-invasive prenatal screening that draws fetal blood cells out of the mother's blood anytime after 10 weeks. It looks mainly for trisomies (13, 18, and 21 being most common), but another plus is that you can learn much earlier the sex of your offspring-to-be. 

I had my blood drawn at my first OB appointment at 11w4d. I also had an ultrasound, and saw our little guy flipping around and waving. It was just as cool the second time around. 

Last Tuesday, I got the call. Chromosomes are normal (no trisomies), and we are having another boy! 

I am absolutely ecstatic. I love BB so very, very much and I'm thrilled at the prospect of another little boy to love. As we creep out of the first trimester (I'm 13w2d, measuring a full week ahead), this is becoming more and more real. 

Two years ago, I wasn't sure I would ever get the chance to be a parent. Now, I'm mommy to a beautiful, curious, affectionate, and loveable toddler - and I'm expecting his little brother in about six months. How did this even happen? 

Two Beating Hearts

Mine and his. His and mine. 

I listen, sometimes, in the heavy darkness, hovering in that place between sleep and wakefulness. I listen to his heart beating and I marvel at the fact that, despite all our worries and our losses and our setbacks, he is here. He is real. Our hearts beat together in the night, never really quite in sync, but intertwining, overlapping, sharing a beat or two before continuing at their own individual paces. Together but separate. Two heartbeats, two distinct people. Separate, yet forever joined together by the bond that we share. 

In the years before he came, another heartbeat held me, consoled me, and provided peace. That heart beat slower than mine, steady, true. It never wavered. The person behind it did, sure. Don't we all? But the heartbeat remained steady, strong. He would hold me in the dark while I sobbed, heartbroken over another loss, desperate for a child of our own. Two heartbeats, waiting, wishing, for one more. 

Mine and his. His and mine. 

Today, I saw the unmistakeable flicker of a beating heart, buried deep within my belly. Once again, I have two heartbeats. Mine and his, hers and mine. Two hearts, beating separately, within one body. Two hearts, inseparable, interdependent. Beating together, joined for this brief period of time. Growing stronger and steadier with each passing day. 

Mine and his. Hers and mine. 

I am so incredibly grateful. 

So, Then, This Happened....

I wish I had an awesome infertility urban legend to contribute, but, alas, this is the result of a good, old-fashioned FET. 

Interestingly enough, transfer occurred at the same time as it did for BB, and I now find myself with the nearly the same due date...and the prospect of TWO little ones, exactly two years apart. 

I had hoped for a slightly more relaxed experience this go-round, but I'm finding that the nervous breath-holding and panty-inspections are much the same. 

We had our first scare last week when my third beta came back lower than the second (86, 252, 218). I had a redraw on Friday to confirm, and was shocked on Monday to hear that the results were way higher than expected (1279, and right on track!). I earned myself an early ultrasound yesterday at 5w4d - and was lucky enough to see everything we could hope to see so early (gestational sac, yolk sac, and the beginnings of a fetal pole). My RE is calling the third draw a lab error, and just disregarding it completely. I'm in shock, honestly. We had convinced ourselves that it was over just as quickly as it began - and yet. I'm still pregnant. 

I know that it's still really freaking early. I know we've got a bunch of hurdles still to cross. I'm just holding my breath, hoping against hope that when we go back two weeks from now, we'll see a beating heart. And that, nine months from now, I will be able to hold this little squish in my arms, just as healthy and happy and robust as his big brother. 

Happy Birthday, B.B.!

I couldn't let today end (even though I'm exhausted in the most wonderful of ways) without stopping by and sharing my thoughts on this, the anniversary of the day I finally crossed that invisible, yet gaping, chasm that divides all Women of a Certain Age.

This year has absolutely flown by. Comparatively speaking, we spent 12 years trying to bring B.B. to life...so, it's no wonder that just one year seems like a blip on the radar. And yet - that one year has encompassed so much. First smiles, first real tears. The way he grabs my hand and won't let go. The comfort he gets from pulling my hair as we lie in the dark, drifting off to sleep. Endless heaps of diapers and bottles and snuggles and baths. The never-ending neediness that only I can fulfill. 

This year has been a whirl of tiny-yet-enormous moments; of both wonderment and fear, heartache and joy. It's a thousand little life-changers, wrapped up in the mundane. It's both beautiful and sad, in a way that only those who are parenting after infertility can understand. 

Baby Boy is one today. He has grown into a cruising, grinning, giggling, exploring, reaching, climbing, smiling, curious little boy. He still loves to snuggle, and can melt my heart with a single word (which is good, because he only has three). He is seriously the happiest child I know - except when he's not. He's inherited his mother's ability to feel emotions intensely, it would seem. He's smart and kind and shares everything. He is Himself, and I've got the great pleasure of watching who that is unfold in front of me each and every day. 

The first year has been so much more than I ever anticipated. More exhausting, more wonderful, more fulfilling, and more eye-opening than I could have possibly imagined. I have learned so much about myself - some things that I'm proud of and others that definitely Need Improvement. I've made mistakes. I've spent many nights crying and worrying and begging Mo to figure out how in the world to Make Him Sleep. I've also spent evenings on the floor in a heap, surrounded by love and completely spent from all the giggles. 

No one has ever loved me the way that B.B. does. The bond between mother and son is like nothing I've ever experienced before. I feel the weight and responsibility that comes with teaching him to be a kind, patient, and hard-working man. I also feel the pride and the joy that comes with seeing him solve the mysteries of the world around him. 

To say that I love him, today, seems insufficient. It makes me wish I believed in Something More, as our connection feels so deeply rooted that it could not possibly be just one year in the making. 

One year. 

I feel so much - so intensely - that it cannot possibly be contain within a single blog post. And it makes me wonder: did infertility do this? Is there, possibly, something to be gained from the treacherous and winding road that brought us here? 

B.B. doesn't know, yet, about our journey. He has no idea what we endured, but, I'd like to think he knows how much he was wanted, and how much he is adored. He cannot read these words, but I hope he feels the love behind them. 

Happy birthday, my love, my light. I love you more than words can say. 

Hello?

Some friendships are short, but poignant: like sparklers, they come into your life at a particular moment, spark for a while, then fizzle out and die. 

Some friendships begin and never end; internalized, they become so much a part of you that the line where you start and they begin blurs. Hearts beat in sync and it's as easy as breathing. 

And then there's those friendships that exist in waves: like the tide, they ebb and flow as life interferes. You know this friend by the fact that you might go weeks, months, even years without speaking, but when you do, you pick up right where you left off. There's no awkwardness, no need for explanations. There's just laughter, and hugs, and hopefully wine. Kindred spirits such as these may travel far and wide, stretching the thread of friendship, but never severing it. Like elastic it pulls and it contracts, and when life slows down and the stars align, you find yourselves once again sharing the same space, if only for a moment. 

When I began blogging in 2008, I figured my foray into this community would be short. I didn't know what I had to offer, or how much you all would grow to mean to me. 

As the years went on, this space became my haven. My safe place, the one thing I could count on to bring me comfort. You held me up when I could no longer stand, when life battered and bruised me and broke me down. You hoped with me, you cried with me. You celebrated with me and mourned with me. We held onto each other as the storms raged on around us. You and I - we were the same. Different names, different details, but one and the same. Sharing our heartbreak and our loss, binding us together, forever. I couldn't imagine not speaking for any length of time; it would be like stopping my own lungs from breathing. 

And yet here we are. The last year has been the best one of my life, and I'm aching to share it with you. I have many excuses (time, sleep, emotions, indecision, LIFE), but what it boils down to is this: I miss you. 

You will forever be a part of me, a part of my journey. You CHANGED me. We are still connected, no matter the distance or time that separates us. 

And so, I'm picking up the figurative phone and I'm sending you a quick text. A beacon, if you will. Let's be that third type of friend, the ones for whom time and distance are relative. I've got a few moments to spare, and I'd really like to hear your voice. Your friendship is like a touchstone for me: a reminder of where I've been, and of how far I've come. I have been silent, but I've not been absent. 

I'm still here: are you? 

Five Years

Can it be? 

I'm not sure I can find the words. 

So much has changed. 

I am not the same.

He is not the same. 

WE are not the same. 

Five years. 

No one else remembers. 

But I - I will never forget. 

Falling In Love

"I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once."

                         -John Greene, The Fault in Our Stars

Each day with BB, the intensity of my love increases. 

For a multitude of reasons (previous losses, depression, sheer exhaustion), it wasn't the instantaneous, overwhelming love that I expected. It started slowly, a trickle rather than a gush. Little droplets of love, collecting over time, until one day, I looked at him and my heart just overflowed. 

It's been almost four months and absolutely nothing is the way it was before. 

My days right now are slippery, almost ghostlike, in their quiet, comforting, sameness. The haze of bottles and lullabies and rocking chairs and naps is punctuated by moments of sharp joy, moments that I seize onto and try to sear into my memory. His smile, his laugh. The way he wraps his hand around my fingers, stroking them gently as he falls asleep. His smell, an intoxicating blend of detergent and formula and sweat. The weight of his head on my arm as he curls his tiny body up against mine in the dark. 

Each of these moments is a victory, a reminder that we survived. Despite setbacks and loss and broken hearts, somehow we found the courage to keep putting one foot in front of the other. To keep trying, even when Hope was so far away we could barely recognize her.  Each of these moments brings a little more healing to my bruised and battered spirit. 

I'm in love in a way that I only dreamed was possible. 

Wholly. 

Completely. 

Unconditionally. 

Infertility and loss changed me, fundamentally. 

And now, so has motherhood. 

The love I always dreamed of is mine to claim, to hold onto and never, ever forget how very lucky we really are. 

PPD

I was officially diagnosed with post-partum depression at 7 weeks.  I have an appointment with a therapist next week, and started an antidepressant three weeks ago.  YOU GUYS.  I can't tell you the difference that one little pill has made.  I feel like myself again, the best version of myself.  The ME that was hiding under the blanket of infertility and loss. The ME that I forgot was in there, smothered in grief and misery.  I feel vibrant, happy, content.  I can honestly say I haven't felt this good in YEARS.

It helps that BB is now sleeping much, much better.  Shortly after 8 weeks old he began sleeping in a long, six-to-seven hour stretch at night, followed by a three-hour one.  I feel like a new woman!  My meds have made it much easier for me to fall asleep at night, and to wake up in the morning.  Since I am no longer breastfeeding or pumping, my doctor prescribed Eff.exor, which works on both seratonin and noripinephrine receptors in the brain.  This gives me energy when I wake up in the mornings.

What really gets me going, though, are the smiles.  My god, people.  I can be half-asleep, grumpy as all get out, and I hear BB cooing.  I roll over and look at him in his Rock n Play (still the only place he will sleep), and he just GRINS at me.  I'm talking giant, happy, you're-the-greatest-person-in-the-world, i-love-you-so-much smiles that just light up my world. I know I'm biased, but I have never seen a prettier smile than the one my baby wears.

I have so many thoughts jumbling up my brain these days, and nowhere to put them.  Blogging is hard when you spend your days holding a sleeping baby to your chest (not that I'm complaining).  I will find my way back here soon -- I know this.  If parenthood has taught me anything its that nothing lasts.  This phase will pass, way too quickly I am sure, and I will be back here to update you on all the random bits that make up a life well lived.

Because, frankly, ya'll, that's how I feel.  Finally. I've got a life worth living -- and that's exactly what I'm going to do.