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.

Six Week Update

Gah. You guys. 

Hormones or not, I'm simultaneously wiping tears from my eyes and giggling like a madwoman reading (and re-reading) your comments. So much love and support and REALNESS. I am so damn lucky to have you all in my corner. 

I am still struggling a little as we approach six weeks. I'm healing physically, but the sleep deprivation is wreaking havoc with my moods. I'm extremely fatigued despite frequent daily naps. Mo has been a champ, taking BB every chance he can and insisting I get some sleep. He has come through for me in ways I never imagined. And yet, I still feel never feel really and truly happy, despite the fact I've got everything I ever wanted. 

I finally called my OB and made an appointment to discuss the possibility of PPD. There's a history of it in my family, and I myself took meds for depression in my twenties (though I always stopped my medication when doing IVF). I know the lack of sleep is a major factor in it right now, too. Still, Mo seems to be doing so much better at this parenting gig than I am. I am scared to tell him how I really feel, afraid he will judge me or think I'm ungrateful. The truth is I still feel (distant? detached?) as though BB isn't truly mine.  I haven't bonded with him the way I want to. I'm taking care of him, meeting his needs, but I'm not enjoying it. I know our interactions suffer because of it. Most of the day I long to put him down, holding him only out of obligation and/or necessity. I feel awful writing that, but brute honesty is what you've come here for, isn't it? I watch Mo sing and laugh and play with BB and I want that, too. I want to ENJOY, not simply tolerate, my baby. And so to the doc we go, to see if there is anything she can do. 

The other main issue we're having is feeding related. BB has an upper lip and a tongue tie that have prevented successful breastfeeding, and so I've been exclusively pumping for the past month. To say it sucks would be an understatement. I've dropped to four pumps per day (from six, though most women who EP do eight), and still struggle with the amount of time I'm hooked up to a machine. It's difficult to juggle pumping with feeding and entertaining BB (who always seems to need me in the middle of it). 

I've also had issues with engorgement and painful recurrent plugged ducts that make every movement agony. I want to quit, to switch to formula, but Mo feels strongly that breastmilk is best for BB. And so I'm (once again) conflicted. How do I balance my desire to include Mo as an equal voice in parenting decisions with my desire to have my breasts/body back, which I know will help my bonding and sleep issues? How do we compromise on an issue like this, where it's really one thing or another? (I've tried dropping pumps and stretching out the time in between them, but that just makes the engorgement/plugged duct situation worse.)

So there you are. Six weeks after I finally got what I've always wanted, and I'm still not happy. I am, however, actively seeking help, so maybe my next update will be a bit cheerier. Please tell me I'm not alone - did any of you struggle to bond with your newborn or face (seemingly insurmountable) feeding problems? 

Not What I Expected

Ya'll know that if you can count on me for anything, it's total honesty.  Even when it's not the PC or even polite thing to say, if I feel it, I'm gonna write about it.

Pregnancy and childbirth hasn't changed that about me.

I'm gonna be honest here, because I feel like I owe it to you, and to myself.

Here's the truth: parenting is much, much harder than I ever thought it would be.

And I'm lucky.  I have a supportive husband who is hands-on, a loving family who drops everything to help me.  And still, I find myself overwhelmed by the demands of this tiny little human that I was so desperate to bring home.

Please don't misunderstand.  I adore my son.  I fully realize that this is just a phase, and a short-lived one at that.  There will come a time soon when he is not nearly as dependent on me, when he doesn't need my breath in his ear and the feel of my heartbeat to lull him to sleep.  There will come a time when my smell isn't enough to comfort him, when my arms aren't filled with the heavy weight of a restless newborn.  And when that time comes, I am sure I will look back and miss this.

But now?

Now, I find myself more than willing (thrilled even!) to allow grandparents, friends, Mo, -- hell, even the neighbor -- time to hold him, because that means that my arms can rest, that I can get something to eat, or even attempt to sleep.  I look forward to Mo's shift, or Momma MoJo coming over, so that I can actually DO something that doesn't involve changing diapers, rocking babies, feeding, pumping, or even just holding B.B.  While I enjoy each of these tasks for a time, the sheer monotony of them all in succession (over and over and over again) is exhausting.

And so it follows that I am consumed with guilt.  I wanted this -- desperately.  I begged and railed against the universe for denying this to me for so long.  I pursued parenthood with every fiber in my being.  I "should" be enjoying the fruits of my labor, shouldn't I?  Each time I put him down, I feel a messy flood of both relief and remorse, and I blame myself for not liking this stage more.  I can see myself as an infertile, hating me for saying these things.  I have to constantly remind myself: This. Is. What. I. Wanted.

And it is.  It's exactly what I wanted, and I do know how lucky I am to be here.  And yet, like pregnancy, it's not without its challenges.  Challenges that, perhaps, I was naively unprepared for.  I honestly had no idea how painful birth would be, let alone the weeks of recovery afterwards.  I had no idea how deliriously exhausted I would be after 32 hours of no sleep, followed by patchy, sweat-soaked, broken 2-hour stretches of half-sleep.  I didn't realize that I'd nod off on the couch, B.B. in my arms, then awake with a startle, terrified I'd dropped or smothered him.  I didn't realize I'd cry so often, or feel so inadequate.

I didn't realize it would be so damn hard.

Baby Boy is my most precious, longed-for, anticipated, and cherished son.  So why am I so conflicted over caring for him?  Why do I selfishly find myself wishing he'd stay asleep for just five more minutes?  Part of me wonders if I really am cut out for this.  That maybe, the universe knew something I didn't.  Maybe I am, ultimately, too selfish to be a good mother.

Or maybe, just maybe, parenting a newborn is hard work, and I should just cut myself a little slack.

I will, after all, eventually sleep again.

Someday.

Right?!?

Our Birth Story

*Warning: Gratuitous baby pics at the end.  Proceed at your own risk. 

Everyone's got one, and I'll be honest: I usually skip these kinds of posts.  I mean, there are always variances, but the end result is always the same: a baby.  Still, I want to record our story while it's still fresh in my mind -- even now, details are beginning to blur and become hazy. Which, if you decide to read this, you will see is probably a very, very good thing.

Today, my miracle baby is one week old.  We went to the hospital on Thursday the 13th to be induced.  I wasn't dilated at all, so the first course of action was to start me on Cytotec to thin my cervix.  Because of the severe pain caused by my cervical checks, the doctor also recommended that I go ahead and get my epidural placed early on (before the day got too busy).  I remember asking if it would wear off, and I was assured that it didn't work that way.  I was to be given a continuous drip, and the most that I would feel would be a heavy pressure as baby was about to be born.

They wouldn't let Mo be in the room as they placed the epi, and it hurt quite a bit.  It caused pain in my shoulders and neck and a headache.  Before long, I was seeing spots and my vision was blurry.  My BP dropped quickly.  They decided to turn the epi off until I stabilized, which I did fairly quickly after sitting up.  We let the Cytotec work for four hours.  At my next check, I was dilated to a 3 and having regular, though not painful, contractions.   They started Pitocin and rebooted my epi.

After an hour, I expressed concerns.  The Pitocin contractions were ramping up, but my epi wasn't nearly as powerful as it had been that morning.  I felt it more on one side than the other (which happens, I'm told), but it also seemed to be taking a really long time to kick in.  The anesthesiologist explained that he had given me a lower dose because of my reaction earlier, and so it would take longer to feel the effects.

As the contractions worsened, the epi continued to drip, but without any noticeable results.  My pain intensified so much that I was unable to talk between contractions.  They gave me an extra shot of medication, which helped for a while.  They told me to press my epidural button with each contraction, that it was impossible to override the safety and accidentally overdose on the medication.  Within about 40 minutes, the shot wore off and I was again in agony.  By this point I was dilated to about a 7, the contractions were coming every two minutes and lasting about a minute each.  My parents arrived and helped Mo to distract me as the pain was intense.  We kept asking for the anesthesiologist, but he was in a c-section and unable to be reached.  I grabbed Mo's hand with each wave of pain, while my mom and my dad rubbed my legs and my shoulders to help me through each one.  After a while (time was losing it's relevance here), I began moaning and yelling uncontrollably with each contraction.  Finally, about 9 p.m., the anesthesiologist arrived.  At this point I had been in labor for 12 hours and the epidural was doing absolutely nothing to ease the pain.  He gave me an additional shot of drugs and checked the effectiveness of the epi with ice.  I was only numb in my legs and lower pelvis; my midsection wasn't numb at all.  Within 30 minutes the shot had worn off again and the contractions were stronger than ever. We repeated the process at 10 p.m.  At this point, the epidural was only working on my lower legs: from my upper thighs on up, I felt everything.  They discussed replacing the epidural, but wanted to check my cervix first.  However, the doctor was again stuck in a c-section and unavailable. By the time he arrived to check me at nearly midnight, I was fully dilated and ready to push.  The anesthesiologist made the call not to replace the epi and to give me a final shot of pain medication, warning me that I had reached my maximum dose allowed for a 24 hour period. The nurses assured me that by the time it wore off (which we knew it would), Baby Boy would be here.

I started pushing just after midnight.  The shot helped,, as I was only feeling intense pressure and a little pain.  However, baby wasn't moving down quickly.  By the time the shot wore off, he had only descended one station.  At that point, they could do nothing for the pain.  I kept pushing.  Baby became stuck behind my pelvis, where he stayed for another two hours.  I wish I could explain how very, very excruciating it was for me.  I never expected childbirth to be easy; however, I did expect to have working pain medication.  I wasn't prepared -- mentally or physically -- for a long labor in which I felt every contraction.  Things became very fuzzy, and I remember vaguely telling everyone that I wasn't up to the task.  I couldn't do it.  They insisted I could, but I knew my energy was failing.  At this point, I had labored for 15 hours and pushed for an additional 3 hours.  Baby was stuck, but too far down the birth canal for a c-section (or so they told me).  I honestly can't remember the final few moments -- I just remember telling Mo that I couldn't do it anymore, and just as I was about to give up, baby boy arrived.

Re-reading this, I can see where many of you may wonder what the big deal is.  After all, as the anesthesiologist (a man, mind you) so helpfully pointed out: women do this all the time.  And its true, they do.  However, I wasn't planning on doing this unmedicated.  I obviously utilized all the medical technology available to conceive this child, and I was very comfortable using all the medical technology available to assist in his delivery!  I have a low pain threshold as it is. I went in fairly open minded about the delivery process: I'm aware you can't "plan" a birth.  However, the one thing I was certain of was that I wanted an epidural.  I never, ever, anticipated that it might not work for me.

I hesitate to use this word, given that many women have it worse (and have much worse outcomes), but the bottom line is that I was traumatized by the entire experience.  The labor was long, and intense, and though I had a few brief respites, I felt almost all of it.  Mo keeps telling me how strong I was, how amazed he was by my determination.  But I wasn't determined, I was petrified.  And in pain.  I don't know how I managed to birth this beautiful, perfect, baby.  I, honest to god, was there -- but I still don't know how it all happened.  I look back and all I can remember is the waves of pain pulling at me, pushing my head underwater, and threatening to drown me -- meanwhile, no one around me is even attempting to throw me a life preserver.  It may sound overly dramatic, but for me, it was the hardest trial I have yet to experience.  12 years of infertility and three losses -- I have never felt pain like I did that night.

Was it worth it?  Of course.  My son is gorgeous and healthy and I couldn't ask for anything more.  Would I do it again?  No.  I don't think I can.

I've told Mo how I feel.  I will talk to my OB at some point and see what options I have if we attempt a second pregnancy -- will I be able to schedule a c-section?  Will a different epidural work differently?  Are there other medications available?  What if the same thing happens again?

But I'm not sure that I can risk it.  I know what happened to me, even if I'm unable to do it justice with the written word.  I know my body, and I know that I can't go through that again.  Even a week later I'm still having a rough recovery and feeling pain that far exceeds any pain of infertility treatments or pregnancy.  I wouldn't trade my son for anything -- but nor will I be volunteering for that ever again.

Baby Boy is perfect.

He is a dream come true.

He is enough.

 

He's Here!

Baby boy arrived healthy and happy at 3:14 am on 3/14/14. The birth process was long, traumatic, and nothing at all like I expected. But that story will have to wait for another day. For now, all that matters is the fact that everyone is well, baby is thriving, and we are at home trying to figure out this new parenting gig. 

I can't thank you enough for all the love left on my last post. Y'all continue to amaze me. 

As does he: 

More later, I promise. 

It's Baby Day!

I cannot quite wrap my brain around it, but it's finally here. In about an hour's time I will be checking into the hospital to be induced and will, hopefully, be meeting my son within the next 12 hours or so. 

I'm both terrified and excited, while in a suspended state of disbelief. I've just never really allowed myself to "go there," at least not in many, many, years. It's been a decade of "one step at a time" and living moment to moment, trying to just make it to the next milestone. 

The last milestone is here, friends. 

Today I'm thinking of all of you. Those who've crossed over long before me, yet stayed and supported me through it all. Those who are waiting with me, whose own special days loom within the coming weeks/months. And most especially, those of you who, like me, wonder if you will ever get the chance to parent. 

I can't make any promises. I sincerely hope your journeys end as mine (fingers crossed) will - with the fulfillment of your dreams, in whatever form that takes. 

These last nine months have been a roller coaster of emotions. Being able to carry a healthy child after three losses has helped to begin a healing process that I never thought would be possible. I try to think of everything my body has finally done right (without any input from me) as I contemplate just how in the hell this is going to work! Birth is scary, y'all. As much as we've been through to get here, I'm in uncharted territory now and I'm more than a little nervous. 

I will try to update soon, but in the meantime, I certainly would appreciate any good vibes/mojo you could send our way. 

It's time to rock n' roll! 

Denial is a River in Egypt

So.

Six weeks.

That's how much longer we've got until this theoretical "baby" becomes a reality.

I'm still having difficulty coming to terms with this idea.  We spent over a decade striving for one thing: a healthy pregnancy and a living child.  We've made it further than we've ever dreamed of -- 33 weeks pregnant with a strong, healthy, boy.  And while I've finally accepted that I am, indeed, preggers -- I still can't quite wrap my brain around the idea of an actual BABY in my house.  A person, to hold and love and play with and read to and learn from.  A living being that didn't exist before, and that I am solely responsible for.  It just doesn't seem real yet, believe it or not.

I've been burned before, that's true.  And I know our history makes it harder for me to grasp the realities that are inherent in our situation.  I am pregnant -- that much I can finally accept.  I can feel his kicks, my belly is huge, and I haven't slept in months.  However, the idea that pregnancy actually leads to a baby?  Still not quite happening in my brain.

I still keep expecting to wake up and have this all be a dream.  I imagine slipping quite easily back into my infertile, miserable, state -- that much more traumatized for having experienced everything the last eight months have brought.

And I don't know how to make it real.  I don't think I can -- not until I'm holding B.B. in my arms.

So much of pregnancy has been different than I imagined -- and yet wonderful, magical, and terrible all at once.  I'm sure that parenthood will be the same.  And though I can picture myself parenting, see Mo and I doing all those things we've dreamed of doing for so long -- it still seems but a distant, hopeful, future.

Six weeks.

No time at all.

12 years.

A lifetime.

I'm not ready.

Happy....Whatever You Celebrate!

Though no longer Christian, I have wonderful memories of the holidays growing up. My version of Christmas is entirely secular, and I feel no need to give up those traditions just because I no longer believe in the literal birth/resurrection of Jesus. Over the years, despite being sad and childless, Mo and I have carved out our own family traditions. And so tonight we will join my parents for Chinese food and I will bake cookies, before eating them in bed with Santa. In the morning we'll open stockings and eat lil' smokies and biscuits before heading to my parents for a ham dinner with all the trimmings. Presents will be exchanged (all for the baby this year!) and a relaxing, restful day will be enjoyed by all. 

In many ways, this year is just like the years before. And yet it is fundamentally different. Long-time readers may remember that I was pregnant on Christmas once before (in 2009). That tenuous beginning was cut short just a few weeks later....and every year I'm reminded of what could have been. This year, though, Baby Boy is kicking strong and we are into the final countdown before his arrival. I have every reason to hope that, next Christmas, I will be introducing my son to the wonders of the season (namely, twinkling lights, glitter, and shiny things). 😉

I know how hard these days can be when you are struggling. Whether you're recovering from a loss, another BFN, or just another year passing without the fulfillment of your dreams, holidays can be extremely rough. My advice (for what it's worth) is to do what makes you happy - whether that's throwing yourself into the festivities, or ignoring them altogether. Whether you celebrate Christmas, Chanukah, Festivus, or nothing at all - may you find something that makes you smile. And if not, that's okay, too. It's fine to five a big f-you to the universe, crawl under the covers, and wait for New Year's. I've certainly been there, done that. 

And remember: if this year doesn't live up to your expectations, there's always next year. Which is either totally inspiring, or a reason to go drown your sorrows. Just try to survive it, ok? 

What are your plans this week? Will you be keeping busy or enjoying some much needed rest and relaxation? What holiday traditions are you looking forward to/completely dreading? 

Thankful

Warning: PG mentioned.  If, like I often was, you are hiding out from the family and reading blogs, you may want to skip this one this year.  No hard feelings, I promise!

Today I am the most thankful I have ever been!  We are 24 weeks today -- a major milestone that seemed so very impossible just a few months ago.  Although it's not by any means a guarantee of a living, healthy, baby -- it's extremely comforting to know that, were something to go wrong, doctors would at this point actually attempt to save the life of my precious son.  

We are spending the holiday with my parents and some very good friends -- the ones who put us up during all of our treatments last summer.  I am so grateful to all of them for their unending support.  Though neither couple has ever experienced infertility, both my mom and my friend have had losses.  Regardless of shared experiences, they have both been incredibly uplifting and loving towards us, even when they didn't know what to say or do.  I feel thankful for their love and friendship every single day -- though today it does seem even more poignant (pregnancy-hormones, anyone?)

Speaking of Baby Boy, he is growing stronger every single day!  His little twitches and flips have turned into solid kicks and rolls.  At over 1.5 pounds (according to our last ultrasound a week ago), he's starting to fill out a little bit.  We got the most precious 3-D picture of his face -- I stare at it daily, simply entranced by the idea that that is MY son, and that soon I will be able to kiss his sweet cheeks and tickle his tiny feet.

I am beyond thankful that modern medicine has made this experience possible.  I've written before that adoption is an answer for some, though not without its pitfalls and heartbreaks.  We walked that path ourselves, hoping that maybe our family would come to us that way.  It turns out that it didn't -- and while I know that the future is "still unwritten" and may include adoption at some point, I am so very thrilled that I got to feel my firstborn moving around inside of me.  I didn't realize how much it would mean to me until I actually experienced it.  That's not to say that adoptive moms are missing out -- I firmly believe that motherhood is a state of the heart, not of the uterus.  I'm just thrilled that I'm on my way to finally meeting my son; the kicks are just an added bonus.  :-)

I'm also not unaware that many of you don't feel too thankful today.  It's hard to, when nothing seems to be going the way you'd planned.  I hope that, whatever your current status, you do something nice for yourself .  Skip the holiday, indulge in an extra glass of wine, cry your heart out in the bathroom.  Eat a crapload of turkey or fifteen different desserts.  Do whatever it takes to make it through.  I know firsthand how impossible it can seem, how unending and unfair and unbearable to miss your children when everyone else seems oblivious to your pain.  It's my fervent hope that next year is different -- whether that means an adoption, a pregnancy, a living child, or just a peace that eludes you this year.

So Happy Thanksgiving -- or not.  Here's to a holiday that is easier than you anticipate.