A circuitous tale of waking up thinner, the scourge called IF, and feeling ticked about all of it

As 2009 approaches, I am thinner than when 2008 came knocking. Not by much, but I notice it and so does my scale.

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Quick tip for the wise: Scroll down to the large bold phrase near the end to get to the point sooooo much faster. You're welcome!
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I've been fine with Not Being Thinner ever since early 2007 when I gained 25–30 pounds in 2 staggeringly fast month-long periods: March, I think, and then again in July. At the time we were between REs (thinking we were done with REs, mind you) and I was effectively grieving the loss of my fertility, such that it never was. In March of that year I contracted a strange, made-up-sounding viral infection whose treatment was to fast for a few days and then slowly reintroduce food from the BRAT diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast) before gradually returning to regular food. It took about 10 days for me to tolerate anything but BRAT food and at least another week after that to eat normally.

I consumed very little food, FAR less than my typical diet provided, yet I managed to gain 7 pounds during the BRAT-only phase. I thought it odd but assumed my system would normalize on its own now that I felt healthy again. A few weeks later—after setting aside yet another pair of shrunk-in-the-wash underwear—I caught a clue and gingerly stepped on the scale. Another 8 pounds up for a total of 15 (or, as I said, "fiffffteeeeeeeen?"). JUST LIKE THAT!

Now this did catch my attention. But I still believed it was a temporary thing and that my awareness alone would be enough to reverse the gain. I'd simply move more and eat less, and soon all would be fine. Thing is, I made good on my plan but nothing changed. This failure threw me for a loop because several years earlier I'd gained and lost what I can now grudgingly call my "first" package of stress weight—I had no trouble losing it once I cared enough to try, and for 4 years I'd kept it off with what I perceived as no effort. I'd actually come to the smug belief that I was in control of something.

This is just a chemical glitch, I thought. I'll bet the Clomid from the RE Who Shall Not Be Mentioned triggered something. Maybe that screwy infection screwed me up. Or was it the Fertility Bl.end? Whatever the reason, I can make it go away anytime I want to.

In the face of concluding we weren't done seeking help on our quest to conceive, the weight quickly became a nonissue to me. My concentration shifted to finding a new RE. I interviewed prospects during June and July (can you say "Discouraging"?) and—BAM!—next time I looked up 10 or 15 additional pounds had debuted in time for bathing-suit season. That gain happened, too, with such dizzying speed that I almost couldn't process it. But damn, there I was needing new pants again.

DH and I planned an IVF for October 2007. In September the RE did a pre-cycle hysteroscopy. She literally gasped upon seeing a large fibroid onscreen, brand-spanking new since the fairly recent ultrasound we had *just* reviewed. The tumor had originated outside my uterus and poked right on through the uterine wall into the cavity. That sucker had to come out.

Both my RE and OB say there is no way to prove my theory, but nobody will EVER persuade me away from the firm belief that the rapid-fire weight gains and fibroid growth went hand-in-hand and were directly tied to the stress of trying to "get over" my desire to conceive and move on before I was ready. No way could I ignore that an immediate need for a myomectomy had cropped up, with extra poundage, during all 3 of the hands-down worst times of my life. (Not that I don't understand that I must also have been eating and moving differently. Chronic stress changes the way you function, inside and out.) But my experience with all of it doesn't inform anyone but me.

No matter, though. As DH and I pursued the end of our ttc story, I put weight out of my mind. I couldn't spare the effort to care about it while dealing with the rigors of ARTfulness and consistently tenuous pregnancies. Although 7–10 pharmaceutically-induced pounds came and went with each IVF, my weight held steady overall. No true gains in 2008. A plus that, thankfully, was not. (Assuming you ignore the given that I would give anything to be waddling around with a weight gain of a different stripe.)

I didn't mention this before because I still plan to do a separate post about my recent D&C, but . . . the day after the procedure I felt lighter. I looked it, too. That day my scale said that all the extra IVF #3 weight had disappeared in a surreal sort of POOF.

Well today I woke up looking slightly thinner yet again—3 more pounds gone.

Honestly, I don't know how that could even be possible. I mean, 'tis still the holiday season at my house, and a less-than-jolly one at that. I'm regularly comforting myself with toffee and tea, egg nog and cookies, wine and something cheesy, and so on. Even as I work today, DH is out hunting and gathering a long list of ingredients for the New Year–appropriate appetizers, goodies, and cocktails we'll make and I'll help consume. Not really a weight-shedding setup.

I know. Those 3 pounds probably found their way back to me while I wrote this post. But whether they or their 10+ IVF siblings have left me for good is not the point today.

The point is what ticked me off:

Here's a case where I have not been trying to do something I'd very much like to do. Namely, to start losing my "no baby" weight that so callously attached itself to me 2 years ago. I've done nothing whatsoever to advance the cause and practically everything one might think of to achieve the opposite effect. Yet quite a few pounds have gone missing anyway. I was "relaxing" about the whole deal, if you will, and suddenly I ended up with a desirable outcome. Thinking about it that way really burned me up for a minute.

You see, it's just one more item on life's infinite list that, ultimately, I will never control, even when I think I know for sure that I can and will.

Spotting as an accessory

Yeah, well, I started spotting beige last night, and it's still here today.

I spent most of the night praying, playing my meditation CDs in my head, and reminding myself that spotting before beta happens all the time with perfectly viable pregnancies. Spotting is not uncommon with IVF-ers. It could be old blood or other internal goo from the ER or ET. It could be leftover from the start of implantation. It could come from one of two implanting embryos deciding to disengage. It could be nothing specific. Or it could be my period trying to start. (DH rightly pointed out last night that the period option is, at least, outnumbered.)

I'm at 12dpo/9dp3dt. My tests are still getting darker and I'm seeing "Pregnant" on digitals. All that's reassuring for now.

Once I finished approving this morning's HPTs, I shot myself up with a nice dose of womb-enhancing progesterone, breathed deeply, and got dressed. For my own brand of "I refuse to wig out" calming distraction, I accessorized externally to complement the shade of my unseen companion: beige-based argyle sweater, light khaki socks, camel eyeshadow, and a small spritz of Coco for kicks and whiffs. Oh, and I'm listening to Diana Krall in my office. She's kind of beige.

Doing my best to go with the flow.

Dare ya to call me a weirdo to my face!

Looking for the Zen

You're not supposed to consciously try to achieve a Zen attitude. But I'm going for it today. On purpose.

The spotting stopped late last night, thank goodness. Yes, I stayed up to verify. I drank a literal bucketful of water throughout the evening and had a couple (4) creme-filled vanilla cookies for good measure.

DH was very good with me on the phone. He zeroed right in on the things that would logic (yes, I'm verb-ing that word) me out of unnecessary worry. When I said the disappearing symptoms and spotting could be nothing or everything bad, he gently ranted "You have no idea what they mean for you, right now, in this pregnancy. If it's not black-and-white, there is no reason for you to live in the worst possibility. And if the worst thing happens, we are prepared for that."

DH saying "we" are prepared got through to me. He's with me AND I can handle things. Then I said, only half-jokingly, "The spotting started right after I'd finally allowed myself to run out and buy a pregnancy book." DH replied, "Yeah. God hates that." Which made me laugh and shape up a little more.

The RE's office says there's nothing to worry about at present. It's good that the spotting was not serious, and it's good that it stopped. Plans for the 7-week ultrasound are still on. No need for me to go in unless something concerning happens. They don't really care about my disappearing symptoms, dang them. So I'm on my own for another 8 days. Knock on wood.

So, I'm doing my best to stay on task at work today (it hasn't been too hard) and to not think about the things I can't know. The dog helps. She just came into my office — for the third time — to sniff the new stack of library books I'm working with. That seems to be the main thing on her mind this morning. Her routine: Sleep a little, wake up and remember the new books, sniff them and think hard, grab a little water, settle back down on her bed, and do the whole thing over when next she wakes. She is very "of the moment," not thinking ahead and not thinking behind. I think she's onto something!

I was having such a good day

Yesterday I worried because some of my symptoms had faded. I've seen this happen to so many others — sometimes it's the beginning of the end, but many times it means nothing. Symptoms come and go. I persuaded myself to run with that explanation.

Today was a good day almost all the way through: Good energy. Clearest head I've had in a while. Productive workday. No pressing worries.

Then, after dinner, I started spotting. It's probably nothing. There's no pain, no cramping. It's very, very light. No red. So far I'm not freaking out, but I can't pretend to not be apprehensive. Vanishing symptoms PLUS spotting does not make me happy. It helps to know that it could be nothing. But that doesn't stop me from knowing it could be something.

I'll call Dr. K's nurse first thing tomorrow and let her tell me there's nothing to worry about. I'll also let her tell me to come right on in for a check-up.

Either way.

Beta result near end of rambling post

"Your insurance will pay for this one."

Today was the first time I'd ever heard that as I checked out at the clinic. It was an all-around strange experience because I saw all-new-to-me staff. The whole thing felt totally impersonal, but what are you going to do.

I got in and out of there in just a few minutes. Back in my car, I turned emotional fast. I just wanted to KNOW. I wanted to know today's result, and Monday's, and Wednesday's. And I wanted to see a sac during one ultrasound and a heartbeat during the one after that. I wanted to make it past 6 weeks, 8 weeks, 10 weeks, 12 weeks, 17 weeks, 22 weeks, and all the way through. I wanted to hear that first cry at delivery and be told "S/he's perfect." I wanted to proudly watch my child grow and learn and work and live.

I wanted all of that OR for everything to end with this afternoon's phone call. I wanted all or nothing, and I wanted it before sundown.

I didn't cry in the car, but I thought about it. I just felt robbed of getting to hope for things and also silly for thinking about all the things that can go wrong. Of course today's news wouldn't tell me anything beyond today's news. And I had to live with that. It's out of my hands. Still.

So I reminded myself that we'd come this far. That's despite one well-respected RE telling us he wouldn't treat us, another pointedly and pooh-pooh-ing-ly saying "I wouldn't" when referring to whether we should try again after our failed cycle, and the other — our primary RE — stressing to us (as she should have) that our chances for a pregnancy from this cycle were only 10% and odds that we'd get a take-home baby, if something stuck in the first place, were just 1 in 5. This far is good.

Despite all the grim possibilities that haunt me, this day, in the churning sea of wary, weary days leading up to it, has ended on a positive note:

At 14dpo/11dp3dt, my beta came back at 192.

That is real. That is solid. That is really solid. Of course it has to be monitored, along with many things to come. But right now things are good, and I can work on making it to the next benchmark.

Tonight, though, I will relax.

Follies on the brain

I had a sleepless night Tuesday, just counting the days until today's follicle and bloodwork check. Recovered with a great sleep Wednesday (partly because the acupuncturist gave me a special sleep needle, mostly because I was exhausted). Then I had a freakishly great day on Thursday: Highly productive at work; lots of energy; positive attitude; loving feelings toward all humankind; thinking it didn't matter how things went with the cycle because I was just so damn lucky to be alive and should be grateful to even have this experience. (WTH on that last part! Must be the drugs.)

Last night (still Thursday), I fell asleep fine, but then I awoke at 3:00 (stupid Friday) and resorted to counting the minutes until my 8:30 appointment. I lay there just tuning in to my ovarian sensations and trying to cheer on the 11 follies counted last week. "Come on, my pretties. All together, now, grow, follies, GROW!"

I tried visualizing them, but I didn't really like the true-to-life image. Sometimes I'm just better with the figurative, so after a bit of psychedelic drifting, er, clever word association, I began thinking of the perfectly symmetrical and synched-up chorus lines from old-time stage follies. I want my follies to behave like those pins, all crazy-in-step and full of vim. And you know, from the prominent, buzzy twinge-y feelings I have on both sides, I think they are.

The appointment went well from the "poor responder" POV. All 11 are still there, with 7 currently out in front, of fairly uniform size (10–12 mm), and on track for maturity by ER in another 6 or 7 days. The 4 lagging behind (6.5–8 mm) are close enough to surprise (yay) or drop off completely (boo, whatever). My lining looks good. Didn't write down the individual follie sizes/placements or ask about the E2 number because I'm leaving some details alone. I don't need to do the math, nor can I do anything to affect it.

The rest of the day? It sorta stunk: Spent my acupuncture session resenting the 4 hours out of this day I spent at/getting to and from the clinic; spent WAY too much time in the pm dealing with all things IVF (new appt schedules, meds reorders, trying to guess the ER date for an anxious DH); totally ignored my sister's perfectly well-intentioned phone message asking for an update — I felt inexplicably annoyed to get it; got very little quality work done; and wore a frownie face, mostly, while walking my just-happy-to-be-outside-and-sniffing dog in gorgeous weather at a picturesque state park.

"Must be the drugs again," I told myself tonight. I'm sure they're playing a part. But really, I know that even though I was indeed happy about today's monitoring appointment, deep down all I've been doing since is wondering if there's anything even in them thar follies.

We'll see soon enough.

Breathe with me, people!

I took the day off today, mostly, and as lovely as that sounds, I almost wish I hadn't. I do so much better with the IVF process (even just the gearing-up part) when I have pressing work.

This morning, I got through to all the people I wanted to talk to yesterday. Which is great because it solidified plans. But it also made everything Real, and left me with nothing to do but

• answer 3 short work emails
• seriously consider but not follow through with doing laundry, running errands, mopping the kitchen floor, actually working anyway, cleaning my office, and mopping the kitchen floor (yes, considered that twice — you would too if you could see it)
• FREAK myself right on out

Ah, well. Had to happen sooner or later. Guess it's time to breathe.

Sleeping like a __________ lately

One of my earliest posts talked about my fits of sleeplessness as we started the cycle. Although I felt all of it was directly related to nervousness surrounding IVF, in the absence of the impending ART reality, it could just as easily have been about anything I might have had on my mind — good, bad, or otherwise. I've had similar fits since childhood. I'm a chronic late-night thinker — talker, too; but I don't do much of that anymore because DH is a chronic falls-asleep-like-a-hibernating-bear something-er.

Typically, I am slow to fall asleep, stressed or not. My head hits the pillow, and I am alert, no matter how tired I felt minutes before. (Family, DH, former roommates, and friends from my prime slumber-party years can vouch for that.) For as long as I can remember, I've been accustomed to experiencing at least one night a week in which I just don't sleep well. And whenever I feel stressed, I tend to follow up that one bad night with several nights of sleeping poorly and one night of crashing hard. Then the cycle starts fresh at Sleepless Night One and repeats itself until whatever mini-storm has passed.

I noticed shortly after posting about not sleeping that suddenly I was sleeping through the night. Every night.

The magic of blogging? I doubt it. I'm thinking it might be a result of pushed-down stress. My theory is that the effort it takes to maintain the even keel I've been on results in a super-tired brain/body at night. And so I sleep when normally I would not. Or maybe I am simply handling it well. Or, maybe acupuncture helps, or BOOM, I broke a lifelong behavior pattern without even trying.

Tough to know. Then again — does it really matter? Sleep is good for me right now. It's probably best to let sleeping "rhymes with w!tches" lie.