VULNERABLE INFERTILES AND SNAKE-OIL SALESMEN

When you are undergoing fertility treatment via assisted reproductive technologies, you may think to yourself, “I should go get acupuncture. I have heard many times that acupuncture can be quite complementary to Western reproductive treatments, and people continue to recommend it to me.”

What you might do is go ahead and make an appointment at an acupuncture clinic that has been recommended to you by friends — including one friend who had success with IVF.

Then you might drive all the way there at 8 a.m. to fill out five lengthy forms and have a consultation with an awkward, mustachioed man in what amounts to a closet. He may check your pulse and glance at your tongue, quickly concluding that your pulse is weak, and your tongue looks infirm — signs of run-down internal organs. Then he may demonstrate complete ignorance about Western fertility treatment, contradict himself, confuse you regarding the safety of taking Chinese herbs, and refuse to treat you because you just had an insemination and there is a small chance you’re pregnant. Then he might bid you adieu, but only after charging you $25.

The next day, you might go to yoga and feel like a failure. Every pose may feel strained, and you may feel like you can’t keep up. You may dwell on your weak pulse, ill-looking tongue, and malfunctioning kidneys and spleen. You may think about how you strive and strive to do everything in your power to be well — the disciplined exercise, the careful stress management, the scrupulous diet, the restraint when it comes to sugar, caffeine and alcohol — and how none of it matters; you’re still an unhealthy, infertile mess. You might lay in shavasana, silently ball your eyes out and assume that your yoga instructor thinks you are an emotional train wreck.

But then it might dawn on you that said mustachioed acupuncturist might just be a giant asshole, and that it might behoove you to seek out an acupuncturist who actually has a clue about your lifestyle, your condition and the treatments that typically accompany it.

You might have someone suggest to you that you call the fertility clinic to see if it recommends any specific acupuncturists.

This is good advice.

When you call your fertility nurse, she will tell you to stay away from Chinese herbs while undergoing hormone-injection treatment. She will say it’s safe to have acupuncture after an IUI. And she will give you a recommendation of an acupuncturist who has a whole section of her website devoted to the use of acupuncture in conjunction with Western fertility treatment.

So, if you think to yourself, “I should go get acupuncture,” the first thing you should do is call your fertility nurse. Then you will avoid all mustachioed swindlers who make you feel like shit. This has been a public-service announcement.

PURSUING POSITIVE

inseminate |inˈseməˌnāt|
verb [ trans. ] (often be inseminated)
introduce semen into (a woman or a female animal) by natural or artificial means.

My vagina has been seeing a lot of action lately. Two pelvic ultrasounds. Two encounters with a speculum in less than a week. Two acts of “timed relations.” A pap smear. A catheter and a syringe up the cervix. And now progesterone tablets inserted vaginally every night. In the past two weeks, six different people have been all up in my hooha’s business, not including me. It’s amazing to think of my teenage self, who occasionally would sneak a shy peak at my nether regions in my bedroom mirror. Now it’s like a popular attraction at a freak show. Step right up to see the amazing bearded lady! What, too far?

The good news is that my first IUI went off like gangbusters, so now I just have to wait for two agonizing weeks. The IUI was scheduled for this past Friday, and I had taken the whole day off. I was nervous, so I did everything I could think of to relax in the morning. I booked a lovely professional massage. I did 10 minutes of yoga. I even had a devotional time and read the Bible.

When we got to the treatment room at the fertility clinic, the nurse told Philip his sample was “A+,” news about which we were both very pleased. Philip prattled on about the Tigers as the catheter and syringe went in, which was a welcome distraction from the weird and uncomfortable dilating and cramping. Afterward I lay on my back for 15 minutes visualizing a swarm of swimmers surrounding and assailing my unsuspecting egg. (Eggs? Who knows how many mature follicles I ended up with this time.)

I spent the rest of the day on the couch in my sweatpants watching New Girl and Mindy Project. It was basically paradise. I also received many encouraging texts from friends, which made me feel very loved. And also kind of vulnerable. I mean, my boss had even hugged me and wished me luck the day before. No secrets here. (I also argued with my parents last week about testing early for pregnancy, something I am somehow pretty disciplined about not doing. They are DYING to know if this worked or not.)

Fast forward two nights, and I am being rudely awakened at 2:30 a.m. by my cat AJ horking on the bed. For fuck’s sake, cat. I fling him off, but not before he’s able to puke a bit on the duvet. Then he makes a beeline for our high-pile Pottery Barn rug. Seventeen hundred square feet of hard wood and tile, and the cats ALWAYS want to cough up their hairballs on something soft and hard to clean.

So now we’re wide awake, and I have to pee. But am I allowed to pee? Philip strips the duvet and wipes up the spew on the floor while I Google “progesterone tablet vaginal urinate.” The message-board community tells me not to pee, or the progesterone will all just come right out. Philip also does a little online research and tells me the next morning, “I was on a blog last night called Stirrup Queens. That sounds like porn.”

“She has twins through IUI,” I respond. What a weird, weird thing this infertility world is.

I lay awake for about an hour trying to think of anything besides my full bladder. Eventually I fall back asleep. I make it another three hours before I pee out all my progesterone support at 5:30 a.m.

Sunday morning I am standing at the sink washing strawberries. Philip tells me about a cutesy pregnancy announcement he is viewing on Facebook: a Disney-loving couple standing in front of Cinderella’s castle. They’re both wearing mouse ears and holding a mini pair of mouse ears over the wife’s stomach. My face must fall a little, because Philip says, “How do you feel?”

“I feel progesterone leaking into my underwear,” I say.

It’s hard to feel positive. Everyone says I should think positively, but in my heart, I don’t believe this is going to work. Every time I start to imagine a positive pregnancy test — the joy of my friends and family, the thrill of buying baby stuff and designing a nursery — some scolding voice in my head goes, “Stop it, you fool. Why would this work? It doesn’t work for most people. You don’t deserve to get pregnant ‘so easily.’ Don’t get your hopes up. In two weeks we’ll be sobbing into our pillow. Prepare for THAT, you sap.”

Geez, that voice in my head is mean! Very Gollum-ish, in fact.

I continue to strive for that positivity (but Master looks after us!). Not necessarily that this will work, but that no matter what, everything will be OK, I will carry on, we’ll be a step closer, and God is in control.

He sent me such a reminder the night before the IUI. Philip and I had gone on a date and were driving home at 10:15 at night. About a mile from our house, we passed a young woman walking on the side of the road with her three small children. Philip immediately noticed her and voiced concern to me.

“Turn around, and we’ll ask her if she needs a ride,” I responded. So we did. And she did. As soon as she and her kids were safely crammed into the back seat of my 1997 Saturn, I heard her murmur, “Thank you, Jesus.”

They had spent the day at the hospital near our house. Her youngest son had broken his arm. By the time they were discharged, the bus from the hospital was no longer running, so she was wandering along Orange Avenue hoping to stumble across another bus stop. They had been at the hospital for seven hours and hadn’t had dinner.

We took them to McDonald’s and drove them the six miles to their apartment, located in a low-income part of town. As soon as we dropped them off and pulled away, I choked, “How would they have ever gotten home?!” Philip and I both cried, thinking of how God had placed us on that street at that exact moment.

It was a reminder of how blessed we are — our $100 steak dinner juxtaposed with a McDouble; our warm, beautiful home compared to a tiny, rundown apartment in a dangerous neighborhood. And it was an assurance that even when it seems like God is MIA, He’s still present and involved and working for good.

"REPRODUCTIVE CHOICE"

Photo stolen from my friend Lauren's Facebook page and used without permission

Last week I organized a ladies’ wine night with some girlfriends. I did this for a few reasons: I had a gift card to a wine bar. I like these ladies. I like wine. I can drink wine because the only thing inside my uterus is a tumbleweed. It’s nice to get dressed up for other girls and talk about things like hair extensions and inappropriate teacher/student relationships and how gluten-free pizza is terrible.

But by far the topic we lingered on longest was reproductive choice. Specifically — how many kids would you have if you could choose, and what genders would they be?

I used to have these conversations in earnest. In earnest! Like I had any effing say! I was going to have four kids — two boys, two girls. A big household just full of my offspring and their friends.

Welp, that dream is looking a little, shall we say, unlikely. I’m now 33, without ever having gotten even one positive on a pregnancy test.

None of the six of us sitting around the table last week — ages 30-38 — have children, and not exactly by choice. Two of us are infertile, two are single, one got married later than originally planned, and one is dating a guy who, years before meeting her, had undergone a little snip-snip, if you know what I mean.

But we all went around and shared how many kids we’d want and whether they’d be girls or boys. And it was fun to have the conversation again, knowing it was all fantasy, all play.

It got me thinking about how often things don’t turn out how we planned or how we wanted. To the reader who had exactly the number of kids in the exact sexes and in the exact health condition at exactly the time they planned — gold star. This post isn’t for you.

This post is for the mom who wanted a daughter but got a son. It’s for the dad who wanted a little boy but got a girl. It’s for the expectant woman who’s unexpectedly getting two for the price of one, and her body is paying the price. It’s for the father of a child with developmental disabilities and the mother who is ready to try for number two, but the finances just aren’t there. It’s for the girl who’s pregnant before she’s ready and the same-sex couple confronting all the challenges of infertility in the face of society’s judgment and prejudice. It’s for those waiting for “the one” — or waiting for the one to be ready, to grow up, to change. It’s for the would-be parents grieving a pregnancy loss, a stalled adoption, an endless barrier of red tape in the foster system.

And of course it’s for the infertile, whose bodies fail without explanation while our biological clocks work perfectly.

And here’s what I say to all of us: We are badass. We know what it’s like to look disappointment in the eye, stand up straighter, and say FUCK YOU, DISAPPOINTMENT. We won’t give up. We will count our blessings. We will grieve our losses with all the strength we possess, and it will only make us stronger, more sensitive, more grateful, more aware. We will ride the current of our lives, accepting the gifts and releasing what’s not meant to be. We will work like hell to make the changes or fixes that are within our power, but we’ll surrender when there’s no other choice. We’ll find new resolve each morning. We will care for each other and pray for one another. And we will drink wine and laugh, because laughter really is the best medicine.

EVERYTHING I HAVE IS YOURS

I turned 33 a week ago. I've never been one to fear getting older, hide my age or dread birthdays. In fact, I love birthdays. And this one turned out to be particularly good. My husband and my dear friend Audrey had the amazing idea to secretly fly my sister Sarah down for a visit -- here we are at a restaurant two hours from home, where Sarah had sat waiting to surprise me at the table.

All kinds of planning went into the surprise, from booking flights, hotel rooms and restaurant reservations to organizing a beach barbecue with a small group of friends the following day. I keep saying to Audrey that I can't believe she went to so much trouble for me, especially on a non-milestone birthday. But she said it's been a tough year for me, especially regarding infertility and the scare with our cat Abbi, and she felt I deserved a fun weekend of celebration.

Looking back, it was a very tough year, not only because of my circumstances, but also because of my response. I threw myself into work travel; I hid from my mommy friends; I railed against God. I don't say that to be hard on myself; it's just where I was. But none of it was particularly helpful. The traveling made pursuing treatment more difficult; the bitterness in my heart toward others with children shamed me; the anger at God made me feel more alone and lost.

Coming into 2013 (before Abbi got sick), I started to move into a new heart space. I don't know how. Maybe it was the reality of approaching two full years of infertility, which allowed me to feel like I definitely belonged in the Infertility Club. At least I know where I stand; I'm part of an established community. I've been on this road long enough to anticipate the curves and speed bumps and emotional three-car pile-ups. I can practically put the car on auto-pilot.

But mostly, I feel like God has just nudged me gently forward. I don't feel the distance from him that I did a year ago. My heart feels more open to what he's doing, whatever the eff that is.

One thing he pointed out to me is that I can't be in Mexico and in the stirrups at the same time. That is to say, if I want to prioritize treatment, I can't keep flying off to Fiji and St. Lucia and the Dominican Republic. I have to physically BE HERE for pelvic scans and blood tests and injections. So I told my boss I didn't want to travel this year.

It felt like a huge sacrifice. It still does. I'm blessed with a job that has brought me to many exotic places over the last six years, and it's been one of the major distractions that has kept me sane during the infertility saga. But I can't have my cake and eat it too.

So, I let go. And each time I get another tempting invitation to somewhere tropical and lovely, I have to let go again. It's been a tremendous practice in "losing my life" in order to find it.

Another gift God has brought me is yoga. SO MANY people have said, "You're having trouble getting pregnant? You should try yoga. I think you'll like it." And as it turns out, a yoga class meets right in my office over the lunch hour twice a week.

I was intimidated to go, as I had never tried yoga in my life. I didn't even know what a downward-facing dog was. But a couple of friends kept prompting me (aka, God was prompting me), so I finally sucked up my insecurity and went. And I. Am. In. Love.

I can't even tell you what a prayerful space it has been for me -- the way the instructor tells us to set our intention for that day's practice, and how God brings words to my mind like healing, patience, prepare, acceptance or walk through the sadness. (Not to mention the physical benefits of improving circulation, building strength, increasing flexibility and releasing tension.)

Also, miraculously, we think we may have found a church we like. It scares me to write that sentence, as I feel like I might be falling in love after a few first dates, and I'm terrified I'm going to stumble on the giant bag of toenail clippings in the closet at any moment.

But so far, so good. It's not perfect, but it has a very authentic-feeling, appealing simplicity that threads through the scaled-down music, humble preaching, focus on Jesus and weekly response time. We've attended four times, and I always leave dwelling on some nugget I've gleaned from a song or verse or line from the sermon.

The fact that we may have actually found a church home after all this time is nothing short of divine. I have tried literally dozens of services over the 10 years I've lived in Orlando, and I've never been crazy about a single one. Now here's this little gathering of about 15 people, and it feels right. It's very hopeful.

Prayer station at church with guided response, visual aid and communion elements

Amid these spiritually-shifting developments, we attempted our second IUI cycle. I was beyond excited to start. We had taken a three-month break from treatment, thanks to our first canceled IUI cycle (my follicles hadn't responded to the meds at all), the craziness of the holidays, battles with our health insurance, and then the drama with Abbi.

But now we were emotionally ready, and the circumstances were right. We had been patient. We had kept our calendar open. I had attended an infertility seminar. And we had gotten everything straightened out with our health insurance, which amazingly covers the majority of the cost of the medications -- they were ready and waiting in our fridge.

Fun with making 25 phone calls to our insurance and various mail-order pharmacies

Infertility seminar -- wow, look at all the Orlando-area infertiles!

We dutifully went to the appointments and set Google alerts for all the days I was supposed to swallow pills or get injected with powerful hormones. The night Philip administered my first shot of Follistim (a follicle-stimulating hormone -- basically makes the eggs mature), I was scared but brave. We laid out all the paraphernalia and carefully read the instructions. And we did it! I didn't even die of ovarian hyperstimulation! Score!

Everything was right on track, and then -- boom. Too many follicles matured. There were three big fat ones, which could mean three big fat babies. Unlikely, but possible. The RE gave us a choice of if we wanted to continue the cycle or not. But there are so many risks associated with triplets, from the strain on my body to potential developmental issues in the babies to the sheer challenge of raising three babies at once, that we decided not to risk it.

I cried that entire day. It was a Monday, and I had dropped Sarah off at the airport that morning. I cried after the scan. I cried when I told Philip about the scan. I cried when the nurse called to say, yea verily, there are too many mature follicles. And when I got home from work, I laid on the couch and cried myself to sleep.

But then, remarkably, the next day, I felt OK. Still disappointed, but able to carry on. I called the nurse, told her our decision, and asked her to order the Follistim for the next cycle. I went to yoga. I organized a ladies wine night. I pep-rallied myself that we had to wait only two more weeks to try again, which really isn't that long of a time frame in the grand scheme of things. I chalked it up to a learning experience -- next time we'll dial back the meds a little and hopefully find the sweet spot. And I remembered a verse from church -- the parable of the prodigal son, in which the father says to the sulky older brother, "You are always with me, and everything I have is yours."

Around my birthday, people kept saying to me that this is my year. I hope they're right. I accept the reality that IUIs only work 30 percent of the time, but nevertheless I'm hopeful. I feel good that we're pursuing treatment more aggressively and with more focus. And I'm grateful and happy to be walking more closely with God again, for however long the feeling lasts.