Shock and Awe

Spring break (aka Easter holidays) is usually a time for most people to get away from this frozen island and go some place warm. Last year I went on a cruise with my friend Heidi, and it was just what my soul needed. This year Nathan and I decided to schedule our third and final IVF procedure instead. It was a three-week window when I could go to doctors' appointments and have the egg collection, embryo transfer, and a week of bed rest. 

Back in February I traveled up to Newcastle to collect all of the medication from the Royal Victoria Infirmary and started the injections on the last day of our half-term holiday in Scotland. It was really difficult. I mean, really difficult. The drugs made me feel like a crazy person. I was anxious, fearful, weepy, weak. I felt overwhelmed constantly. It was worse than both of the previous IVF cycles combined. I cried every day and told Nathan that I didn't even want to do IVF this time. However, I knew I would regret it if we didn't. It was our last open door to parenthood in the UK, and it was free. That's the only reason I stuck with it.

***Warning: reproductive health talk***

After three and a half weeks, I went back to our fertility clinic in Newcastle for an ultrasound. It was the first of a series of three that they do before egg collection. The nurse doing my scan asked me how I was handling the injections. I wanted to cry and tell her that I was really struggling, but I just said, "Fine, I guess. I've been kind of emotional, but that's probably due to a few life circumstances right now." Like having to move across the ocean in four months' time but not knowing where with neither of us having jobs... on top of going through our final round of IVF and wondering what the heck I was going to do with my life if I wasn't going to have kids. 

She started the scan.

"When was the date of your last period?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't really know. I haven't had one since I started the drugs, but I didn't have one my first cycle of IVF either." While it's unusual (1/10 women don't) it wasn't abnormal, so I wasn't too concerned. I took a pregnancy test when I was quite late and had already started the IVF drugs, just for peace of mind, but it was negative.

"Can you try to estimate?" she said.

"Ummm... I miscarried our second IVF embryo in the middle of December, so I'm guessing the middle of January?"

*Silence*

"Is something wrong?"

"Well, I'm supposed to be seeing a uterus lining that is quite thin, but if you'll look here, it's rather thick, and that looks like a pregnancy sack." 

*More silence*

"Does that mean I'm pregnant?" 

The nurse kind of helped me come to the realization in stages, first telling me that it was possible I was pregnant. Based on my estimated dates, the pregnancy should have been eight weeks along, but it was only measuring between five and six weeks. She said that we needed to confirm it with a urine test (a positive sign straight away) and a blood test (anything over 50 for the hcg hormone is considered a positive test, and my number was 14,960). I was shocked. There were lots of tears. I'm sure the poor nurses wondered if I actually wanted to be pregnant. They told me to come back in a week for another scan to see if things had progressed normally. In the mean time, IVF #3 was cancelled and I was to stop taking the drugs immediately. 

***End of reproductive health talk***

I took this picture when I got home from the doctor's office. It pretty much just says, "Whoa."

I was alone, and Nathan was out of town at a church retreat and not reachable by phone. I had to keep the news to myself for two and a half tortuous days. It was awful. I was crying all the time. I was having major anxiety and irrational thoughts that I was going to die in a car crash or get stabbed and no one would know about our baby. Thankfully, as soon as I finished work at the end of the week I took the train over to meet him in the Lakes District.

When Nathan and I were finally alone that night, I took out the camera and told him to close his eyes and hold out his hands for a present. This is not unusual for us, so he was not suspicious. He was hoping for chocolate, but instead it was the positive pregnancy test in a plastic bag and the ultrasound photo. 

He was stunned. STUNNED, I tell you. I went back and forth about videoing the surprise, but now I'm so glad that I did. I've watched it so many times that the sound on our camera isn't working any more. 

The following week Nathan and I went back to the fertility clinic together. I came loaded down with the remaining drugs as well as a sharps container full of used syringes. I could not have been happier to get ride of those. The same nurse who did my ultrasound the week before was with me again. Within seconds of starting the scan she said, "Everything looks great. Your baby is healthy. Look, there's even a heartbeat right there." Nathan and I were so grateful to enjoy that moment together. And - we will never go back to that fertility clinic ever again. Wahoo!

We're still amazed and praising God. A lot of people have been praying for us in this area of struggle for years, even more so than we have, but I'm sure that most of them were not praying for this. If you're one of those people who has supported us, I can't thank you enough. You have carried us through some tough times. Times of grief and loss and confusion. Please continue your prayers for godliness throughout this time of upcoming change. Even though this news is now public, I am very aware that a take-home baby in November is not a guarantee. But you know what? We will still celebrate now. No matter what happens, even if we lose the little one, God is still good and worthy of worship.

The fact that I am pregnant still doesn't feel real sometimes, but my aversion to avocado as well as the smell of Nathan's cologne (and lots of other things!) tells me that I am not my usual self. We recently had our 12-week ultrasound, and there's an actual person in there. I think I was expecting him/her to still look like a little alien, but we saw arms, legs, face, brain, everything. It was crazy cool.

To those who are still waiting and longing for little ones, I'm sorry if this news has been painful. I want to be sensitive to you and care for you in a way I would want to be cared for. If I've messed it up, please let me know how to do that better. Infertility is hard. It's hard because you're happy for someone else and yet sad for yourself at the same time. I don't know how to balance being in both camps, but it's much harder than I imagined. After so many years on the outside looking in, I don't at all feel like I belong in mommy world, but I clearly don't belong in the infertility world anymore either. Hm... something to keep praying through.

Next up... how our families took the news. :)

Guest Posting/Thanks

I guest posted over at the Graduate Wife last week, but I forgot to tell you! Go on over and check it out if you'd like... I won't tell you what it's about, but the image below may be a small clue.

Credit

By the way, thanks to everyone who left us comments here on the blog or sent me e-mails, Facebook posts, cards, and private messages about our recent loss(es). As I'm sure you'll understand, it is emotionally exhausting to think about replying to everyone in a way that is thoughtful and personal, but I may get around to it eventually. Even if I never do, please know that we really appreciate your kindness. Like, really.

Thanks especially to those who have experienced infertility/loss/longing in a similar way and had the courage to reach out and tell me so. You are so brave!

Essay on Infertility

A thoughtful essay. I copied and pasted it into a post almost two years ago, and I think I'm ready to share it today. Sadly, I didn't document where I found it, so if you know where it came from, please let me know. (*Update: Thanks Abby! Here's a link to the source.) I can't say I identify with everything she says, but I've felt many of these things...

I resonated most strongly with this: 

Grieving a loved one is a process of sorting through all your hopes for the future, and slowly untangling that person from those dreams. In the same way, experiencing infertility requires a slow release of the dreams that you had of conceiving, carrying, and giving birth to a child. It doesn't mean you can't have a child. It just means that you may have to untangle your hopes of conceiving from your dreams of being a parent.

*******************************************************************

Hi, I’m Becca. Although I currently spend most of my time playing peek-a-boo, wiping noses, and driving to play-dates, my life wasn’t always this way. The road to my children was long. So what I’d like to tell you about is the impact of infertility. Some people may think this is too personal of an essay to share, but I would quietly disagree. Too many people are affected by infertility, pregnancy loss, and just loss in general. And yet we talk about it too little.



I wrote this essay way back in 2004, right after I lost my mom to cancer and less than a year before we adopted my son, James. It was not a hard decision for us to choose to adopt. I had always dreamed of adopting at least one of my children and my husband and I both thought it silly to waste time, money, and emotional energy on treatment for infertility when there were so many children who needed homes. However, it *was* extraordinarily hard to come to terms with the fact that I might not also get to carry and give birth to a child.



I know now that things unfolded exactly as they were meant to. I wouldn’t change a thing, even if it meant experiencing every single broken heart all over again. Without a doubt, this is the family I was meant to have and it brings tears to my eyes to envision a world without my James in it. And yet, the grief I experienced way back then was real, and grueling, and pervasive. To ignore or deny that would be to discredit the pain of all those who continue to struggle on their journey to parenthood. With that in mind, here’s what I want you to know.



I have read the impact of infertility can be compared to losing a loved one. When I first read this, I thought it was a hyperbole, that infertility could never bring as much pain as losing someone you love with all your heart. I was wrong. I know this because in the past year, I lost my 53 year old mom to cancer and, in the same year, have realized that my dreams of conceiving a child will likely never be realized.



To those who have never experienced the emotions of infertility, it may be hard to see the comparison.



It became crystal clear to me one night as I was sitting at a football game, surrounded by a new mom and an expectant mom. The game was spent reveling in the miracle of childbirth, chatting about where the best place to give birth might be, comparing the best buys for strollers and baby gates.



To many, this may not seem like a hard situation. For me, it was tough. I was at the beginning of a new treatment cycle, and was still working through the fact that my last attempt to conceive a child, like the thirty before it, had not worked. With only one treatment cycle to go before we officially stopped trying to conceive, I was in mourning. Mourning for the little baby that I had always dreamed of growing inside me. Mourning for the infant that would have had my husband's eyes and my nose. Mourning the feeling of a tiny newborn, one that I had helped create, sleeping in my arms.


If it is still hard to imagine how difficult this situation might be, maybe I can compare it to losing my mom. Except, instead of the huge outpouring of love and support I got when I lost my mom, imagine if nobody acknowledged her death. Imagine that every day was Mother's Day, and everywhere I turned, someone was talking about what he was going to buy his mom. Imagine that I was sitting at that football game, a few days after my mom died, and my two friends spent the entire game talking about their moms; what they were going to do with their moms the next day, how much joy their moms brought to their life, how they couldn't imagine their lives without their moms. Tough situation, right? That's what infertility is like.


When I lost my mom, I couldn't imagine how life could go on. I had so many dreams for our future together.



My mom taught me everything I know about life, and I needed her desperately for all I had yet to learn. As time passes, I am slowly learning that life does go on; that there is happiness here. It's not a bad life...it’s just a different one than I had imagined.


Grieving a loved one is a process of sorting through all your hopes for the future, and slowly untangling that person from those dreams. In the same way, experiencing infertility requires a slow release of the dreams that you had of conceiving, carrying, and giving birth to a child. It doesn't mean you can't have a child. It just means that you may have to untangle your hopes of conceiving from your dreams of being a parent.


As my husband and I let go of our plans to conceive a child, we are pulled in the direction of adoption. I can't help but feel that my son or daughter is out there, waiting patiently for us to help him or her find the way home.


Infertility *is* losing someone you love. I have loved my unborn biological child for as long as I can remember. It is heart-breaking that I will never get to meet her. But mourning also requires moving past the "should be" and learning to live in "what is". Should I get to have my mom as my guide for many more years to come? Yes. Should she have gotten to meet her grandchildren? Absolutely. Should I be able to experience the wonder of a child growing inside of me? You bet. But there is no "should be". Grieving is a process of letting go of the "should bes" to make room for what is.


There are good things here, too. I am a much stronger person than I was a year ago. I have learned the value of my amazing husband, my beautiful friends, and my supportive family. I see with amazing clarity how precious life truly is. I have very little fear left, for the things I feared the most are coming true, and I am still standing. My compassion for those who are suffering has deepened, and I am no longer afraid to comfort them. I have patience for the small trials we go through each day, because I know how hard life can be. I can see God's fingerprints everywhere. I have met many angels in my journey, most them disguised as people here on earth. I am grateful for the truths that have been revealed to me.



Yet, through it all, I grieve.

Source

One for the Baby Brag Book

This is Baby Parker #2. Like his/her brother/sister, he/she is not named. Unlike his/her brother/sister, this one didn't make it past one cell. He/she tried (see the tiny bits of fragmentation around the edge?), but just couldn't do it. 

Again, we're sad (understatement) but trusting in Jesus. We were inspired to worship God despite the devastating news that the little one wouldn't grow any further. I mean, that microscopic cell  has a soul, and we'll know that precious soul in all its fullness in heaven! Isn't that amazing? 

And, hey, at least this time we got a picture! I don't know any parents who have a picture of their kid at only one cell. Bragging rights, yo.

Sometimes I just listen to this song on repeat. I close my eyes and hold out my hands and listen and agree. Getoutchakleenex...

Hope and Sadness and Hope

I mentioned this in a post around Mother's Day, but Nathan and I don't have children. That is hard (oh-so-much is packed into those three words), but we know the Lord loves us (oh-so-much is packed into that statement too). 

I remember the first time he asked me how many kids I wanted (our third face-to-face interaction - yikes!) and I said, "Four." He said, "Me too" *lingering stare*. Uh, awkward. Good thing he didn't freak me out too badly. We would have loved to have had at least four. My family has three kids and his has five, so it seemed like a good meeting point.  And, we are IN LOVE with families we know that have eight plus children (Here's lookin' at you, Henrys and Felkers!), so we wouldn't complain if God gave us more.

Two days after the lingering stare

A few years of marriage and faithful Pill popping went by. I remember saying to Nathan before bed one night, "Wouldn't it be so annoying if we were paying for this birth control and stressing about it sometimes and taking this pill every night if we weren't able to have kids?" Gulp. Annoying doesn't begin to cover it.

Finally, in the fall of 2008 we were ready to start a family, but then I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. It's actually a miracle story, and I am so grateful to God that it happened when it did. Anyway, that put things on pause for about 8 months while I got my health back.

In the spring of 2009, after my blood sugar levels were in a safe range, we were cleared by doctors to start trying to conceive. In January of 2010, we heard news that some close friends of ours were pregnant. It devastated me. I wasn't sure why, because we had only been trying for a little while, but I had a sinking feeling that I would never be pregnant. I still don't know if it was from the Lord (to prepare me for a long infertility journey) or from Satan (to discourage me).

At the year mark of trying to conceive, we were preparing for a move to England. Before we left we saw fertility specialists and took tons of tests, all of which came back normal. One doctor even said, "Send me a Christmas card with a baby on it!" When we moved to the UK and got plugged into the National Health Service, we were told that we had to go through all of the same tests again, "just to be sure." Socialized medicine is great because it's free, but it's awful because it's slow. We did go through all of the same tests again, but instead of them all being done in six weeks - like we had done in the States - it took over a year. The results were all the same: normal. 

We checked into adoption from here, but we discovered fairly quickly that we are not allowed to foster or adopt British-born babies because we are here on student visas. We also discovered that we would not be able to afford an international adoption or an American domestic adoption as international residents. The paperwork, the flying back and forth the the US, and the bureaucracy would have been a legal and logistical nightmare. Plus, our savings was quickly depleted by the weakness of the dollar against the British pound, and just like *that* we were heaping up debt.

In the fall of 2011 we finally moved forward one more step than where we were when we left America. We tried several rounds of Clomid, a fertility drug, which were unsuccessful. After Christmas I gave up charting (taking my basal temperature every morning), which I had been doing for over a year. I just needed a break from the daily reminder that I was infertile, or maybe not-yet-fertile. The not knowing what was wrong was and is really, really frustrating. 

In February of this year we were finally recommended to a fertility clinic in a nearby city, but we were told that getting the initial appointment could take anywhere from three months to three years. However, if we did get called and had the time, we wanted to try IVF because, again, the socialized system would pay for it. It was the only door that was cracking after lots of shoves on lots of doors that opened to parenthood.

Well guess what? We were not referred to the said clinic in February. It turns out that the doctor sat on it until I called in June to see what was up. That was not a good day. Anyway, the good thing is that the secretary felt sorry for us and put us on the top of the pile. We got into the clinic three weeks later, and before we knew it, I was on drugs. Lots of them.

This is about half of the drugs for our IVF cycle, all free of charge thanks to the National Health Service.

This is one daily dose toward the end of the cycle, minus one of the needles. Thankfully I was somewhat used to giving myself injections in my stomach (my first 10 months with diabetes I did it four times a day), but it has never felt natural or normal. Never.

Finally, after months of drugs and weekly doctors' appointments in Newcastle, we were ready for egg retrieval, which Allison and I jokingly called "The Reaping." Again, because of my diabetes, I was first in line that morning. My pump is sticking out of my hospital gown. I was so nervous, as I had never been in the hospital for anything before. Thanks to the Lord, my husband, and really lovely hospital staff, it wasn't so bad. The doctors retrieved five eggs.

Nathan was working on his PhD while I slept off the drugs (see the pile of stuff on the chair?). The first thing one does after waking up from a medical procedure in the UK is get some tea and toast. It tasted sooo good.

We went home that day and prayed and prayed and prayed. We got the call the next day that three of the eggs were mature, and only one fertilized. We were finally parents! We prayed and prayed and prayed some more that the cells would divide and that the baby would grow at a healthy rate, and we went back a few days later for what is called the embryo transfer. Again, thanks to the Lord, my husband, and really lovely hospital staff, the procedure was smooth. We got to see our little baby on a screen, nine cells big. Wow! I have only one regret about this whole thing, and it's that I did not get a picture of those nine cells.

Here's our first picture as a family of three!

After the transfer, we prayed and prayed and prayed even more that the little one would get snuggled in tight and that we might receive a positive pregnancy test two weeks later. Those two weeks of waiting were full of excitement and fear and hope and anxiety and - and - and lots of that kind of emotional roller-coaster. I had to go back up to the fertility clinic for the blood test on the morning of my first day of school. I had lots of new kids to meet and a very full day of work, which helped (a tiny bit) to take my mind off things.

I was told to call the clinic for my results between 4 and 5 p.m. I had a break at 4, but I had to be back to school by 4:30 to meet my tutor group until 5. That meant I had a 30-minute window to receive life-changing news, pull myself together, and get back to work. I wanted to be with Nathan for this, of course, so we decided to meet halfway between my school and his office on Prebends Bridge. It's pretty much one of the most beautiful places in Durham.

This page actually has loads of lovely pictures of Durham.

I called the clinic about seven times right at 4, and the number was busy. Nathan was a few minutes late. Finally I got through. The pregnancy test was negative. The nurse who told me was very kind, and I managed not to cry on the phone. Instead I cried watching Nathan cross the bridge coming toward me. Pupils from my school were rowing underneath the bridge. He hugged me. I told him the news. We walked a few minutes in silence to a bench behind some tress on the bank of the river, out of the sight of rowers. We cried together. And ten minutes later I went back to school.

Our friends and family near and far were wonderfully kind. Cullen wrote us a letter that I will keep in my Bible forever and always. Pamela bought me these gorgeous lillies. Amy came over to bake muffins. Robin invited me to the movies. Marije shed a few tears with me at church. Sam and Emily invited us over for dinner and to watch Despicable Me. We received lots of hugs and lovely texts.

We are still sad but trusting in Jesus. As I continue to process the loss of our first and perhaps only child, I am reminded of Peter's words in the Bible, "Lord, where else can we go?" Truly, there is nowhere else! God has been so good to Nathan and me. We must constantly give our plans over to Him and trust in His best for us, whether that includes kids or not. 

I don't really know what our next step will be. I don't know if/when we'll say, "That's enough," and grieve this whole dream and settle into being content and complete as a family of two. I honestly don't know if we'll have children in this life, but I know that there's one waiting for us in Heaven. I hope the kid has Nathan's nose.

Thanks for making it through this whole post. It was rather therapeutic to write. Did you know that October is National Pregnancy Loss month? Me neither until this year... I guess this is my way of "celebrating".