7.44am. I am lying in bed, wide awake, terrified to check the baby monitor that is still silent. Still quiet. Still not stirring. My heart is racing, my stomach churning. I am terrified. TERRIFIED. My mind is saying things to me that I know are probably not true but I can't completely ignore them. What if? Oh, what if? My mortal enemy.
Hugo wakes up between 5.30 and 7 o'clock. 7 at the very latest. That's a sleep in at our house. We usually hear him well before that. He's an early riser, as was Xav before him. They certainly didn't inherit this trait from their father or I. We love a good sleep in. So consistent is this early waking that we don't even set our alarms anymore, because we are always awake well before they go off at 7am.
Last night Hugo wasn't feeling the best. He's in good spirits but has a bit of a cough. Nothing major, just that runny nose, cough thing that little kids get fairly regularly. He had a slight temp, so I dosed him up on some Nurofen before bed.
He slept through, which in itself is not a rarity anymore. He often does. But his sleep was punctuated by bouts of coughing that had us in checking on him, making sure he was okay. It wasn't croup, his temp did not return, he was okay. I checked him enough times before midnight to make sure. I watched the flickering of his breathing & movement monitor on the tiny screen in our bedroom and knew he was okay.
I woke up at 7.20. 'Wow, a sleep in!' I thought as I snuggled into my doona, savouring the last few quiet moments before the shouts of 'Mama!' Dada!' echoed through the monitor. By 7.33, I had worried myself into a frenzy. The only reason he wasn't yet calling for us must be a bad one. The worst one. I just can't bring myself to get out of bed and check. Not him. I pray. Not him too. I'm already convinced something terrible has happened.
I concentrate on my breathing. In with the white light, out with the blackness. Right now, everything is fine. Right now there is nothing to indicate things aren't fine. In. Out. White. Black.
I summon my courage and bad down the hall, though the lounge and stand at his door. Xav is still sleeping, I can hear his soft snore through his open door. I listen through the door of Hugo's room, hoping, praying that I'll hear his little piping voice.
I take a deep breath. I turn the hand. I enter the darkness of his room. The white noise still plays rain and wind. I stand in the doorway, panicking.
The blue light of the breathing monitor still pulses, and he is lying facing away from me, those red curls a mass of sleepy knots. He smells of all things Hugo, that baby smell is tinged with dirt and farts nowadays. But it is oh so dear to me.
My heart races and I take the few steps towards his cot, and lean over the put my hand gently on his back to check if he's breathing.
He rolls over and those big grey eyes smile up at me. "Hi!" he giggles and I scoop him up into my arms and cuddle his dear little face to mine. My heart calms. My breathing calms. My rational thoughts return. My baby is fine, if a little snuffly. He's fine.
He puts his hand up to my face, snuggling in. "Mama loves you," I whisper to him.
"Doodle," he replies, giggling.
"Mmmmm, I'm so glad you learnt that word, you clever thing."
Back to reality. Anxiety conquered again. For now.
Saturday, 28 April 2018
Wednesday, 8 March 2017
The Beast
If I'm running you know that there must be something pretty bad chasing me, because I don't run for no one. But the beast that is chasing me has the scent of blood and I'm having trouble keeping out of the way of those terrible teeth and claws that, should they dig in, are mightly hard to shake.
My beast doesn't hide under beds or in dark closets, nor in deep holes in the ground or abandoned warehouses. My beast is a hidden monster that is unpredictable, well hidden and often well disguised. My beast prays on all sorts of people; young and old, strong willed or not, intelligent or less so, regardless of gender, regardless of ethnicity, regardless of sexual orientation. It can creep up on the fun loving 20 something as easily as the career minded 40 something.
You could call my beast the great equaliser.
In the interest of good sense I named my beast Bessie, in an attempt to perhaps trivialise her a bit. It sounds nicer than what it's actually called, but for the sake of you all, I'll just call Bessie Beast what it is. It is the crippling disease called depression. The horrid illness called Anxiety. Two sides of the same coin, inextricably linked.
Bessie and I have been battling for a long time. She has almost conquered me more than once, but I've always managed to claw my way back. I thought I'd finally let her go, wishing her all best with a 'F*ck off, Bessie' and an all too dramatic door slamming.
But here I am, waiting and watching, feeling that familiar ache in the pit of my stomach and I know Bessie is lurking. I thought, given I had achieved my dream of adding another baby to our family, that I might have shielded myself from any further toggles with the Beast.
All this is a rather long winded way of saying I'm struggling a bit right now. Hugo is here, and somehow he's suddenly 8 months old and too adorable for his own good. He also has me rather merrily wrapped around his little finger.
I realised things were bad when I was howling and sobbing whilst trying to get Hugo to go to sleep one night not long ago. I have become an anxious wreck about his sleep and it is making me crazy (er). I can have all the best intentions about keeping calm, but after 40 mins of him crying, I'm usually bawling right along side him.
Depression and Anxiety are so insidious. You can't see them from the outside, you can't examine them. My practical mind likes to find solutions, but when one can't see the equation it's really hard to do. Years of battling with Bessie have honed my skills somewhat. I know some of my triggers and I do my best to counter them.
When two of your main triggers are sleeplessness and lack of control over outcomes, and you have a small baby, there's not much you can do in terms of avoidance.
My mood goes in ebbs and flows; deliriously happy hanging out with this gorgeous little human and his equally gorgeous slightly larger brother that we have made, and then horrified that I can't even get him to sleep properly. Then I get to have a chat with Madam Anxiety, let's call her Annie, just because I like alliteration:
Me: "Just go to sleep, Hugo"
Annie: "What if he's sick/hot/needs a new nappy/hungry? You can't just leave him like that!"
Me: "He has no temp, was fine before sleep, isn't too hot, has a new nappy and isn't due for a feed. He's fine...I think...maybe he is sick and I just don't know?"
Annie: "I'm sure he's sick. Probably has a sore throat/ear/tummy...you should get him up."
Me: "But he's sleepy and needs a sleep. I know that's what he needs. Unless he is sick, and I put him to sleep and he gets worse and something awful happens..."
Annie: "Something awful might happen...you're not immune just because it's happened to you before. Awful things can happen."
Me: *Picks Up Baby* or *Baby sleeps and I check on him 40 gazillion times despite the breathing alarm and the baby monitor*
Then I feel absolutely shitty that I can't even handle this one, relatively small part of parenting. I know in my head that it's no big deal, that he'll work it out, but in my heart I feel like a failure and then that leads to depression creeping up behind me and clawing up my only sports bra.
I want to feel better, and I know I can head in the right direction. Facing up to the fact I feel anxious and depressed is a good start, I know. Having a village of other supportive mums and another step in the right direction, and having an awesome partner and kids can only help too.
I know I'm lucky. I know I could very easily have not had any kids, let alone these two beautiful boys. When Annie tells me that I don't deserve them, that I've battled with Infertility and Child Loss because I wasn't meant to be a mum, I try hard to thank God that I had people who told me I was Brave enough, Strong enough, just Enough to keep going. When Bessie reminds me that I feel fat and ugly and worthless, I am lucky I have a family who think I'm beautiful even though I'm wobbly.
It's possible that Bessie and Annie will stick around. It's possible that one day Bessie or Annie might visit you. Please know, I will come riding in to battle with you. I'll jump on my glittery, jazzed up charger and strap on my lance and help you fight that Beasts who haunt you. Because I believe in you, too. You are strong and brave too. You are enough. I'll totes vouch for you.
I can and will beat my Beast again. Because I am worthy, and I know this demon. I can keep it at bay again. Maybe I'll offer Bessie and Annie a cuppa? Maybe they're just scared too. I know I am. Being a parent is scary, and hard work sometimes. But I know it's worth it. I know that my village can help me raise great kids.
But for now, I'll keep running.
Feel free to wave as I speed past.
And to give Bessie a kick up the wazoo.
My beast doesn't hide under beds or in dark closets, nor in deep holes in the ground or abandoned warehouses. My beast is a hidden monster that is unpredictable, well hidden and often well disguised. My beast prays on all sorts of people; young and old, strong willed or not, intelligent or less so, regardless of gender, regardless of ethnicity, regardless of sexual orientation. It can creep up on the fun loving 20 something as easily as the career minded 40 something.
You could call my beast the great equaliser.
In the interest of good sense I named my beast Bessie, in an attempt to perhaps trivialise her a bit. It sounds nicer than what it's actually called, but for the sake of you all, I'll just call Bessie Beast what it is. It is the crippling disease called depression. The horrid illness called Anxiety. Two sides of the same coin, inextricably linked.
Bessie and I have been battling for a long time. She has almost conquered me more than once, but I've always managed to claw my way back. I thought I'd finally let her go, wishing her all best with a 'F*ck off, Bessie' and an all too dramatic door slamming.
But here I am, waiting and watching, feeling that familiar ache in the pit of my stomach and I know Bessie is lurking. I thought, given I had achieved my dream of adding another baby to our family, that I might have shielded myself from any further toggles with the Beast.
All this is a rather long winded way of saying I'm struggling a bit right now. Hugo is here, and somehow he's suddenly 8 months old and too adorable for his own good. He also has me rather merrily wrapped around his little finger.
I realised things were bad when I was howling and sobbing whilst trying to get Hugo to go to sleep one night not long ago. I have become an anxious wreck about his sleep and it is making me crazy (er). I can have all the best intentions about keeping calm, but after 40 mins of him crying, I'm usually bawling right along side him.
Depression and Anxiety are so insidious. You can't see them from the outside, you can't examine them. My practical mind likes to find solutions, but when one can't see the equation it's really hard to do. Years of battling with Bessie have honed my skills somewhat. I know some of my triggers and I do my best to counter them.
When two of your main triggers are sleeplessness and lack of control over outcomes, and you have a small baby, there's not much you can do in terms of avoidance.
My mood goes in ebbs and flows; deliriously happy hanging out with this gorgeous little human and his equally gorgeous slightly larger brother that we have made, and then horrified that I can't even get him to sleep properly. Then I get to have a chat with Madam Anxiety, let's call her Annie, just because I like alliteration:
Me: "Just go to sleep, Hugo"
Annie: "What if he's sick/hot/needs a new nappy/hungry? You can't just leave him like that!"
Me: "He has no temp, was fine before sleep, isn't too hot, has a new nappy and isn't due for a feed. He's fine...I think...maybe he is sick and I just don't know?"
Annie: "I'm sure he's sick. Probably has a sore throat/ear/tummy...you should get him up."
Me: "But he's sleepy and needs a sleep. I know that's what he needs. Unless he is sick, and I put him to sleep and he gets worse and something awful happens..."
Annie: "Something awful might happen...you're not immune just because it's happened to you before. Awful things can happen."
Me: *Picks Up Baby* or *Baby sleeps and I check on him 40 gazillion times despite the breathing alarm and the baby monitor*
Then I feel absolutely shitty that I can't even handle this one, relatively small part of parenting. I know in my head that it's no big deal, that he'll work it out, but in my heart I feel like a failure and then that leads to depression creeping up behind me and clawing up my only sports bra.
I want to feel better, and I know I can head in the right direction. Facing up to the fact I feel anxious and depressed is a good start, I know. Having a village of other supportive mums and another step in the right direction, and having an awesome partner and kids can only help too.
I know I'm lucky. I know I could very easily have not had any kids, let alone these two beautiful boys. When Annie tells me that I don't deserve them, that I've battled with Infertility and Child Loss because I wasn't meant to be a mum, I try hard to thank God that I had people who told me I was Brave enough, Strong enough, just Enough to keep going. When Bessie reminds me that I feel fat and ugly and worthless, I am lucky I have a family who think I'm beautiful even though I'm wobbly.
It's possible that Bessie and Annie will stick around. It's possible that one day Bessie or Annie might visit you. Please know, I will come riding in to battle with you. I'll jump on my glittery, jazzed up charger and strap on my lance and help you fight that Beasts who haunt you. Because I believe in you, too. You are strong and brave too. You are enough. I'll totes vouch for you.
I can and will beat my Beast again. Because I am worthy, and I know this demon. I can keep it at bay again. Maybe I'll offer Bessie and Annie a cuppa? Maybe they're just scared too. I know I am. Being a parent is scary, and hard work sometimes. But I know it's worth it. I know that my village can help me raise great kids.
But for now, I'll keep running.
Feel free to wave as I speed past.
And to give Bessie a kick up the wazoo.
Saturday, 23 July 2016
Well that didn't quite go to plan...
*Large exhale*
Well.
Baby Armistead is here and he's safe. Master Hugo Sebastian Henry arrived at 12.27pm on 7/7/16 via caesarian section. None of that was particularly remarkable, except for the fact he was scheduled to arrive on the 25th...
As you've probably already guessed, things went a bit awry in the last weeks of my pregnancy. Baby was doing quite well, his heart rate remained stable, and the thickening of the ventricles was within normal range for the most part. We had sighed a huge sigh of relief and I had settled into enjoying the last 4 weeks or so of my pregnancy.
At 34 weeks I noticed that I grew really big, really quickly. At our scan, Dr Andrew agreed that baby was very big, but as I was having a caesar anyway, no one was super worried. Xav was a whopping 10 pound 1 oz, and Poppy was a good size for her gestation, so we all just assumed I grow big babies. No biggy (no pun intended).
By 35 weeks, I was UN-COM- FORT-ABLE to the max. I felt full term pregnant. But again, whatevs. I could put up with it for another 3 1/2 weeks. Anything to get him here safely. My blood pressure was good, Braxton Hicks were ramping up and there was no sleep to be had for more than an hour or so at a time, but I was up for the challenge.
35+5 weeks, we all went for our 'last' official scan with Dr Andrew. All looked good, but the small amount of fluid around baby's heart had returned. The measuring began. The one thing you don't want to hear from a medical professional: "That can't be right! Wow... What are your dates again?"
Baby Armistead was in fact measuring full term. At a few days shy of 36 weeks. Well, he is a super baby after all.
Off we trot to our Obstetric appointment with Dr Lisa, and I think I start to panic. I knew they wouldn't leave him much longer at the size they were estimating, but even I wasn't expecting to hear the words, "We're done. Let's get him out on Thursday."
As in, in 2 days time, Thursday.
Oh, boy.
Here we go.
Glen goes into an immediate panic, and needed to be talked down a bit. He's generally very easy going, but the imminent arrival of our third child, over three weeks before he was expected to arrive, sent him into a bit of a spin. Dr Lisa explains that very big babies are just as vulnerable as very small babies. Placentas don't cope, babies get distressed. "We've worked so hard to get this far, let's not risk it."
I whole heartedly agreed; though I was possibly persuaded somewhat by how uncomfortable I was, too. The risks to baby were not considered super high. A possibility of 'wet lungs', or fluid on the lungs which usually rectifies itself quite quickly. A chance of respiratory distress. Jaundice. Trouble sucking to begin with. Maybe difficulties regulating his sugars and his temperature. All very manageable, but likely a Special Care Nursery stay would be necessary for a few days.
So off we went for Steroid shot 1 of 2 to help prepare baby's lungs for his early arrival. And thus began 48 hours of 'Oh, shit, have we got everything we need for the baby?' If Baby Bunting had a spike in sales on the 6th of July...that may have been me.
I didn't think I'd sleep the night before the caesar but, well, pregnancy. I was tired, okay?
Somehow I managed to keep dark thoughts at bay for most of the early morning. We will bring him home, we will bring him home, we will bring him home. I just kept running that mantra through my mind, whispering it to myself constantly. By the time we got to the hospital, after dropping Xav off to my sister, the wait was getting unbearable. Luckily baby decided to be quite active which helped enormously.
Pre op consultation, done.
Anesthetic consult, done.
Meet the Paediatrician, done.
Walk to theatre, done.
Cannula in, spinal in, traditional blood pressure drop and slight vom, done.
Then Glen was there, holding my hand and we get ready to meet our boy.
'Just please cry, baby.'
Our wonderful OB announces he's about to be born. 'Oh my goodness, look at that hair!' she exclaimed and minutes later our sweet boy cried his little lungs out.
The words escaped me before I even thought about it: "He's not dead. He's not dead." before I sobbed my eyes out because he was here and he was alive and he was safe. Glen disappeared to cut the cord and talk with the Paediatrician and discover our boy had a full head of bright red hair, before our little man came over for a cuddle with me. We noticed right away he was finding it a bit hard to breathe, so before long he and Glen were whisked away to the Special Care Nursery.
I felt like I was in Recovery for hours and I just wanted to see my baby. We hadn't settled on a name, we had decided to wait until he was born before deciding, but we hadn't even had time to talk about it before they left. So I pondered to pass the time. Sebastian had been the early favourite, but Eli was a late runner which I loved too. But neither seemed quite right. He was such a big boof of a boy, he needed a strong name. If only I would see him so I could decide!
Finally, Glen reappeared and came with us as we went up to the ward. "He was a whopper! 3875g! 8pound 8oz!" Holy Moly, imagine if he'd been in for another 3 weeks! Xavier arrived and was typically brilliant and loving and totally gorgeous and cried tears of joy with us that he had a little brother. Glen took him to meet baby in Special Care and when they returned Glen said 'I think he looks like a Hugo?'. THis was a massive surprise to me, as I fricken loved the name early on, and despite by very advanced persuasion methods, I couldn't talk Glen into liking it. So, after waiting for 9 months to see him and decide, we agreed on Hugo Sebastian Henry Armistead basically without me seeing my beautiful boy.
When the night nurse arrived on shift, she found me in a bit of a state because I STILL hadn't seen my baby and I was feeling a bit deja vu-y. I'd had a baby but the baby wasn't with me. She very kndly went above and beyond to arrange to have my hospital bed wheeled into the very tiny Special Care space.
And there he was. Tiny despite being big. Peaceful despite his panicked arrival. And well, despite being early.
I held his tiny hand in mine and fell in love with him.
My Hugo.
My rainbow.
My heart.
And now after a roller coaster of a ride, our little Hugo is finally home with us. For 13 days we learned to manage having a baby in Special Care, but each little hurdle, he conquered. He got the full assortment of conditions that he could have at 36 weeks, but his lungs got better, his sugars stabilized, the jaundice improved, and eventually he worked out how to feed. Finally we could take our healthy little baby home.
And now we are 5. Bec, Glen, Xavier, Poppy and Hugo Armistead.
And I would do it all again.
In a heartbeat.
Well.
Baby Armistead is here and he's safe. Master Hugo Sebastian Henry arrived at 12.27pm on 7/7/16 via caesarian section. None of that was particularly remarkable, except for the fact he was scheduled to arrive on the 25th...
As you've probably already guessed, things went a bit awry in the last weeks of my pregnancy. Baby was doing quite well, his heart rate remained stable, and the thickening of the ventricles was within normal range for the most part. We had sighed a huge sigh of relief and I had settled into enjoying the last 4 weeks or so of my pregnancy.
At 34 weeks I noticed that I grew really big, really quickly. At our scan, Dr Andrew agreed that baby was very big, but as I was having a caesar anyway, no one was super worried. Xav was a whopping 10 pound 1 oz, and Poppy was a good size for her gestation, so we all just assumed I grow big babies. No biggy (no pun intended).
By 35 weeks, I was UN-COM- FORT-ABLE to the max. I felt full term pregnant. But again, whatevs. I could put up with it for another 3 1/2 weeks. Anything to get him here safely. My blood pressure was good, Braxton Hicks were ramping up and there was no sleep to be had for more than an hour or so at a time, but I was up for the challenge.
35+5 weeks, we all went for our 'last' official scan with Dr Andrew. All looked good, but the small amount of fluid around baby's heart had returned. The measuring began. The one thing you don't want to hear from a medical professional: "That can't be right! Wow... What are your dates again?"
Baby Armistead was in fact measuring full term. At a few days shy of 36 weeks. Well, he is a super baby after all.
Off we trot to our Obstetric appointment with Dr Lisa, and I think I start to panic. I knew they wouldn't leave him much longer at the size they were estimating, but even I wasn't expecting to hear the words, "We're done. Let's get him out on Thursday."
As in, in 2 days time, Thursday.
Oh, boy.
Here we go.
Glen goes into an immediate panic, and needed to be talked down a bit. He's generally very easy going, but the imminent arrival of our third child, over three weeks before he was expected to arrive, sent him into a bit of a spin. Dr Lisa explains that very big babies are just as vulnerable as very small babies. Placentas don't cope, babies get distressed. "We've worked so hard to get this far, let's not risk it."
I whole heartedly agreed; though I was possibly persuaded somewhat by how uncomfortable I was, too. The risks to baby were not considered super high. A possibility of 'wet lungs', or fluid on the lungs which usually rectifies itself quite quickly. A chance of respiratory distress. Jaundice. Trouble sucking to begin with. Maybe difficulties regulating his sugars and his temperature. All very manageable, but likely a Special Care Nursery stay would be necessary for a few days.
So off we went for Steroid shot 1 of 2 to help prepare baby's lungs for his early arrival. And thus began 48 hours of 'Oh, shit, have we got everything we need for the baby?' If Baby Bunting had a spike in sales on the 6th of July...that may have been me.
I didn't think I'd sleep the night before the caesar but, well, pregnancy. I was tired, okay?
Somehow I managed to keep dark thoughts at bay for most of the early morning. We will bring him home, we will bring him home, we will bring him home. I just kept running that mantra through my mind, whispering it to myself constantly. By the time we got to the hospital, after dropping Xav off to my sister, the wait was getting unbearable. Luckily baby decided to be quite active which helped enormously.
Pre op consultation, done.
Anesthetic consult, done.
Meet the Paediatrician, done.
Walk to theatre, done.
Cannula in, spinal in, traditional blood pressure drop and slight vom, done.
Then Glen was there, holding my hand and we get ready to meet our boy.
'Just please cry, baby.'
Our wonderful OB announces he's about to be born. 'Oh my goodness, look at that hair!' she exclaimed and minutes later our sweet boy cried his little lungs out.
The words escaped me before I even thought about it: "He's not dead. He's not dead." before I sobbed my eyes out because he was here and he was alive and he was safe. Glen disappeared to cut the cord and talk with the Paediatrician and discover our boy had a full head of bright red hair, before our little man came over for a cuddle with me. We noticed right away he was finding it a bit hard to breathe, so before long he and Glen were whisked away to the Special Care Nursery.
I felt like I was in Recovery for hours and I just wanted to see my baby. We hadn't settled on a name, we had decided to wait until he was born before deciding, but we hadn't even had time to talk about it before they left. So I pondered to pass the time. Sebastian had been the early favourite, but Eli was a late runner which I loved too. But neither seemed quite right. He was such a big boof of a boy, he needed a strong name. If only I would see him so I could decide!
Finally, Glen reappeared and came with us as we went up to the ward. "He was a whopper! 3875g! 8pound 8oz!" Holy Moly, imagine if he'd been in for another 3 weeks! Xavier arrived and was typically brilliant and loving and totally gorgeous and cried tears of joy with us that he had a little brother. Glen took him to meet baby in Special Care and when they returned Glen said 'I think he looks like a Hugo?'. THis was a massive surprise to me, as I fricken loved the name early on, and despite by very advanced persuasion methods, I couldn't talk Glen into liking it. So, after waiting for 9 months to see him and decide, we agreed on Hugo Sebastian Henry Armistead basically without me seeing my beautiful boy.
When the night nurse arrived on shift, she found me in a bit of a state because I STILL hadn't seen my baby and I was feeling a bit deja vu-y. I'd had a baby but the baby wasn't with me. She very kndly went above and beyond to arrange to have my hospital bed wheeled into the very tiny Special Care space.
And there he was. Tiny despite being big. Peaceful despite his panicked arrival. And well, despite being early.
I held his tiny hand in mine and fell in love with him.
My Hugo.
My rainbow.
My heart.
And now after a roller coaster of a ride, our little Hugo is finally home with us. For 13 days we learned to manage having a baby in Special Care, but each little hurdle, he conquered. He got the full assortment of conditions that he could have at 36 weeks, but his lungs got better, his sugars stabilized, the jaundice improved, and eventually he worked out how to feed. Finally we could take our healthy little baby home.
And now we are 5. Bec, Glen, Xavier, Poppy and Hugo Armistead.
And I would do it all again.
In a heartbeat.
Tuesday, 31 May 2016
Pause and Breathe
30 weeks pregnant. For months and months I've waited to be able to reach the point in this pregnancy when bubs could be delivered if something were to go wrong. Now I'm here, and I have to say 'Thank God for that," 'cause, I tell you now it's been a hard slog over the past few months.
Last time I posted, I may or may not have mentioned I was scared. Well, F###ing terrified might have been closer to the mark. If I thought I was a bit on the nervous side at that point, it was nothing compared to the blind terror we were confronted with at our 22 week cardiac checkup.
We waltzed into the ultrasound clinic in a fairly blaze manner. We'd been here just a few weeks previous and baby boy 2.0 was looking good. Heart Healthy, normal rhythm. Cautiously optimistic, one might say. Our obstetrician had recommended we get a full fetal cardiac check at 22 weeks, just to be on the safe side, and low and behold if the cardiologist wasn't the same fella who had diagnosed Poppy, and tried so hard to save her life when she was born. We have faith in Dr Lance; he went above and beyond to help us understand what had happened to cause her death, when we were standing there with an autopsy report and an obstetric care provider who has basically handed it to us and said 'Don't come back.'
Dr Andrew, our ultrasound dude, and Dr Lance began our scan in the most usual of ways; chatting, explaining our history, etc. Glen and I were a bit surprised that Dr Lance remembered us and Poppy, and even some of the details of her diagnosis. Then things got quiet...like whispered quiet. Glen and I held on to each other for dear life. 'We'll be okay," I reassured, "no matter what." We knew the whispering was a bad sign.
I peered at the screen, well I tried to, given my already humongous boobs have decided to like double in size. I examined the little heart on the screen to try to understand what they might be discussing. This little heart which is the size of a jellybean. This little heart that has my heart already. It looked like the usual grey 4 chambered blur that it should, just a bit brighter than normal. After a little bit more whispering, Dr Lance steps out to wait for us in an office to have a chat. Dr Andrew, more subdued now, continues to check the rest of our little guy over. Growing well, placenta good, everything properly formed. "Just a little something odd about the heart..." he mentions, "Dr Lance is in the back office up the hall."
It's fair to say at this point we were ready for the worst. Walking along that corridor, I'm surprised there wasn't some sort of Doomsday March playing. Dr Lance is a super serious bloke, so we weren't surprised when he seemed, well, serious. He explained that the glowy part of the heart that we'd seen was cause for concern, given our history. Everything else looked ok, but the left ventricle (the bottom left chamber of the heart for those playing at home) was 'echogenic' and this could indicate that the muscle was thickening. It could be the first sign of one of the conditions Poppy had. The worst condition that Poppy had. The incredibly rare-never seen anymore-almost universally fatal condition that Poppy had.
Either that or it's nothing serious.
Talk about extremes! On one hand, a potentially fatal disaster befalling our precious cargo. On the other; nothing much to worry about.
What. The. Hell?
Where was our lovely, normal pregnancy that everyone kept saying we deserved? The peaceful healing time where we enjoy the fruits of our toil? Fricken gone down the proverbial toilet, is where. Zipped off the Timbuktu with a Jolly Jumbuck and Elmer the Elephant.
So began our new regime. Weekly Scans to check our boy's heart rate stayed stable and he didn't develop the other condition Poppy had. Fortnightly visits to the Obstetrician. 4 weekly checks with Dr Lance. Second opinions with other fetal cardiologists. Checks of our hearts and Xav's, to see if it's possibly genetic. Cardiac Geneticist visits. Telling our story over and over and over, and dealing with the shocked silences and the 'I'm so sorry' again and again.
But like everything else, this became our new normal. Everything was put on hold while we tried to deal with...whatever it was. Tried to deal with trying to predict the future with a couple of clues and a magnifying glass. Totally Nancy Drew. At 26 weeks, baby was slightly worse, maybe. At 27 weeks, our second opinion said things looked pretty okay. At 29 weeks, the time when we found out Poppy was really sick, Dr Andrew was optimistic. All our checks came back normal.
Glen and I approached our third cardiac scan with a mix of apprehension and hope. Things have been looking okay. Baby boy 2.0 is still stable and growing well. Now we're 31 weeks, if he is not looking okay he will be delivered. Week by week, day by day, we wait for some sign of anything changing.
Of course, today is that day everyone is running late and we're running early (NEVER happens...) and we have to wait for like 50 minutes for our scan. I begin calm. As time goes on, I begin to freak myself out, and I get more and more wound up. Finally we're called and in we go. The friendly Doctors arrive and things begin. There is no whispering this time. Exclamations of amazement, shocked approval. Dr Lance steps out and the rest of the checks are done, and baby is still growing well (maybe a little too many cookies on my behalf, he's a week ahead of schedule), placenta is good, fluid is good. "See you in a few weeks," Dr Andrew reassures.
Glen and I float along the hallway, hoping that we understood what just happened. Dr Lance greets us with a smile. If you had met Dr Lance, you'd understand how weird this is. "I can't explain it," he says, "but your baby's heart looks fairly normal now." He pauses to let this sink in and explains a few more technical things I won't bore you with. We discuss delivery, and checks after birth. We make arrangements to see him with baby after he's born.
Slowly, as we pay our million bucks to our friendly doctors, the news settles into my heart. He might be okay. Our boy might be able to be in the room with us after he's born instead of being whisked off to NICU. He might be well enough to play sport like most kids. He might be born alive.
So there's our roller coaster ride. 10 weeks of crazy. We're not quite off the hook. There's still a chance things might go pear shaped, and thankfully no one is taking their eyes off baby. We ask for your continued good thoughts and prayers because our little miracle baby is even more of a miracle now. All I'm saying is that if he's born with a cape on, or has issues with Kryptonite, I predicted it. Super Boy 2.0.
Now the count down to his arrive is a little more sure, a little more accurate. Hopefully somewhere around 6-7 weeks to go.
But for now, I plan to sit down, relax and enjoy the ride.
A carousel, not a roller coaster.
Last time I posted, I may or may not have mentioned I was scared. Well, F###ing terrified might have been closer to the mark. If I thought I was a bit on the nervous side at that point, it was nothing compared to the blind terror we were confronted with at our 22 week cardiac checkup.
We waltzed into the ultrasound clinic in a fairly blaze manner. We'd been here just a few weeks previous and baby boy 2.0 was looking good. Heart Healthy, normal rhythm. Cautiously optimistic, one might say. Our obstetrician had recommended we get a full fetal cardiac check at 22 weeks, just to be on the safe side, and low and behold if the cardiologist wasn't the same fella who had diagnosed Poppy, and tried so hard to save her life when she was born. We have faith in Dr Lance; he went above and beyond to help us understand what had happened to cause her death, when we were standing there with an autopsy report and an obstetric care provider who has basically handed it to us and said 'Don't come back.'
Dr Andrew, our ultrasound dude, and Dr Lance began our scan in the most usual of ways; chatting, explaining our history, etc. Glen and I were a bit surprised that Dr Lance remembered us and Poppy, and even some of the details of her diagnosis. Then things got quiet...like whispered quiet. Glen and I held on to each other for dear life. 'We'll be okay," I reassured, "no matter what." We knew the whispering was a bad sign.
I peered at the screen, well I tried to, given my already humongous boobs have decided to like double in size. I examined the little heart on the screen to try to understand what they might be discussing. This little heart which is the size of a jellybean. This little heart that has my heart already. It looked like the usual grey 4 chambered blur that it should, just a bit brighter than normal. After a little bit more whispering, Dr Lance steps out to wait for us in an office to have a chat. Dr Andrew, more subdued now, continues to check the rest of our little guy over. Growing well, placenta good, everything properly formed. "Just a little something odd about the heart..." he mentions, "Dr Lance is in the back office up the hall."
It's fair to say at this point we were ready for the worst. Walking along that corridor, I'm surprised there wasn't some sort of Doomsday March playing. Dr Lance is a super serious bloke, so we weren't surprised when he seemed, well, serious. He explained that the glowy part of the heart that we'd seen was cause for concern, given our history. Everything else looked ok, but the left ventricle (the bottom left chamber of the heart for those playing at home) was 'echogenic' and this could indicate that the muscle was thickening. It could be the first sign of one of the conditions Poppy had. The worst condition that Poppy had. The incredibly rare-never seen anymore-almost universally fatal condition that Poppy had.
Either that or it's nothing serious.
Talk about extremes! On one hand, a potentially fatal disaster befalling our precious cargo. On the other; nothing much to worry about.
What. The. Hell?
Where was our lovely, normal pregnancy that everyone kept saying we deserved? The peaceful healing time where we enjoy the fruits of our toil? Fricken gone down the proverbial toilet, is where. Zipped off the Timbuktu with a Jolly Jumbuck and Elmer the Elephant.
So began our new regime. Weekly Scans to check our boy's heart rate stayed stable and he didn't develop the other condition Poppy had. Fortnightly visits to the Obstetrician. 4 weekly checks with Dr Lance. Second opinions with other fetal cardiologists. Checks of our hearts and Xav's, to see if it's possibly genetic. Cardiac Geneticist visits. Telling our story over and over and over, and dealing with the shocked silences and the 'I'm so sorry' again and again.
But like everything else, this became our new normal. Everything was put on hold while we tried to deal with...whatever it was. Tried to deal with trying to predict the future with a couple of clues and a magnifying glass. Totally Nancy Drew. At 26 weeks, baby was slightly worse, maybe. At 27 weeks, our second opinion said things looked pretty okay. At 29 weeks, the time when we found out Poppy was really sick, Dr Andrew was optimistic. All our checks came back normal.
Glen and I approached our third cardiac scan with a mix of apprehension and hope. Things have been looking okay. Baby boy 2.0 is still stable and growing well. Now we're 31 weeks, if he is not looking okay he will be delivered. Week by week, day by day, we wait for some sign of anything changing.
Of course, today is that day everyone is running late and we're running early (NEVER happens...) and we have to wait for like 50 minutes for our scan. I begin calm. As time goes on, I begin to freak myself out, and I get more and more wound up. Finally we're called and in we go. The friendly Doctors arrive and things begin. There is no whispering this time. Exclamations of amazement, shocked approval. Dr Lance steps out and the rest of the checks are done, and baby is still growing well (maybe a little too many cookies on my behalf, he's a week ahead of schedule), placenta is good, fluid is good. "See you in a few weeks," Dr Andrew reassures.
Glen and I float along the hallway, hoping that we understood what just happened. Dr Lance greets us with a smile. If you had met Dr Lance, you'd understand how weird this is. "I can't explain it," he says, "but your baby's heart looks fairly normal now." He pauses to let this sink in and explains a few more technical things I won't bore you with. We discuss delivery, and checks after birth. We make arrangements to see him with baby after he's born.
Slowly, as we pay our million bucks to our friendly doctors, the news settles into my heart. He might be okay. Our boy might be able to be in the room with us after he's born instead of being whisked off to NICU. He might be well enough to play sport like most kids. He might be born alive.
So there's our roller coaster ride. 10 weeks of crazy. We're not quite off the hook. There's still a chance things might go pear shaped, and thankfully no one is taking their eyes off baby. We ask for your continued good thoughts and prayers because our little miracle baby is even more of a miracle now. All I'm saying is that if he's born with a cape on, or has issues with Kryptonite, I predicted it. Super Boy 2.0.
Now the count down to his arrive is a little more sure, a little more accurate. Hopefully somewhere around 6-7 weeks to go.
But for now, I plan to sit down, relax and enjoy the ride.
A carousel, not a roller coaster.
Saturday, 20 February 2016
Ticking Time Bomb
Firstly, let me firmly anchor this post within the "I-am-so-happy-I-am-pregnant-I-didn't-think-I-would-get-this-chance-again-and-I-am-so-grateful" realm. And I am really, really thankful that we have a chance to bring another baby into the world, for the chance to be a mummy to another little one and for the opportunity to give Xav a brother and Glen another son. I have honestly gotten to the end of my rope in terms of persistence and then, well, here we are.
But pregnancy after loss is certainly not the joyously blissful journey I had hoped. There is joy, yes, and there is bliss. But most of all there is fear. Crippling fear. Anxiety like I've not known on a level that I wasn't expecting.
Before this bubba, I had a pretty good handle on my anxiety. I had learnt to read it, to use positive talk to find a way out. It took years of grappling with it, of learning from it, of being supported through it to find a path I could walk. It was uncomfortable, confronting and often painful and scary. But I found, generally, a way to cope. I felt like some sort of super hero; Captain Anxiety, ready to take flight (carefully) and save the day (from my own brain). Bright cape flapping in the wind (Maybe no cape, I HAVE seen the Incredibles and apparently they're a bad idea...) But you get the general idea.
Then those two pink lines came along. For a whole week I was so sickeningly positive that I almost made myself sick. Then I had a bleed and I figured it was all over. When just minutes before I'd seen my baby for the first time and heard his heartbeat. But somehow, he stuck in there and kept growing. But ever since then, I feel like we're on borrowed time. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it's, quite frankly, frightening.
I know that this anxiety is not limited to me. When I was pregnant with Xav, and even with Poppy (who came along after 4 m/c herself), I was worried. All pregnant ladies worry, because we don't know what will happen, we don't know what's happening in that cushy uterus holding our precious cargo. But this time, I know the worst that could happened. I know that there is always a chance things might not go to plan.
I know in my head that mostly babies arrive healthy and happy and roughly on time. I know that generally pregnancies are smooth. But I also know the flip side, and my heart is having a hard time forgetting that side.
Most days I feel super positive. Last weekend I got out all the baby things and spend hours going through them, reminiscing about when Xav wore this, or one of my sisters boy wore that. I even bought baby a new outfit or two. But I can't bring myself to take the tags off, just in case I need to return them. "Maybe later, when it's safe," I tell myself. "Maybe after 20 weeks, or 28 weeks, or 30 weeks..." Truthfully, I'm not sure this pregnancy will ever feel safe.
I am brave. I have learnt this about myself. I am not saying this in a Xena Warrior Princess sort of way. I am not going to battle Vikings or whatever she does. But I can cope. I can get through the worst of things and somehow still stand at the other end. That strength is hard won, and not to be trifled with. But somehow it is not quite enough. I'm scared that I will not bring home this baby. I am scared that something I do will cause him harm. I am scared I'll make a wrong choice and he'll pay the price.
Most days I can say, 'We're okay. Right now, we're okay." We've make it through 16 and a half weeks longer than I thought we would. But the remaining 21 and a half weeks feels like a really long time. It feels like holding a time bomb that is programmed for mid July but might be a bit faulty. And I'm not expert, but faulty time bombs seems like a big problem.
All I can do, and all I can ask for, is hope. I can hope that despite the past, despite my worry, baby will get here safe and sound. And I can ask for your hope too, if you have any to spare. Your hope and support and love has got me through the past 4 years, and I know I have no right to ask it of you again. But, like, please, y'know? Pretty please? I'll pay ya back.
I really am a joyously, blissful, HOPEFUL pregnant mother.
Most days...
But pregnancy after loss is certainly not the joyously blissful journey I had hoped. There is joy, yes, and there is bliss. But most of all there is fear. Crippling fear. Anxiety like I've not known on a level that I wasn't expecting.
Before this bubba, I had a pretty good handle on my anxiety. I had learnt to read it, to use positive talk to find a way out. It took years of grappling with it, of learning from it, of being supported through it to find a path I could walk. It was uncomfortable, confronting and often painful and scary. But I found, generally, a way to cope. I felt like some sort of super hero; Captain Anxiety, ready to take flight (carefully) and save the day (from my own brain). Bright cape flapping in the wind (Maybe no cape, I HAVE seen the Incredibles and apparently they're a bad idea...) But you get the general idea.
Then those two pink lines came along. For a whole week I was so sickeningly positive that I almost made myself sick. Then I had a bleed and I figured it was all over. When just minutes before I'd seen my baby for the first time and heard his heartbeat. But somehow, he stuck in there and kept growing. But ever since then, I feel like we're on borrowed time. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it's, quite frankly, frightening.
I know that this anxiety is not limited to me. When I was pregnant with Xav, and even with Poppy (who came along after 4 m/c herself), I was worried. All pregnant ladies worry, because we don't know what will happen, we don't know what's happening in that cushy uterus holding our precious cargo. But this time, I know the worst that could happened. I know that there is always a chance things might not go to plan.
I know in my head that mostly babies arrive healthy and happy and roughly on time. I know that generally pregnancies are smooth. But I also know the flip side, and my heart is having a hard time forgetting that side.
Most days I feel super positive. Last weekend I got out all the baby things and spend hours going through them, reminiscing about when Xav wore this, or one of my sisters boy wore that. I even bought baby a new outfit or two. But I can't bring myself to take the tags off, just in case I need to return them. "Maybe later, when it's safe," I tell myself. "Maybe after 20 weeks, or 28 weeks, or 30 weeks..." Truthfully, I'm not sure this pregnancy will ever feel safe.
I am brave. I have learnt this about myself. I am not saying this in a Xena Warrior Princess sort of way. I am not going to battle Vikings or whatever she does. But I can cope. I can get through the worst of things and somehow still stand at the other end. That strength is hard won, and not to be trifled with. But somehow it is not quite enough. I'm scared that I will not bring home this baby. I am scared that something I do will cause him harm. I am scared I'll make a wrong choice and he'll pay the price.
Most days I can say, 'We're okay. Right now, we're okay." We've make it through 16 and a half weeks longer than I thought we would. But the remaining 21 and a half weeks feels like a really long time. It feels like holding a time bomb that is programmed for mid July but might be a bit faulty. And I'm not expert, but faulty time bombs seems like a big problem.
All I can do, and all I can ask for, is hope. I can hope that despite the past, despite my worry, baby will get here safe and sound. And I can ask for your hope too, if you have any to spare. Your hope and support and love has got me through the past 4 years, and I know I have no right to ask it of you again. But, like, please, y'know? Pretty please? I'll pay ya back.
I really am a joyously, blissful, HOPEFUL pregnant mother.
Most days...
Wednesday, 27 January 2016
The One We've All Been Waiting For
I don't blog much any more. I wish I spent more time writing, but doesn't time get away? It was a tumultuous 2015, a massive learning curve, a year of changes and risk taking and new directions. I tried really hard to just take things as they came and I got better as I went. I was proud of myself for becoming more aware of my own thoughts and what I was feeling and I felt a real change in myself because I know myself better than I did. But enough on that, I just wanted to set the scene a bit about where I am just now.
In August last year we decided to give IVF one last hurrah. We jumped in feet first and decided that whatever the outcome, this was it. So I became a full on druggy once again, pumped myself full of meds and of course promptly developed Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome for the second time. I was expecting it this time, and at least I didn't also need to cope with getting a shitty number of eggs and no embryos this time. After 5 days we had 6 embryos ready to test to check for abnormalities. Don't get me wrong, we are in no way worried about raising a child with special needs, but the thought is that my body will not grow the embryos if there are chromosomal issues. After what felt like forever, my specialist rang with the good news that we had 3 good embryos, frozen and waiting for us. These will henceforth be known as Ice Ice Babies 1, 2 and 3.
Ice Ice Baby 1 was transferred in early September. I wrote about my ongoing battle with addiction to Home Pregnancy tests in my last blog, and sadly after posting it that sweet second pink line faded. The cycle ended and I was dubious about going again. I think I officially lost hope. If I couldn't get Ice Ice Baby 1 to stick, knowing he or she was perfectly formed, what was wrong with me? I accessed some counselling through the IVF clinic and I accepted her advice. Do one more round and then leave things for a good long while. Make the decision to not make a decision to finish or not. Sounded like I could manage that.
In early November we started our final round of IVF for a while. I think I approached it with a bit of a 'let's just get it over with' attitude, but I figured I'd change it up a little and throw acupuncture into the mix. I find it super relaxing and it was nice to just have time to relax and focus on getting through the round.
Transfer day snuck up on us, and before I knew it, I had my legs in stirrups and once again I was baring my wares to the lady whose kids we've put through very expensive schools, judging by how much we've paid her over the years. We chatted amiably throughout what would have to be one of the most awkward situations one can find one's self in.
They showed us our lovely blastocyst (Ice Ice Baby 2) on the screen and then we all prepared for take off. In it went and off we tootled to have a cuppa and go to acupuncture. "I feel...different..." I whispered to Glen on our way out. I felt weirdly alien, and I had a funny inkling this might be THE one. I dared not hope because I've had A feeling before, but this was the first time I had had THIS feeling. I put it out of my head and went about my business for a week, until finally testing day was upon us.
I peed on my first test about 3 days before the end of my cycle and of course there was a faint second line. I figured it was the HCG shot still, so I tried to calm the storm of excitement rising in me. The next day I tested again, and decided if the line wasn't darker I wouldn't test again. I weed and left the test on the counter whilst I went to find clothes for the day and figured about 3 minutes had gone past.
I glanced at the test.
I did a double take.
I picked it up and gave it a shake.
Two pink lines. Darker than yesterday.
I'm freaking pregnant! Well, I'll be damned.
Armistead Baby number 3 is due to arrive on the 4th of August, 2016.
Lucky we gave it one last shot.
In August last year we decided to give IVF one last hurrah. We jumped in feet first and decided that whatever the outcome, this was it. So I became a full on druggy once again, pumped myself full of meds and of course promptly developed Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome for the second time. I was expecting it this time, and at least I didn't also need to cope with getting a shitty number of eggs and no embryos this time. After 5 days we had 6 embryos ready to test to check for abnormalities. Don't get me wrong, we are in no way worried about raising a child with special needs, but the thought is that my body will not grow the embryos if there are chromosomal issues. After what felt like forever, my specialist rang with the good news that we had 3 good embryos, frozen and waiting for us. These will henceforth be known as Ice Ice Babies 1, 2 and 3.
Ice Ice Baby 1 was transferred in early September. I wrote about my ongoing battle with addiction to Home Pregnancy tests in my last blog, and sadly after posting it that sweet second pink line faded. The cycle ended and I was dubious about going again. I think I officially lost hope. If I couldn't get Ice Ice Baby 1 to stick, knowing he or she was perfectly formed, what was wrong with me? I accessed some counselling through the IVF clinic and I accepted her advice. Do one more round and then leave things for a good long while. Make the decision to not make a decision to finish or not. Sounded like I could manage that.
In early November we started our final round of IVF for a while. I think I approached it with a bit of a 'let's just get it over with' attitude, but I figured I'd change it up a little and throw acupuncture into the mix. I find it super relaxing and it was nice to just have time to relax and focus on getting through the round.
Transfer day snuck up on us, and before I knew it, I had my legs in stirrups and once again I was baring my wares to the lady whose kids we've put through very expensive schools, judging by how much we've paid her over the years. We chatted amiably throughout what would have to be one of the most awkward situations one can find one's self in.
They showed us our lovely blastocyst (Ice Ice Baby 2) on the screen and then we all prepared for take off. In it went and off we tootled to have a cuppa and go to acupuncture. "I feel...different..." I whispered to Glen on our way out. I felt weirdly alien, and I had a funny inkling this might be THE one. I dared not hope because I've had A feeling before, but this was the first time I had had THIS feeling. I put it out of my head and went about my business for a week, until finally testing day was upon us.
I peed on my first test about 3 days before the end of my cycle and of course there was a faint second line. I figured it was the HCG shot still, so I tried to calm the storm of excitement rising in me. The next day I tested again, and decided if the line wasn't darker I wouldn't test again. I weed and left the test on the counter whilst I went to find clothes for the day and figured about 3 minutes had gone past.
I glanced at the test.
I did a double take.
I picked it up and gave it a shake.
Two pink lines. Darker than yesterday.
I'm freaking pregnant! Well, I'll be damned.
Armistead Baby number 3 is due to arrive on the 4th of August, 2016.
Lucky we gave it one last shot.
Friday, 11 September 2015
Searching for Two Pink Lines
I have a confession to make. I am an addict. I have tried to face my issue in the privacy of my own home, but it's time to fess up. I am addicted to home pregnancy tests. Not just any brand, either. First Response Early Response. 3 packs.
I think my unwholesome addiction began about 12 years ago when we began trying to have kids. As fellow PCOS sufferers might also attest to, my cycle was erratic at best, absent at worst. So I tested frequently to see if I might have magically, mysteriously fallen pregnant. Obviously it didn't happen and I curbed my testing to some extent by the time I fell pregnant with Xavier.
After Xavier, my mission to feed my addiction grew. I hide pink boxes of my favourite stuff into the house and kid them under the bathroom sink, behind the toilet, in my drawers. I couldn't help it. When I was going through fertility treatments I tested every morning from the middle of the cycle. I could convince myself that there was a faint line there, indicating I was up the duff.
By the time I fell pregnant with Poppy I admit things had gotten out of hand. For the first 12 weeks of my pregnancy I tested at least once a week, sometimes more. And then I discovered the world of digital tests! Did you know digital tests SPELL it out for you?? Or even tell you how pregnant you are!? I was in pee on a stick heaven! Pee and it reminds you you are pregnant. What could be a better rush for a fiend like me?
These days I'm learning other uses for my First Response 3 pack buddies. IVF requires taking large quantities of synthetic HCG, which is the pregnancy hormone. From that first shot of the good stuff, and I can watch two pink lines of various shades emerge on a small window, and for a bit of time I can pretend that I actually am.
'Tis a double edged sword is my addiction. You see this round I have peed like never before. Twice a day. It's costing a fortune (Costco is the cheapest for a hit, but Big W will do at a pinch), but it's the emotional roller coaster that's costing me most. Those two pink lines from the fake HCG? They fade, man. Each time I wee, the line is a shade lighter. Until we reach the point f no return and we see if the line begins to darken again with real HCG. That's the legit hit. That's the real stuff. So, here I am balanced at the precipice of lighter or darker. I could just wait a few more days and have a blood test and I'll know one way or the other. But the lines...I need them. They are my life line to my dream.
I'd like to say I was motivated enough to give up the hit. But I can't. I enjoy the rush too much right now, and I'm hurting no one but myself. Maybe, one day, I'll see a darkening line again. But it's too soon to say if this will be the one. The real deal.
My name is Bec, and it's been 14 hours since my last pee on a stick. Oh, fine...it was an hour ago and I rushed home from work. Don't judge until you've tried it, okay?
I think my unwholesome addiction began about 12 years ago when we began trying to have kids. As fellow PCOS sufferers might also attest to, my cycle was erratic at best, absent at worst. So I tested frequently to see if I might have magically, mysteriously fallen pregnant. Obviously it didn't happen and I curbed my testing to some extent by the time I fell pregnant with Xavier.
After Xavier, my mission to feed my addiction grew. I hide pink boxes of my favourite stuff into the house and kid them under the bathroom sink, behind the toilet, in my drawers. I couldn't help it. When I was going through fertility treatments I tested every morning from the middle of the cycle. I could convince myself that there was a faint line there, indicating I was up the duff.
By the time I fell pregnant with Poppy I admit things had gotten out of hand. For the first 12 weeks of my pregnancy I tested at least once a week, sometimes more. And then I discovered the world of digital tests! Did you know digital tests SPELL it out for you?? Or even tell you how pregnant you are!? I was in pee on a stick heaven! Pee and it reminds you you are pregnant. What could be a better rush for a fiend like me?
These days I'm learning other uses for my First Response 3 pack buddies. IVF requires taking large quantities of synthetic HCG, which is the pregnancy hormone. From that first shot of the good stuff, and I can watch two pink lines of various shades emerge on a small window, and for a bit of time I can pretend that I actually am.
'Tis a double edged sword is my addiction. You see this round I have peed like never before. Twice a day. It's costing a fortune (Costco is the cheapest for a hit, but Big W will do at a pinch), but it's the emotional roller coaster that's costing me most. Those two pink lines from the fake HCG? They fade, man. Each time I wee, the line is a shade lighter. Until we reach the point f no return and we see if the line begins to darken again with real HCG. That's the legit hit. That's the real stuff. So, here I am balanced at the precipice of lighter or darker. I could just wait a few more days and have a blood test and I'll know one way or the other. But the lines...I need them. They are my life line to my dream.
I'd like to say I was motivated enough to give up the hit. But I can't. I enjoy the rush too much right now, and I'm hurting no one but myself. Maybe, one day, I'll see a darkening line again. But it's too soon to say if this will be the one. The real deal.
My name is Bec, and it's been 14 hours since my last pee on a stick. Oh, fine...it was an hour ago and I rushed home from work. Don't judge until you've tried it, okay?
Saturday, 28 February 2015
Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend
It's been a big few months. I've changed many things in my life that I thought were constants. The place I work, the car I drive, our house. None of these are remarkable, but the culmination of them all at the same time has left me feeling...overwhelmed. And unsettled. Perhaps that's why I have found the bottom of the deep dark hole again.
Look, this abyss is not the deepest I've been in. I've been deeper, closer to oblivion. But still, it's not a place I want to be. I thought I was strong enough to hold myself up, no matter what. I was wrong, and here we are, having a tea party for one in my cave of despair.
"What happened?" you may ask? Same thing as usual. Things didn't go the way I planned, as per usual. I really try not to micromanage my life, my expectations, but I can't help it. From cradle to grave, I'm going to be bossy and over planned, I just can't help it. Sometimes it's actually helpful. Other times, like our seemingly endless journey to conceive another baby, it becomes more stressful. And the last round was just about as crappy as they come.
After our last miscarriage, Dr Kate finally convinced us that we needed to step things up. Move on from regular IVF and into the scary world of PGD. PGD stands for Pre-implantation Genetic Diagnosis, or genetic tasting. We've never managed to have any of our miscarried babies tested for genetic abnormalities, but it's one thing that could be causing our losses. We know G and I are genetically normal (ish), and Xav and Poppy are all clear too. So we can make perfect babies, but maybe not all of the time. Kate explained that it's one thing we can rule out as a cause for so many losses, and, keen to find a reason, we decided to embark on a (very expensive) new chapter in our journey.
It's bizarre how quick the whole IVF thing becomes part of life. Injections are a daily necessity, handfuls of tablets and vitamins are my dessert after dinner, and starting my day with a 6.50am internal ultrasound, have just become the norm. But PGD? A whole new world. So with lots of new information after hours of meetings with PGD gurus, I started the pill. As in, THE pill. The irony of this did not escape me. Of all of the things I've had to do over the past 6 years, standing on my head after, you know... , included, taking the bloody PILL is the stupidest and funniest thing I've partaken in. If Alanis Morrisette wanted a new lyric for her song, there it is.
Where was I? Oh, right PGD. I started with the PILL (seriously....) and then got my date for Egg Pick Up. The middle of January. On the anniversary of Mum's passing. Fabulous. Transfer will be the date I almost died from my ectopic. Double Fab. And, to top it off? My specialist will be away and a stranger will be viewing my privates. Just wonderful.
What the hell? I figured. Dignity was pretty much washed away with the number of times my lady bits have been on show in the name of medical science anyway. So we began. Injections at triple my normal dose, bloating to the size of a full term pregnant lady (ah, the irony again. I should teach Alanis another verse). Finally we get to pick up day, as full of eggs as a battery hen. 20+ ready to go. Despite the 7kg weight gain, I was excited. Surely this was our time. We might be 5 or 6 good embryos, and hopefully one of them would be our take home baby.
I woke up from the procedure in extreme pain. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, not at all how it was last time. Through the haze of the anaesthetic I heard the doctor say that they only managed to collect 9 of the 20 eggs. 9? I was a bit disappointed but not terribly. I was totally distracted by my pain. After hours of trying different pain medications, I was diagnosed with severe hyper stimulation, bruising from the egg collection, and given pethidine to manage the pain (that stuff it awesome!). Then we waited for the results. How many eggs would fertilise? Surely half? We got 10/12 last round, so I figured at least 6 would take. (see that micromanaging coming out again?)
Sitting in hospital, by myself, in pain, waiting for results. Not my favourite night ever. By the next day, I could manage my pain with tremydol, and was allowed to go home. In the car on the way home, I rang to see how our embryos were going. "Three fertilised," the nurse announced, and my heart sank. We were told that we may lose more than half in the testing. Three wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. I had failed and wasted thousands and thousands of dollars.
5 days later, we got the news that two of the embryos were no good. Genetically abnormal. To be destroyed.
One was perfect. Genetically perfect, growing well. Frozen for future use. Our Chosen One. Thank God.
It took weeks to get well, and then weeks to simulate a new cycle. I was sure that this little Golden Embryo was the one. Our baby. Our rainbow baby. Finally.
So, in it went. Transferred and healthy. Then we waited 9 days to see if it would take. I kept hope. I convinced myself that all the changes I had made in my life, would bring about this celebration. I was sure. I was so sure.
Then the cramping started. I'm not going to go into detail, but you get the idea. The Golden Child was no more. I had failed to keep it safe, failed to keep it here.
So here I am in my pit of self pity again. I know I need to get out, but I'm not ready yet. I need to own my grief that this journey might finally be over. Not with the ending I hoped, wished for, but finished. I can't see a way forward yet. I don't know whether trying again would be foolish or brave. I always thought I'd know when enough was enough. But this little Micro manager is currently without a plan.
I know I'll get out of here, climb towards the light and enjoy the good things again. But for now Light and Tangy Chips and Nutella from the jar are my only solace. And, as a wise woman told me recently, a block of chocolate makes everything seem better. For now, that will have to do.
Look, this abyss is not the deepest I've been in. I've been deeper, closer to oblivion. But still, it's not a place I want to be. I thought I was strong enough to hold myself up, no matter what. I was wrong, and here we are, having a tea party for one in my cave of despair.
"What happened?" you may ask? Same thing as usual. Things didn't go the way I planned, as per usual. I really try not to micromanage my life, my expectations, but I can't help it. From cradle to grave, I'm going to be bossy and over planned, I just can't help it. Sometimes it's actually helpful. Other times, like our seemingly endless journey to conceive another baby, it becomes more stressful. And the last round was just about as crappy as they come.
After our last miscarriage, Dr Kate finally convinced us that we needed to step things up. Move on from regular IVF and into the scary world of PGD. PGD stands for Pre-implantation Genetic Diagnosis, or genetic tasting. We've never managed to have any of our miscarried babies tested for genetic abnormalities, but it's one thing that could be causing our losses. We know G and I are genetically normal (ish), and Xav and Poppy are all clear too. So we can make perfect babies, but maybe not all of the time. Kate explained that it's one thing we can rule out as a cause for so many losses, and, keen to find a reason, we decided to embark on a (very expensive) new chapter in our journey.
It's bizarre how quick the whole IVF thing becomes part of life. Injections are a daily necessity, handfuls of tablets and vitamins are my dessert after dinner, and starting my day with a 6.50am internal ultrasound, have just become the norm. But PGD? A whole new world. So with lots of new information after hours of meetings with PGD gurus, I started the pill. As in, THE pill. The irony of this did not escape me. Of all of the things I've had to do over the past 6 years, standing on my head after, you know... , included, taking the bloody PILL is the stupidest and funniest thing I've partaken in. If Alanis Morrisette wanted a new lyric for her song, there it is.
Where was I? Oh, right PGD. I started with the PILL (seriously....) and then got my date for Egg Pick Up. The middle of January. On the anniversary of Mum's passing. Fabulous. Transfer will be the date I almost died from my ectopic. Double Fab. And, to top it off? My specialist will be away and a stranger will be viewing my privates. Just wonderful.
What the hell? I figured. Dignity was pretty much washed away with the number of times my lady bits have been on show in the name of medical science anyway. So we began. Injections at triple my normal dose, bloating to the size of a full term pregnant lady (ah, the irony again. I should teach Alanis another verse). Finally we get to pick up day, as full of eggs as a battery hen. 20+ ready to go. Despite the 7kg weight gain, I was excited. Surely this was our time. We might be 5 or 6 good embryos, and hopefully one of them would be our take home baby.
I woke up from the procedure in extreme pain. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, not at all how it was last time. Through the haze of the anaesthetic I heard the doctor say that they only managed to collect 9 of the 20 eggs. 9? I was a bit disappointed but not terribly. I was totally distracted by my pain. After hours of trying different pain medications, I was diagnosed with severe hyper stimulation, bruising from the egg collection, and given pethidine to manage the pain (that stuff it awesome!). Then we waited for the results. How many eggs would fertilise? Surely half? We got 10/12 last round, so I figured at least 6 would take. (see that micromanaging coming out again?)
Sitting in hospital, by myself, in pain, waiting for results. Not my favourite night ever. By the next day, I could manage my pain with tremydol, and was allowed to go home. In the car on the way home, I rang to see how our embryos were going. "Three fertilised," the nurse announced, and my heart sank. We were told that we may lose more than half in the testing. Three wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. I had failed and wasted thousands and thousands of dollars.
5 days later, we got the news that two of the embryos were no good. Genetically abnormal. To be destroyed.
One was perfect. Genetically perfect, growing well. Frozen for future use. Our Chosen One. Thank God.
It took weeks to get well, and then weeks to simulate a new cycle. I was sure that this little Golden Embryo was the one. Our baby. Our rainbow baby. Finally.
So, in it went. Transferred and healthy. Then we waited 9 days to see if it would take. I kept hope. I convinced myself that all the changes I had made in my life, would bring about this celebration. I was sure. I was so sure.
Then the cramping started. I'm not going to go into detail, but you get the idea. The Golden Child was no more. I had failed to keep it safe, failed to keep it here.
So here I am in my pit of self pity again. I know I need to get out, but I'm not ready yet. I need to own my grief that this journey might finally be over. Not with the ending I hoped, wished for, but finished. I can't see a way forward yet. I don't know whether trying again would be foolish or brave. I always thought I'd know when enough was enough. But this little Micro manager is currently without a plan.
I know I'll get out of here, climb towards the light and enjoy the good things again. But for now Light and Tangy Chips and Nutella from the jar are my only solace. And, as a wise woman told me recently, a block of chocolate makes everything seem better. For now, that will have to do.
Saturday, 27 September 2014
How much can I take? (published Pregnancy After Loss Support Page)
I feel like I’ve spent my whole marriage trying to get pregnant. 10 years ago, blissfully unaware of what was to come, we assumed our honeymoon would result in our first child being conceived. It didn’t quite happen the way we had planned. Two years of fertility treatment resulted in our amazing, beautiful blessing, Xavier. When he was 2 years old, with a 24 month battle with post natal depression fought and won, we decided we were ready to add to our family. I trooped back to my fertility specialist who insisted we try natural for 6 months before he would prescribe Clomid again. 6 months later, “I told you so” firmly in my head, we trooped back again. So began the hardest 6 years of our lives.
The first month we tried using Clomid I fell pregnant. I couldn’t believe our luck! But the HCG stopped rising, and I suffered what was to be the first of many miscarriages. 3 months later, same story, and 4 months after that, our third loss. Our fertility specialist wasn’t exactly the most personable of guys, and without even looking me in the face, declared it was all just bad luck and there was nothing he could do. Needless to say, I changed specialists!
Dr. Kate was my savior, because she was honest, empathetic and smart. We developed a plan, started injectable medications to induce ovulation, and started the next phase of trying to conceive–a little wiser, and far less innocent. Low and behold, month one, I fell pregnant again. I found out on New Years Eve, and I knew something was off. But we got past 6 weeks, when all our other losses had occured, and we thought we might actually get there. At 6 weeks and 4 days, I had agonising abdominal pain, on my left side. I knew straight away it was ectopic. By the end of the day I had lost another baby, my left fallopian tube, and my heart had broken yet again. Bizzarely, I had been pregnant with twins, and the twin that was in the uterus was a blighted ovum. If the twins had been reversed, the baby in my tube would have survived had it been in the uterus. I was crushed. 5 little angels gone. But the worst was still to come.
4 months after the ectopic/heterotopic loss, we fell pregnant again. 6th time lucky was our hope, and as our milestones rolled past, I dared to hope we might bring home this baby. 12 weeks, all ok. 20 weeks, all ok. Our scan showed a beautiful, healthy baby girl. I bonded with her. I felt her move. I felt her soul. I loved her with my whole heart.
At 29 weeks I had my 4th attack of an unidentified abdominal pain and some spotting. We rushed to the hospital, thinking finally my placenta had started pulling away from the uterine wall. Doppler showed an active baby, but no-one could manage to get a heart trace on our baby girl. After the 7th midwife came in, and again registered a heartrate of 75, and assuming it was my heartbeat, someone decided to put the heart monitor on me. My heartrate was 65, therefore baby’s was 75. Everyone panicked, and I was rushed off for a specialised scan with the head of Fetal Maternal Medicine. Our good run was done. Our daughter was diagnosed with 2nd degree fetal heartblock, a rare condition that attacks the electrical current coordinating the top and bottom parts of the heart. The only hope was a pacemaker fitted at birth, but at 29 weeks, she was still too small to have such an operation.
For weeks we waited, being observed almost daily, and slowly we watched out baby’s heartrate decrease. She was almost delivered at 34 weeks. But the decision was made to leave her for a bit longer and try to get to 36 weeks. I knew it was a bad idea. My biggest regret it that I didn’t insist she be delivered. Things might have been so different. Almost delivered again at 34+3. Then during our scan at 34+6, we knew we have made the wrong decision. She was in heart failure, and there was very little chance she would survive her delivery.
We were wheeled off frantically for an emergency cesarean, meeting a pediatric heart specialist in theatre. At 2:17pm, our daughter was born, and she was still and silent, and I knew she was already gone. They tried for 20 mins to save her, fitting an external pacemaker, trying in vain to restart her damaged heart. But it was too late. We were too late.
Finally we met our longed for baby girl, and she was stunning. Perfect rose lips, porcelain skin, fine fingers. Just beautiful. But silent and still, not at all how it should have been. We named our darling girl Poppy, a pretty name for a pretty baby, and tried to decide how we would tell her big brother that the baby he had been waiting for was not coming home.
I decided on the operating table, holding my precious baby, that I needed to try again. Is that normal? I was terrified that if I didn’t believe I’d get this chance again, I might crumble and tumble away. We weren’t allowed to TTC for 6 months post c-section, so we had an imposed wait time in which we investigated Poppy’s condition and the likelihood of it reoccurring. Unfortunately there was evidence that 15-20% of siblings will develop the same condition in utero. But I had to try. I needed it.
Nothing happened for all of 2012. And half of 2013. “Time for IVF?” was the call of my FS. Round 2 brought that amazing phonecall: “You’re pregnant!” the nurse informed me, and I couldn’t imagine that anything bad could happened again. But it did. Miscarriage no 5. Cycle number 4 brought another positive, but 2 weeks later, with no warning, I miscarried again.
I wonder when I will decide we are done. How much loss can I take? How many times can I fail and keep getting up and trying to succeed? But I still believe in my heart that our family is not supposed to be 3 and 1 in heaven. I really believe that eventually we’ll be rewarded for patience. I just hope that it happens soon, because my broken heart needs some good news to help it heal again.
Photo Credit: Gavin Blue for Heartfelt
Saturday, 12 July 2014
Grief upon grief
I am not a stranger to grief. We've been acquainted for some time. We first met when I was 14. I had lost a few people in my life prior to this, but this was when I got up close and personal with the raw, surging pain that was to be part of me forever. My mother lost her battle with cancer aged 40 years of age. For a long time I held off the my new friend, in a battle of wills that isn't really possible to win. I didn't want to feel that immense pain, I just wanted it to go away. And so began my dance with trying not to feel. To be brave. To be strong.
Years and years later I grieved again for my friend. He died on this exact day 14 years ago. Again much too young. Barely a man. And again I held off grief. I was brave. I was strong.
My grandmother died. My grandfather died. My good friend Helen died. But I hid. I refused to break. I tried so hard to build up a wall around me so I wouldn't feel. It hurt. It felt uncomfortable. It was scary to feel something so big.
Then I started losing babies. The first and second miscarriages were very early, and I was disappointed. The third was harder to deal with. The fourth nearly claimed my life, and I was scared and hurt and sad. It took courage and determination to keep going. Always brave and strong. That was what I needed to be. Then came Poppy.
My pregnancy with her let me forget about my grief over her tiny siblings. I lost them to keep her. She was the one who was meant to come home with me. I loved her more than anything, with everything I had. I let down that wall and she was nestled against my heart.
And then she died. God took her too. I couldn't understand how I could be expected to still be brave and strong? How? My brick wall crumbled, and when Poppy died, she took my whole heart. It hurt so much! All those years of holding grief at bay, and finally I succumbed to constant pull towards the abyss. I felt it. I really felt it. It was raw and painful and...beautiful. There was beauty in this because it came from love. Love is powerful and joyful and meaningful. But it is also devastating and heartbreaking.
It took me a long time to open myself to the world again. It's not that I wasn't living. I went about my business. But I was in a holding pattern, not going forwards but refusing to go backwards. The possibility of more loss almost crippled me, so terrified was I of what it might do to me. So I hid behind my hastily reconstructed wall and hoped for no more loss. The problem is, you forget about love too.
Then we lost another tiny baby. My body decided it wasn't ready to bring joy and delivered me more grief. And it broke me again. I lost hope. I could see no way to be brave or strong. I was a coward and I was weak. I needed to rebuild, somehow. My whole journey since I met grief was wasted because I couldn't be brave or strong anymore. And then I realised: What am I afraid of? Am I afraid of grief? Or am I afraid of love? Why am I battling against something that can not be conquered?
So I chose to walk alongside my grief. And I found I could live with it. I can feel it. Because it is born of love, of joy, and I am equal to it. Being strong is not about not feeling. It's about being strong enough to feel your pain and not let it destroy you. Being brave is just recognising fear and choosing to confront it. Again and again, if necessary.
Last weekend we miscarried again. It was scary and painful and traumatic. But I will not run from the pain or try to hid it. I will cry and feel like my heart and hope have been ripped out again. Grief is not welcome here, but if it needed to come, I will not lock the door. Because love is in my heart. I can't lock it away forever. I will bear the grief so I can enjoy the love. I am strong and brave, though not in the way I thought.
I am equal to whatever comes. I am strong. I am brave.
Years and years later I grieved again for my friend. He died on this exact day 14 years ago. Again much too young. Barely a man. And again I held off grief. I was brave. I was strong.
My grandmother died. My grandfather died. My good friend Helen died. But I hid. I refused to break. I tried so hard to build up a wall around me so I wouldn't feel. It hurt. It felt uncomfortable. It was scary to feel something so big.
Then I started losing babies. The first and second miscarriages were very early, and I was disappointed. The third was harder to deal with. The fourth nearly claimed my life, and I was scared and hurt and sad. It took courage and determination to keep going. Always brave and strong. That was what I needed to be. Then came Poppy.
My pregnancy with her let me forget about my grief over her tiny siblings. I lost them to keep her. She was the one who was meant to come home with me. I loved her more than anything, with everything I had. I let down that wall and she was nestled against my heart.
And then she died. God took her too. I couldn't understand how I could be expected to still be brave and strong? How? My brick wall crumbled, and when Poppy died, she took my whole heart. It hurt so much! All those years of holding grief at bay, and finally I succumbed to constant pull towards the abyss. I felt it. I really felt it. It was raw and painful and...beautiful. There was beauty in this because it came from love. Love is powerful and joyful and meaningful. But it is also devastating and heartbreaking.
It took me a long time to open myself to the world again. It's not that I wasn't living. I went about my business. But I was in a holding pattern, not going forwards but refusing to go backwards. The possibility of more loss almost crippled me, so terrified was I of what it might do to me. So I hid behind my hastily reconstructed wall and hoped for no more loss. The problem is, you forget about love too.
Then we lost another tiny baby. My body decided it wasn't ready to bring joy and delivered me more grief. And it broke me again. I lost hope. I could see no way to be brave or strong. I was a coward and I was weak. I needed to rebuild, somehow. My whole journey since I met grief was wasted because I couldn't be brave or strong anymore. And then I realised: What am I afraid of? Am I afraid of grief? Or am I afraid of love? Why am I battling against something that can not be conquered?
So I chose to walk alongside my grief. And I found I could live with it. I can feel it. Because it is born of love, of joy, and I am equal to it. Being strong is not about not feeling. It's about being strong enough to feel your pain and not let it destroy you. Being brave is just recognising fear and choosing to confront it. Again and again, if necessary.
Last weekend we miscarried again. It was scary and painful and traumatic. But I will not run from the pain or try to hid it. I will cry and feel like my heart and hope have been ripped out again. Grief is not welcome here, but if it needed to come, I will not lock the door. Because love is in my heart. I can't lock it away forever. I will bear the grief so I can enjoy the love. I am strong and brave, though not in the way I thought.
I am equal to whatever comes. I am strong. I am brave.
Friday, 7 March 2014
Patience is a virtue...or so they tell me
So here we are; 2 years, 3 months and 22 days since we said goodbye to Poppy. To be entirely honest, it still feels like it only just happened. But facing facts, it's been quite some time.
I really thought we'd have another baby by now. I realise I wouldn't have been ready to deal with another pregnancy, or possibly another baby, but when I think back to my thoughts in the minutes after we realised Poppy had died, my ONLY thought was, "I need a baby."
The decision to try again was made whilst I was still on the operating table during my cesarean. We were holding our beautiful, silent, longed for baby, for whom we'd waited for 3 long years, and I just couldn't imagine all the preparation we'd been through to include a little one into our lives would be for nothing. I needed to fill my aching arms.
As time went on, we realised we weren't ready yet. We wanted it, but we weren't ready to handle it. The truth is; grief is all consuming. It feels like there isn't much room for anything else. So we waited. Then we kind of started trying again, and then took a break, then tried again, before throwing ourselves whole heartedly in the magical world of IVF. It's been a year since we started to walk the IVF path. 12 months of invasive testing, painful procedures, meds that make me crazy, and a very harrowing and traumatic miscarriage. And still, no baby.
All up, we've been trying to bring home a sibling for Xavier for almost 6 years. 6 friggin' years! Are you seriously kidding?! In that time we've been pregnant 6 times, and had and lost Poppy. So the question needs to be asked. Am I a glutton for punishment? Will it ever happen? Could I cope with life if it doesn't? I've never considered not being ABLE to having another baby. I've considered not wanting to TRY, and deciding enough was enough. As in MY choice. But what if...well...I'm done? What if God has decided I've had enough chances? What if I've been patient for nothing?
I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, but I can feel a tantrum building in me. Once again my FB news feed it filled with pregnancy announcements, new arrivals and the growing little sons and daughters of others. I try not to be jealous, but I'm sure I look a little like the Hulk. Green with envy. Do I deserve all of this? Am I so terrible a person? I know I'm not perfect, but maybe I'm awful. So awful I'm not worthy to be a mother again.
I've kept the faith for a very long time that good things happen to those who wait. But I'm not sure that's true. I'm not giving up, not yet anyway. But when does continuing this journey become lunacy? When do I hit the point where it will take more courage to stop than keep going? When will the past 6 years amount to only heartache and nothing else?
For now, I am still determined. But each little knock adds to the myriad of blows we've already taken. I'm a bit worried about the state of the mortar holding me together as it is. Please, please, please let it be our turn soon. I know we don't deserve it any more or less than many others, but I promise it will mean more to us than it might to some. A baby who joins our family, who chooses us to be their family, will know love beyond imagining. They will know a big brother who will truly value every minute they spend together because he didn't get that with his first sibling. They will know Grandparents who know one more kiss and cuddle will never be enough, because they missed the opportunity with Poppy. They will know parents who will endure all of the bad stuff, the worry and doubt, just for one moment of joy they have missed.
Please. Please. Please. Let our patience be rewarded.
Please.
I really thought we'd have another baby by now. I realise I wouldn't have been ready to deal with another pregnancy, or possibly another baby, but when I think back to my thoughts in the minutes after we realised Poppy had died, my ONLY thought was, "I need a baby."
The decision to try again was made whilst I was still on the operating table during my cesarean. We were holding our beautiful, silent, longed for baby, for whom we'd waited for 3 long years, and I just couldn't imagine all the preparation we'd been through to include a little one into our lives would be for nothing. I needed to fill my aching arms.
As time went on, we realised we weren't ready yet. We wanted it, but we weren't ready to handle it. The truth is; grief is all consuming. It feels like there isn't much room for anything else. So we waited. Then we kind of started trying again, and then took a break, then tried again, before throwing ourselves whole heartedly in the magical world of IVF. It's been a year since we started to walk the IVF path. 12 months of invasive testing, painful procedures, meds that make me crazy, and a very harrowing and traumatic miscarriage. And still, no baby.
All up, we've been trying to bring home a sibling for Xavier for almost 6 years. 6 friggin' years! Are you seriously kidding?! In that time we've been pregnant 6 times, and had and lost Poppy. So the question needs to be asked. Am I a glutton for punishment? Will it ever happen? Could I cope with life if it doesn't? I've never considered not being ABLE to having another baby. I've considered not wanting to TRY, and deciding enough was enough. As in MY choice. But what if...well...I'm done? What if God has decided I've had enough chances? What if I've been patient for nothing?
I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, but I can feel a tantrum building in me. Once again my FB news feed it filled with pregnancy announcements, new arrivals and the growing little sons and daughters of others. I try not to be jealous, but I'm sure I look a little like the Hulk. Green with envy. Do I deserve all of this? Am I so terrible a person? I know I'm not perfect, but maybe I'm awful. So awful I'm not worthy to be a mother again.
I've kept the faith for a very long time that good things happen to those who wait. But I'm not sure that's true. I'm not giving up, not yet anyway. But when does continuing this journey become lunacy? When do I hit the point where it will take more courage to stop than keep going? When will the past 6 years amount to only heartache and nothing else?
For now, I am still determined. But each little knock adds to the myriad of blows we've already taken. I'm a bit worried about the state of the mortar holding me together as it is. Please, please, please let it be our turn soon. I know we don't deserve it any more or less than many others, but I promise it will mean more to us than it might to some. A baby who joins our family, who chooses us to be their family, will know love beyond imagining. They will know a big brother who will truly value every minute they spend together because he didn't get that with his first sibling. They will know Grandparents who know one more kiss and cuddle will never be enough, because they missed the opportunity with Poppy. They will know parents who will endure all of the bad stuff, the worry and doubt, just for one moment of joy they have missed.
Please. Please. Please. Let our patience be rewarded.
Please.
Saturday, 28 December 2013
A blog about not blogging
I haven't blogged for about 3 months, which is the longest I think since I started blogging. I'm sure you've all been waiting with baited breath to hear my pearls of wisdom, and have totally noticed I hadn't shared them in a while. Or perhaps, like me, you've been flat out busy. And maybe, like me, you've been feeling good. Better than you have for some time. Perhaps blogging wasn't needed as much as it was.
I feel a bit like I've betrayed my blog (there, there, bloggy blog, it's OK) since I haven't really felt the need to write for a while. In the past, writing was a necessity. I had something to say about my journey. Somehow blogging helped me find validation, and peace.
This whole entry is really about why I haven't needed to post, which might seem a little odd. But let's face it, I'm a little odd. But we already knew that, didn't we?
Well, I've survived 2013. There were moments when I wondered if I was going to make it. I felt weighed down, emotionally, physically, in every way. My baggage was just too much at times, and I'll be dammed if I could find one of those luggage trolleys they have at the airport.
Then in October, I made a pledge to be more, do better. Let the pain go a little. I forgave myself for not being ready to have another baby. And I put down my baggage. I just put it down and walked away. Possible I've caused a bomb scare at that mythical airport, but I'm sure they're dealing with it. I took only what I could fit into my pockets.
For the past 3 months I've been working on me. Not just selfishly me, but me as a better person. Me as a better mum, wife, teacher, friend, family member. I've needed to make peace with the fact that the old me is never coming back. Like, really. Never, ever. I'm changed irrevocably. But I'm not saddled with this chick who's just a psychotic mess most of the time. I can make her into someone I want to be. I can find my compassion, my forgiveness, my happiness. It's there for the taking, but I have to choose it.
I can't say I've built her yet, but I'm a work in progress. Grief is a selfish thing sometimes, and it's so hard to see beyond how you're feeling and how the actions of others impact upon you. And I don't apologise for my grief. I earned my time to be wholly focused on my pain. But I hit a point and I realised I had to face up to not liking who I was becoming. I can hold my pain in my pocket and still board any plane I choose, without worrying about baggage limits.
2014 doesn't owe me anything. I'm not owed because I've suffered. I will find good in whatever happens. I'd like it to include a new baby, and my gut tells me it will. But if that's not what pans out, well, I'll find happiness. I can't stand still anymore. I can move so much faster now I put down those bags.
So that's why I haven't blogged. I've been busy getting happier and healthier. And building me. Hopefully she'll be a kind and joyous gal. And grateful. And worthy of the blessings she has. I look forward to getting to know her. Without baggage.
I feel a bit like I've betrayed my blog (there, there, bloggy blog, it's OK) since I haven't really felt the need to write for a while. In the past, writing was a necessity. I had something to say about my journey. Somehow blogging helped me find validation, and peace.
This whole entry is really about why I haven't needed to post, which might seem a little odd. But let's face it, I'm a little odd. But we already knew that, didn't we?
Well, I've survived 2013. There were moments when I wondered if I was going to make it. I felt weighed down, emotionally, physically, in every way. My baggage was just too much at times, and I'll be dammed if I could find one of those luggage trolleys they have at the airport.
Then in October, I made a pledge to be more, do better. Let the pain go a little. I forgave myself for not being ready to have another baby. And I put down my baggage. I just put it down and walked away. Possible I've caused a bomb scare at that mythical airport, but I'm sure they're dealing with it. I took only what I could fit into my pockets.
For the past 3 months I've been working on me. Not just selfishly me, but me as a better person. Me as a better mum, wife, teacher, friend, family member. I've needed to make peace with the fact that the old me is never coming back. Like, really. Never, ever. I'm changed irrevocably. But I'm not saddled with this chick who's just a psychotic mess most of the time. I can make her into someone I want to be. I can find my compassion, my forgiveness, my happiness. It's there for the taking, but I have to choose it.
I can't say I've built her yet, but I'm a work in progress. Grief is a selfish thing sometimes, and it's so hard to see beyond how you're feeling and how the actions of others impact upon you. And I don't apologise for my grief. I earned my time to be wholly focused on my pain. But I hit a point and I realised I had to face up to not liking who I was becoming. I can hold my pain in my pocket and still board any plane I choose, without worrying about baggage limits.
2014 doesn't owe me anything. I'm not owed because I've suffered. I will find good in whatever happens. I'd like it to include a new baby, and my gut tells me it will. But if that's not what pans out, well, I'll find happiness. I can't stand still anymore. I can move so much faster now I put down those bags.
So that's why I haven't blogged. I've been busy getting happier and healthier. And building me. Hopefully she'll be a kind and joyous gal. And grateful. And worthy of the blessings she has. I look forward to getting to know her. Without baggage.
Monday, 28 October 2013
Ups and Downs
I haven't posted for ages. Mainly because I wasn't sure what to write. The last little while has been an emotional roller coaster, and I wish I could say I coped well. Alas, no, I didn't. I was the one with vomit in my hair, a stunned expression and that oh-so-lovely snotty, cry-y face.
Last I blogged I was in the throws of another round of IVF. I'm not sure how much you know about the mechanics of pregnancy, but timing wise, I got symptoms VERY early. By the day of my blood test, an IVF day-of-doom type scenario, I felt like I was permanently on the ocean liner to a rainbow baby. "You're pregnant!" says the lovely nurse who rang me with my results. "I thought so..." I uttered, and she proceeded to tell me my HCG (Magic pregnancy hormone number) was 788. Which is very high even for twins at that stage. 3 days later my numbers are over 4000 and we figure we're well on the way to a full term pregnancy. We told a couple of people. Things were good for a few weeks.
Then, crash. I wake up in the middle of the night. I stand up. "Oh, shit. Please don't let that be what I think it is..." Off we go to The Women's...nothing left. I miscarried. Again. (This might be the part where I vomit in my hair on the roller coaster.) The next day I go to see my fertility specialist, who manages to squeeze me in at the slightly dazzling time of 6.15am. "I'm so sorry. We think it was just a random chromosomal abnormality. Just bad luck." So we're back to bad luck again. Great.
So, the first week of the school holidays was not quite the blissful family time I had imagined. Plus I got the flu, just to really make sure it was crappy. We went on holiday to the beach. It rained, hailed, was freezing cold. By one week post miscarriage, I was at rock bottom again. I decided I can't walk this path anymore. I can't continue to be a terrible, angry, frustrated mother and wife whilst trying to fill a gap in our family that can't be filled. We were done with this. We had finished our family. And I failed to bring the last piece home. And I am still failing.
So I did what any sane person does when she's feeling horrid. I went to see a psychic. And she said some stuff (which I won't share here, I'd hate to ruin the surprise) and I felt...hopeful. I realised that I still hadn't managed to believe that we might have another baby. But I need to focus on being ready for it, instead of rebounding off bad luck. I owe my family my best, every day. I owe those here in my house and those in heaven. And I haven't been giving it, because I wasn't sure I had it in me. I'm better than the person I am. I can do more.
Today I went for my review with my fertility specialist and I finally said what I've needed to say for some time. I'm not ready for pregnancy. I want it badly, but I'm not ready physically or emotionally. I need to love being pregnant, despite the anxiety. I need to feel good about myself. I need to be healthier. I couldn't WANT it more, but I can BE more.
New plan of attack; exercise. Get out more. And just ride out 2013. Start 2014 in a better frame of mind. Start IVF not waiting to fail. I am determined. I won't give up. Not until I am holding a precious, living baby in my arms. As a very wise lady said to me recently, "Tragedy would be giving up now, after all you've been through. Tragedy would be not getting the prize after the heartache."
Dr Kate, I promise I won't lose hope again. Hope is one thing no one can take away, we have to consciously give it up. I almost let go. It won't happen again.
Last I blogged I was in the throws of another round of IVF. I'm not sure how much you know about the mechanics of pregnancy, but timing wise, I got symptoms VERY early. By the day of my blood test, an IVF day-of-doom type scenario, I felt like I was permanently on the ocean liner to a rainbow baby. "You're pregnant!" says the lovely nurse who rang me with my results. "I thought so..." I uttered, and she proceeded to tell me my HCG (Magic pregnancy hormone number) was 788. Which is very high even for twins at that stage. 3 days later my numbers are over 4000 and we figure we're well on the way to a full term pregnancy. We told a couple of people. Things were good for a few weeks.
Then, crash. I wake up in the middle of the night. I stand up. "Oh, shit. Please don't let that be what I think it is..." Off we go to The Women's...nothing left. I miscarried. Again. (This might be the part where I vomit in my hair on the roller coaster.) The next day I go to see my fertility specialist, who manages to squeeze me in at the slightly dazzling time of 6.15am. "I'm so sorry. We think it was just a random chromosomal abnormality. Just bad luck." So we're back to bad luck again. Great.
So, the first week of the school holidays was not quite the blissful family time I had imagined. Plus I got the flu, just to really make sure it was crappy. We went on holiday to the beach. It rained, hailed, was freezing cold. By one week post miscarriage, I was at rock bottom again. I decided I can't walk this path anymore. I can't continue to be a terrible, angry, frustrated mother and wife whilst trying to fill a gap in our family that can't be filled. We were done with this. We had finished our family. And I failed to bring the last piece home. And I am still failing.
So I did what any sane person does when she's feeling horrid. I went to see a psychic. And she said some stuff (which I won't share here, I'd hate to ruin the surprise) and I felt...hopeful. I realised that I still hadn't managed to believe that we might have another baby. But I need to focus on being ready for it, instead of rebounding off bad luck. I owe my family my best, every day. I owe those here in my house and those in heaven. And I haven't been giving it, because I wasn't sure I had it in me. I'm better than the person I am. I can do more.
Today I went for my review with my fertility specialist and I finally said what I've needed to say for some time. I'm not ready for pregnancy. I want it badly, but I'm not ready physically or emotionally. I need to love being pregnant, despite the anxiety. I need to feel good about myself. I need to be healthier. I couldn't WANT it more, but I can BE more.
New plan of attack; exercise. Get out more. And just ride out 2013. Start 2014 in a better frame of mind. Start IVF not waiting to fail. I am determined. I won't give up. Not until I am holding a precious, living baby in my arms. As a very wise lady said to me recently, "Tragedy would be giving up now, after all you've been through. Tragedy would be not getting the prize after the heartache."
Dr Kate, I promise I won't lose hope again. Hope is one thing no one can take away, we have to consciously give it up. I almost let go. It won't happen again.
Monday, 2 September 2013
Just A Phase...
IVF number one was a bust...all went well except for one thing; we didn't get pregnant. And I was surprisingly upset by that. Despite my best efforts, I sank into a deep depression. I've been through worse, I kept telling myself. What's one little negative?
Unfortunately one little negative has added to the thousands of mounting negatives and become one BIG negative. I've tried hard over the past 20 months to not sink into the 'Woe is me,' mentality. People have it worse than us. Some much worse. I know this. I know we are lucky in so many ways. But a part of me wishes that just once, things would go according to plan. Something would not be an epic fail.
I held onto my positivity for a surprising large part of our IVF cycle. For me, any assisted reproductive cycle is divided into three phases. Phase One begins when I start my medication. I feel fairly normal, smile at babies, manage my work and home life effectively, have a normal length fuse before blowing my top. Phase Two usually starts around the time I start the second medication. At this point I feel a little frazzled, still smile at babies (despite the fact that it hurts I am not yet having another one), begin to feel disorganized and under the pump at work, my housework is erratic, and I have a bit of a short temper. And then...Phase Three. Usually this is accompanied by the trio of medications which is the peak of my cycle, and around the time a new embryo is transferred into it's (hopefully) new home for the next 9 months. Around now I am teary, angry, depressed and plagued with doubt over my ability to do anything right, cry at the sight of babies, kittens, commercials and possibly just because I can't help it, work is a disaster zone, my house looks like a rowdy footy crowd have moved in, and my temper is, well, let's just say it's best to avoid me. Basically I want to throw my useless self under a train. This phase continues until one of two things happen; I get a positive blood test for pregnancy, or the other normal way a lady finds out she isn't pregnant. I held onto the hope I was pregnant until 2 days before the end of my cycle. Phase Three was not my friend.
So, when you are in Phase Three, and you get a negative test result, you don't cope too well. Already feeling atrocious, you are told that you are, indeed, a failure. And it feels like it cements everything you have been thinking. So you sink. And it's hard to get out again. No matter how many people tell you otherwise, you blame yourself. In your head you know it's not your fault, but your heart tells you a different story and it's hard to change the way you feel.
For some reason each failed cycle for me lately has been accompanied by a flurry of pregnancy announcements. I currently know no fewer than a dozen pregnant ladies. And it hurts. Don't take that the wrong way. I am so happy those beautiful women will get to enjoy the amazing journey of mother hood. I just wish I could join them. I wish their growing bump was a not a constant reminder that my growing bump is just because I like cake.
I guess it all comes back to feeling like a failure. I have failed so many times to get pregnant or stay pregnant. I have failed in bringing Poppy into this world safely. I failed in the most terrible way. And I need a not-fail. I need to feel like I've achieved something amazing. Like I can do something right.
So, the time has come, world. It's our turn to do something great. It's our turn. We've bidden our time for years and years and endured heartache and panic and fear. And we've kept our faith that one day it will be our turn. We'll, I'm calling it in. Time to pay up. Will you PLEASE knock me up? Right now? No more negatives, ok? I'm done with that. I'm sick of spreading my negativity. I'm sick of feeling negative. I want me back, and I can't be me whilst on all these hormones.
Fate, God, Buddha, Allah, Mythical Fairies of Great Western Sydney, whoever I need to talk to; The time has come. Seriously, it would be easier if you just give in now because I can write a mean letter of complaint, make a amazingly effective passively-aggressive phone calls and I'm VERY stubborn. It'll dog you until I get what I want.
Plus, guess who just entered Phase Three...you don't wanna cross me right now.
Unfortunately one little negative has added to the thousands of mounting negatives and become one BIG negative. I've tried hard over the past 20 months to not sink into the 'Woe is me,' mentality. People have it worse than us. Some much worse. I know this. I know we are lucky in so many ways. But a part of me wishes that just once, things would go according to plan. Something would not be an epic fail.
I held onto my positivity for a surprising large part of our IVF cycle. For me, any assisted reproductive cycle is divided into three phases. Phase One begins when I start my medication. I feel fairly normal, smile at babies, manage my work and home life effectively, have a normal length fuse before blowing my top. Phase Two usually starts around the time I start the second medication. At this point I feel a little frazzled, still smile at babies (despite the fact that it hurts I am not yet having another one), begin to feel disorganized and under the pump at work, my housework is erratic, and I have a bit of a short temper. And then...Phase Three. Usually this is accompanied by the trio of medications which is the peak of my cycle, and around the time a new embryo is transferred into it's (hopefully) new home for the next 9 months. Around now I am teary, angry, depressed and plagued with doubt over my ability to do anything right, cry at the sight of babies, kittens, commercials and possibly just because I can't help it, work is a disaster zone, my house looks like a rowdy footy crowd have moved in, and my temper is, well, let's just say it's best to avoid me. Basically I want to throw my useless self under a train. This phase continues until one of two things happen; I get a positive blood test for pregnancy, or the other normal way a lady finds out she isn't pregnant. I held onto the hope I was pregnant until 2 days before the end of my cycle. Phase Three was not my friend.
So, when you are in Phase Three, and you get a negative test result, you don't cope too well. Already feeling atrocious, you are told that you are, indeed, a failure. And it feels like it cements everything you have been thinking. So you sink. And it's hard to get out again. No matter how many people tell you otherwise, you blame yourself. In your head you know it's not your fault, but your heart tells you a different story and it's hard to change the way you feel.
For some reason each failed cycle for me lately has been accompanied by a flurry of pregnancy announcements. I currently know no fewer than a dozen pregnant ladies. And it hurts. Don't take that the wrong way. I am so happy those beautiful women will get to enjoy the amazing journey of mother hood. I just wish I could join them. I wish their growing bump was a not a constant reminder that my growing bump is just because I like cake.
I guess it all comes back to feeling like a failure. I have failed so many times to get pregnant or stay pregnant. I have failed in bringing Poppy into this world safely. I failed in the most terrible way. And I need a not-fail. I need to feel like I've achieved something amazing. Like I can do something right.
So, the time has come, world. It's our turn to do something great. It's our turn. We've bidden our time for years and years and endured heartache and panic and fear. And we've kept our faith that one day it will be our turn. We'll, I'm calling it in. Time to pay up. Will you PLEASE knock me up? Right now? No more negatives, ok? I'm done with that. I'm sick of spreading my negativity. I'm sick of feeling negative. I want me back, and I can't be me whilst on all these hormones.
Fate, God, Buddha, Allah, Mythical Fairies of Great Western Sydney, whoever I need to talk to; The time has come. Seriously, it would be easier if you just give in now because I can write a mean letter of complaint, make a amazingly effective passively-aggressive phone calls and I'm VERY stubborn. It'll dog you until I get what I want.
Plus, guess who just entered Phase Three...you don't wanna cross me right now.
Monday, 10 June 2013
Three little letters...I.V.F.
I guess technically it's three big words, but you get the picture. Frankly, I'm a bit pissed off that we have reached this step in our journey. Surely when your baby dies, you don't have to deal with infertility too? Whoever plans this stuff, really needs to look into that one.
IVF, hey? When we fell pregnant with Poppy, we were so glad that we didn't have to do IVF. For many reasons. One: THE MONEY. Two: The potential heartache if things go wrong and it cost us ALL THAT MONEY. And three: THE DAMN MONEY. Shit a brick, how do people manage to do more than one round? But anyway, I'll turn off being a gigantic tight ass for a moment, and get back to business.
When I had my last review with my wonderful Fertility Specialist she agreed to 3 more rounds of injections with timed IC (for those out of the know, that's, um, well, you know...). We got one real go, since the first cycle we accidentally managed to produce 8 eggs, and since I've no real desire to be Octomum, we had to cancel that cycle. The second went well, 2 nice juicy follicles, but alas no baby. And the third cycle didn't happen because, well, we ran out of time. So here we are, poised on path to, gulp, IVF. And I am truly terrified.
What if I get pregnant, and we miscarry again? We waste all that money and then walk the path we have walked so many times? What if it just doesn't work? What if?
I have tried very hard to not consider the 'What if's' but realistically, I'm a 'What if' person. I plan and schedule, and consider possibilities. It's what I do. I'd like to be prepared for all eventualities. But the 'What if's' are not helping me sleep at night.
First, the money. Perhaps if you're are a multi millionaire, and do lunch with your Toorak gal pals every Thursday, you might just say, "I won't have the caviar today girls, I've got IVF in the morning." But for a double income, no spare money, us, IVF is a hell of a lot. We would do anything for another baby, of course. We will sell the house, take out second jobs, rob a bank, whatever. Ten grand is a hell of a lot of cash to raise, especially if we have to raise it more than once. And if we need to do any specialist IVF treatments, we're looking at 15 or 20G. Holy moly. That's a car.
Secondly, I have a higher risk of miscarrying than most. I've have 4 previous early losses, plus an ectopic and a still birth. And I have Poly cystic Ovaries, another risk factor. So far we're 2 full term pregnancies from 6. Not great odds. So what if we are paying for the privilege of losing another one? Will it hurt more because we may not be able to afford to try again? I worry about that.
And, last but not least, the intervention. Getting pregnant by IVF is kind of like having some kind of bizarre time delayed threesome, in which there is no actual nooky. Just the two of us and a group of scientists who will be making the magic happen. Still a miracle, but a science driven one. Which leads me to worry; is it meant to be? I believe that life cannot be forced. Even in a petri dish, the spark of life will only happen if it's meant. But what if it doesn't? Can I handle that?
For some reason we're meant to walk this path. For some reason, Poppy was taken from us, so we could learn something else from this next step. But what? Why could we not have learnt this from her? I guess I'm a little bit frustrated because we've run this race before and at the finishing line, they said, "Sorry, false start,". Then they sent us back to the beginning again, except now the starting line is further away and in a swamp with crocodiles and sinking mud reminiscent of The Never Ending Story.
But, we've been through worse. If I've learn anything from the past 18 months, it's that we are stronger than we thought. There have been many, many times when I wondered if I could really truly get out of the black hole I was in. But I always battle back up. It's not easy, but my little family keep moving forward, pursued at times by a terrible grey cloud of despair. Realistically we can live though losing some money whilst we chase our dream of our third child. Maybe our little ray of sunshine, Miss Poppy, will lead us in the right direction. Out of the storm of our grief, to find our rainbow.
We've got the GPS ready, sweetheart, lead the way.
IVF, hey? When we fell pregnant with Poppy, we were so glad that we didn't have to do IVF. For many reasons. One: THE MONEY. Two: The potential heartache if things go wrong and it cost us ALL THAT MONEY. And three: THE DAMN MONEY. Shit a brick, how do people manage to do more than one round? But anyway, I'll turn off being a gigantic tight ass for a moment, and get back to business.
When I had my last review with my wonderful Fertility Specialist she agreed to 3 more rounds of injections with timed IC (for those out of the know, that's, um, well, you know...). We got one real go, since the first cycle we accidentally managed to produce 8 eggs, and since I've no real desire to be Octomum, we had to cancel that cycle. The second went well, 2 nice juicy follicles, but alas no baby. And the third cycle didn't happen because, well, we ran out of time. So here we are, poised on path to, gulp, IVF. And I am truly terrified.
What if I get pregnant, and we miscarry again? We waste all that money and then walk the path we have walked so many times? What if it just doesn't work? What if?
I have tried very hard to not consider the 'What if's' but realistically, I'm a 'What if' person. I plan and schedule, and consider possibilities. It's what I do. I'd like to be prepared for all eventualities. But the 'What if's' are not helping me sleep at night.
First, the money. Perhaps if you're are a multi millionaire, and do lunch with your Toorak gal pals every Thursday, you might just say, "I won't have the caviar today girls, I've got IVF in the morning." But for a double income, no spare money, us, IVF is a hell of a lot. We would do anything for another baby, of course. We will sell the house, take out second jobs, rob a bank, whatever. Ten grand is a hell of a lot of cash to raise, especially if we have to raise it more than once. And if we need to do any specialist IVF treatments, we're looking at 15 or 20G. Holy moly. That's a car.
Secondly, I have a higher risk of miscarrying than most. I've have 4 previous early losses, plus an ectopic and a still birth. And I have Poly cystic Ovaries, another risk factor. So far we're 2 full term pregnancies from 6. Not great odds. So what if we are paying for the privilege of losing another one? Will it hurt more because we may not be able to afford to try again? I worry about that.
And, last but not least, the intervention. Getting pregnant by IVF is kind of like having some kind of bizarre time delayed threesome, in which there is no actual nooky. Just the two of us and a group of scientists who will be making the magic happen. Still a miracle, but a science driven one. Which leads me to worry; is it meant to be? I believe that life cannot be forced. Even in a petri dish, the spark of life will only happen if it's meant. But what if it doesn't? Can I handle that?
For some reason we're meant to walk this path. For some reason, Poppy was taken from us, so we could learn something else from this next step. But what? Why could we not have learnt this from her? I guess I'm a little bit frustrated because we've run this race before and at the finishing line, they said, "Sorry, false start,". Then they sent us back to the beginning again, except now the starting line is further away and in a swamp with crocodiles and sinking mud reminiscent of The Never Ending Story.
But, we've been through worse. If I've learn anything from the past 18 months, it's that we are stronger than we thought. There have been many, many times when I wondered if I could really truly get out of the black hole I was in. But I always battle back up. It's not easy, but my little family keep moving forward, pursued at times by a terrible grey cloud of despair. Realistically we can live though losing some money whilst we chase our dream of our third child. Maybe our little ray of sunshine, Miss Poppy, will lead us in the right direction. Out of the storm of our grief, to find our rainbow.
We've got the GPS ready, sweetheart, lead the way.
Thursday, 14 March 2013
I'm the man with the plan...
My name is Bec and I'm a recovering grieving mother. It's been 3 months since my last post. I went to sleep on the 31st December last year and all of a sudden, somehow, it's March 14th. Bloody hell. What a blur.
The beginning of 2013 has felt something like returning to real life from an extra long holiday. 2012 seems a little fuzzy in my memory; a long, horrific dream. This year feels kind of normal. Like life has started moving again, in our new altered post-Poppy world.
If you have a good memory you will remember that around 9 months ago we began to think about having us a rainbow baby. A child born through the storm of grief to shine brightly in a families future. Not negating the pain. Never pretending it has gone. Rather recognising and honouring that after the darkest of storms, the heaviest of rain, a rainbow can appear.
We had hoped that our luck might change, that we might be blessed with a bub quickly and without too much fuss. Who was I kidding?! Us? Have something go smoothly? Fat chance... Over the course of last year we vaguely committed to fertility treatment, but it was really hard to look forward when I was still so embroiled in the past. I guess, in short, I was about as ready to have another baby as I was to climb Everest. So in December, when my latest round of treatment ended in a chemical pregnancy, I was done. I needed to take a break and reevaluate what I could handle. And what I wanted.
Did I want another child? Could I do it all again? Was I able to put aside the fear once more and plunge off that cliff into the unknown again? Frankly, I wasn't sure I even wanted to think about it. I was scared shitless. G, as always, was flexible enough to deal with my back flipping often arbitrary decision. "I really want another baby," as I gaze at some perfect little bubba at the supermarket. "I just can't!" as I trawl the internet for new information on Poppy's medical condition. But most frequently, "I don't KNOW!"
So we look 3 months off. No meds. No medical appointments. No blood tests. Nothing related to trying to conceive again. Much to G's disgust.
Anyone who has had trouble trying to get pregnant will know what I'm talking about. How structured the....you know....gets. It's all about timing, not passion. Throw in a perpetually emotionally imbalanced women, hopped up on artificial hormones, getting up early to get to the doctors before work, and things can be a little challenging. So we needed some time to reconnect. Remember why we want more kids. Just to be in love.
But the time has come. Review appointment with my lovely fertility specialist. "Aren't you getting impatient?" she asked as I sit down in her office, "I'm impatient for you! You've been forced to wait too long." And I realise I have waited long enough. If Poppy had survived, now might be the time we would have considered trying again perhaps. It feels normal now.
So we planned a plan. Three more round of my current treatment, then some invasive testing, followed by IVF. She's determined to get us baby number 3, bless her cotton socks. So armed with my plan, I stand poised to take on Mt Everest. I am sure I'll stumble more than once, and possibly slid backwards a little. But I also know I am determined, and I couldn't be more supported. I can imagine another baby now. I can value him or her as an addition to our family in their own way. Not the fill the ache left by Poppy, but to enhance the joy in our lives.
I'm ready, I think. Well, I'm fairly sure. Mostly positive. More ready than before anyway. I'm armed with my backpack, wearing my comfy hiking boots, and I have my compass in hand. Time to start the trek. And if you've ever got a hand free, could you just give me a bit of shove upwards? Ta for that.
The beginning of 2013 has felt something like returning to real life from an extra long holiday. 2012 seems a little fuzzy in my memory; a long, horrific dream. This year feels kind of normal. Like life has started moving again, in our new altered post-Poppy world.
If you have a good memory you will remember that around 9 months ago we began to think about having us a rainbow baby. A child born through the storm of grief to shine brightly in a families future. Not negating the pain. Never pretending it has gone. Rather recognising and honouring that after the darkest of storms, the heaviest of rain, a rainbow can appear.
We had hoped that our luck might change, that we might be blessed with a bub quickly and without too much fuss. Who was I kidding?! Us? Have something go smoothly? Fat chance... Over the course of last year we vaguely committed to fertility treatment, but it was really hard to look forward when I was still so embroiled in the past. I guess, in short, I was about as ready to have another baby as I was to climb Everest. So in December, when my latest round of treatment ended in a chemical pregnancy, I was done. I needed to take a break and reevaluate what I could handle. And what I wanted.
Did I want another child? Could I do it all again? Was I able to put aside the fear once more and plunge off that cliff into the unknown again? Frankly, I wasn't sure I even wanted to think about it. I was scared shitless. G, as always, was flexible enough to deal with my back flipping often arbitrary decision. "I really want another baby," as I gaze at some perfect little bubba at the supermarket. "I just can't!" as I trawl the internet for new information on Poppy's medical condition. But most frequently, "I don't KNOW!"
So we look 3 months off. No meds. No medical appointments. No blood tests. Nothing related to trying to conceive again. Much to G's disgust.
Anyone who has had trouble trying to get pregnant will know what I'm talking about. How structured the....you know....gets. It's all about timing, not passion. Throw in a perpetually emotionally imbalanced women, hopped up on artificial hormones, getting up early to get to the doctors before work, and things can be a little challenging. So we needed some time to reconnect. Remember why we want more kids. Just to be in love.
But the time has come. Review appointment with my lovely fertility specialist. "Aren't you getting impatient?" she asked as I sit down in her office, "I'm impatient for you! You've been forced to wait too long." And I realise I have waited long enough. If Poppy had survived, now might be the time we would have considered trying again perhaps. It feels normal now.
So we planned a plan. Three more round of my current treatment, then some invasive testing, followed by IVF. She's determined to get us baby number 3, bless her cotton socks. So armed with my plan, I stand poised to take on Mt Everest. I am sure I'll stumble more than once, and possibly slid backwards a little. But I also know I am determined, and I couldn't be more supported. I can imagine another baby now. I can value him or her as an addition to our family in their own way. Not the fill the ache left by Poppy, but to enhance the joy in our lives.
I'm ready, I think. Well, I'm fairly sure. Mostly positive. More ready than before anyway. I'm armed with my backpack, wearing my comfy hiking boots, and I have my compass in hand. Time to start the trek. And if you've ever got a hand free, could you just give me a bit of shove upwards? Ta for that.
Sunday, 30 December 2012
2012...the year of picking up the pieces
It's been a year since I posted my first blog entry. I didn't know then that it would help me so much! A reborn love of writing has bloomed in me, and I get some peace from this. A small blessing, but one I'm grateful for.
2012. The year that the anaesthetic wore off, and I had to start putting things back together. I feel a bit like that chic at the end of a disaster movie who finally gets to sit down and rest; covered in blood, dirt and alien slime, and in need of someone to give her a big hug. I have been trying really hard to pinpoint the moment when I started feeling like the battle was over and I was ready to start the rebuild. But sometime over the past few weeks, I've started to find myself feeling braver. Stronger. Better.
Now, I am not saying I've regained all my sanity. I am still likely to lose my shit over stupid things, swear more than I ever have, possibly break a few more plates (I have too many anyway...), but I feel like I have some semblance of control over things again. Grief is a very weird thing, and it takes so much of you. It's not just feeling sad. Grief, real grief, consumes you. I have found that I couldn't cope with anything going wrong. I couldn't cope with changes in plans. I couldn't manage situation where I might meet new people and they might ask questions I wouldn't know how to answer. I felt like a bottle mostly filled with sand and even a small scoop of anything more was enough to push me over the edge.
I feel different now. Something has changed in me; the dam broke and some of the sand in the bottle has slipped away. I have more...space...for things. For life. For love.
The past year has been hard, and there have been times when I have wondered if I could survive it. If my marriage and my friendships and my job could survive it. But somehow, mostly through the patience of the wonderful people in my life, I withstood being swept away with the storm of my grief. I faced losing my child and I have learnt to manage the pain. I'm a bit astounded, actually.
As the year comes to an end, a year with so many ups and downs I wondered many times if I would permanently feel a bit seasick, I thought it would be a good time to take stock of all that's happened. So here goes...
SHITTY STUFF
On the eve of 2013, I make a new promise to myself. To be well again. To want to live again, and make the most of this little life I have. I'm excited for 2013. I hope we can make it a lucky one for all of us. 'Cause let's face it, we ought to be due for a good year.
2012. The year that the anaesthetic wore off, and I had to start putting things back together. I feel a bit like that chic at the end of a disaster movie who finally gets to sit down and rest; covered in blood, dirt and alien slime, and in need of someone to give her a big hug. I have been trying really hard to pinpoint the moment when I started feeling like the battle was over and I was ready to start the rebuild. But sometime over the past few weeks, I've started to find myself feeling braver. Stronger. Better.
Now, I am not saying I've regained all my sanity. I am still likely to lose my shit over stupid things, swear more than I ever have, possibly break a few more plates (I have too many anyway...), but I feel like I have some semblance of control over things again. Grief is a very weird thing, and it takes so much of you. It's not just feeling sad. Grief, real grief, consumes you. I have found that I couldn't cope with anything going wrong. I couldn't cope with changes in plans. I couldn't manage situation where I might meet new people and they might ask questions I wouldn't know how to answer. I felt like a bottle mostly filled with sand and even a small scoop of anything more was enough to push me over the edge.
I feel different now. Something has changed in me; the dam broke and some of the sand in the bottle has slipped away. I have more...space...for things. For life. For love.
The past year has been hard, and there have been times when I have wondered if I could survive it. If my marriage and my friendships and my job could survive it. But somehow, mostly through the patience of the wonderful people in my life, I withstood being swept away with the storm of my grief. I faced losing my child and I have learnt to manage the pain. I'm a bit astounded, actually.
As the year comes to an end, a year with so many ups and downs I wondered many times if I would permanently feel a bit seasick, I thought it would be a good time to take stock of all that's happened. So here goes...
SHITTY STUFF
- The feeling of being so alone and frightened, and wondering if I would ever feel part of the world again
- The physical pain that went with losing Poppy, and the fear and anger that consumed me at times
- Trying to help Xav through his own grief and understanding of death
- Hamish (my gorgeous nephew) battling cancer, undergoing chemo and losing his leg
- Nana Grace passing away
- Wondering if I could ever do my job well again
- Losing touch with some people who didn't know what to say to us
- Being hurt by people who didn't know what to say to us
- Feeling like a terrible wife, mother & friend
- The people who reached out, who didn't stop calling, who didn't stop inviting me to things, knowing eventually I would start going again
- Knowing that not everyone would forget Poppy, and she would mean something to many people
- Learning that my family would stick by us though thick and thin, and I would always try to do the same
- Hamish being cancer-free :)
- Meeting many new friends who know and understand the grief of losing a child
- Managing to work, and still do a good job
- Finding I work in a great place with great people
- Knowing I have real friends, who have been there for me
- Using the time Poppy gave me to learn cake decorating
- Beginning to try harder to be a better wife, mother and friend
- Learning to stop stressing over the small stuff.
- Being less compassionate and more compassionate at the same time
- Learning the things about myself that I don't like, but needing to know them so I can begin to be better at them
- Wanting the joy of another baby, but being frightened of having one, or replacing Poppy
On the eve of 2013, I make a new promise to myself. To be well again. To want to live again, and make the most of this little life I have. I'm excited for 2013. I hope we can make it a lucky one for all of us. 'Cause let's face it, we ought to be due for a good year.
Friday, 14 December 2012
Happy 1st Birthday, My Darling
It's been a while since I wrote a post with tears in my eyes, but if I told you that was true of this one, I'd be lying. I plan to spend today howling. Because, frankly, a year ago my daughter died. And it still hurts like hell.
Tomorrow is the 15th of December. It is a day I've been dreading for a year. It's the last of the firsts. There will be no more firsts. I will never see Poppy's first anything. No first smile. No first step. No first day of school or first boyfriend. This is the very last one. Her first birthday.
I am trying really hard to not think of all the things I should be doing today. Wrapping presents for Poppy to tear open tomorrow, no doubt with the help of her adoring big brother. Decorating a suitably ginormous princess-themed cake. Hoping for nice weather tomorrow so she can enjoy her first go on a jumping castle, like Xav did on his first birthday. But I'm trying hard not think of those things.
We've tried to do some things we might have been doing. We went and picked out a pretty dress for Poppy. We argued when the one we all liked wasn't available in a size 1, and then giggled about why in the hell does it matter? We're shopping for our daughter who will never wear it. I'm making a cake, but not the cake I would have made had Poppy been here to blow out the candles. We're having a celebration of sorts, but not a jumping castle, or balloons, or gifts. Not at all the shindig I'd been planning since I got pregnant with my baby. We're trying to capture a little bit of the magic of a first birthday. But it will never, ever be enough.
Maybe it will be a good thing, having the last first behind us. Instead of this feeling of waiting and wanting. Maybe, it's moving forward. But I just wish it were different. I wish I had been able to have Poppy here. I wish I was sitting here saying, "I can't believe how she's grown!"...
Instead my tears fall. And fall. And fall.
There is no light hearted, meaningful ending here today. I am allowing myself today for my loss. Tomorrow, tomorrow is for the joy of my daughter's creation and what she gave us. But today, I think I'm allowed to cry.
Tomorrow is the 15th of December. It is a day I've been dreading for a year. It's the last of the firsts. There will be no more firsts. I will never see Poppy's first anything. No first smile. No first step. No first day of school or first boyfriend. This is the very last one. Her first birthday.
I am trying really hard to not think of all the things I should be doing today. Wrapping presents for Poppy to tear open tomorrow, no doubt with the help of her adoring big brother. Decorating a suitably ginormous princess-themed cake. Hoping for nice weather tomorrow so she can enjoy her first go on a jumping castle, like Xav did on his first birthday. But I'm trying hard not think of those things.
We've tried to do some things we might have been doing. We went and picked out a pretty dress for Poppy. We argued when the one we all liked wasn't available in a size 1, and then giggled about why in the hell does it matter? We're shopping for our daughter who will never wear it. I'm making a cake, but not the cake I would have made had Poppy been here to blow out the candles. We're having a celebration of sorts, but not a jumping castle, or balloons, or gifts. Not at all the shindig I'd been planning since I got pregnant with my baby. We're trying to capture a little bit of the magic of a first birthday. But it will never, ever be enough.
Maybe it will be a good thing, having the last first behind us. Instead of this feeling of waiting and wanting. Maybe, it's moving forward. But I just wish it were different. I wish I had been able to have Poppy here. I wish I was sitting here saying, "I can't believe how she's grown!"...
Instead my tears fall. And fall. And fall.
There is no light hearted, meaningful ending here today. I am allowing myself today for my loss. Tomorrow, tomorrow is for the joy of my daughter's creation and what she gave us. But today, I think I'm allowed to cry.
Sunday, 4 November 2012
Grateful
I realised recently that I spend a lot of my time feeling generally peeved with life. I am at times very dissatisfied with what life has dumped at our doorstep, the path our world has meandered this past year, and the pain it has brought us. And it got me to thinking; how does one become so bitter? How do you move on from the anger that boils in your blood? How do you get back to loving the life that once fulfilled you?
I realised I find very little joy in my world. I try, I really do. There are things that make me happier, many things. But I'm always filled with this insatiable thirst for joy to come back into my life, even though it's me and my selfish pain that's preventing it.
"No more," I said to myself this morning. "Today I make the effort to be better."
Obviously I didn't say this out loud, G puts up with enough crazy from me. But I'm trying to flip the switch back to being grateful. Replace grief with acceptance. Anger with hope. Yearning for more with need for the simple things.
It may seem odd to you that someone who knows the pain of such loss can be ungrateful for what they have. But I am consumed with what I lost. The daughter I wanted so badly, and felt I had suffered so much to deserve. I feel robbed of what I worked for. After being determined to not be filled with hate and anger, for Poppy to not always equal pain, I feel exactly that. I turned her short existence into a shroud of 'It's not fair!'. And it's not, really. No death is ever fair. Someone must always suffer the pain of being left behind.
But today I decided to make her mean more. Make me see the joy in my life again, the goodness that is there. I would be grateful for what I have.
So I started by laying watching G sleep, marvelling in the fact that for some strange reason this man chose me. Chose to be in my life. I am grateful for this man.
Next, Xav came bundling in at 6.51am, and I am grateful he is well enough to bundle out of bed so early and be excited about the day. And when he whispered, "Mummy, thanks for giving me my dragon toy yesterday, I love you," and I'm grateful that he is so kind and tries so hard to be good. I am grateful I was given the job of being his mother. I am grateful for my son.
I made some breakfast, and after my cereal was finished, I was grateful at the fact that the milk was still cold and I was able to have as much as I liked. I am grateful we always have enough to eat.
I thought about seeing my friends last night, and how wonderful it is to have friends who don't treat me weird, despite my weirdness. I am grateful for them.
I got the cupcakes ready for work for tomorrow, and I am grateful that I work in a place where I feel comfortable, and there are people who are great friends and they supportive of me.
I thought about catching up with my family later today, and how great it is that I see my family so much, and we love each other, support each other and always (despite all those little arguments) end up respecting our values and differences. I am grateful I married into much an great family. I am supremely grateful for my family.
I am grateful for the beauty of the sun light streaming through the curtains, and the leaves on Poppy's tree.
I am grateful for the fact we are strong enough to bear what we have been through. I am grateful to understand to medical jargon that was thrown at us, and have people who could and would answer our questions.
It turns out I am grateful for many things. I have love in my life, all around me. I guess it's not that I am ungrateful, I am just broken. The love could not stay in a heart so broken, but not because it isn't there, just because the whole contraption isn't working properly right now. But once I fix it, once it's mended, I think the capacity for love will be more; endless.
I guess a heart needs to stretch in all directions, bear both tremendous heartache and immense joy, to help it become big enough to hold the love that can now fill our life. Poppy has brought us both: in her creation and death.
I am grateful for Poppy. I am grateful.
I realised I find very little joy in my world. I try, I really do. There are things that make me happier, many things. But I'm always filled with this insatiable thirst for joy to come back into my life, even though it's me and my selfish pain that's preventing it.
"No more," I said to myself this morning. "Today I make the effort to be better."
Obviously I didn't say this out loud, G puts up with enough crazy from me. But I'm trying to flip the switch back to being grateful. Replace grief with acceptance. Anger with hope. Yearning for more with need for the simple things.
It may seem odd to you that someone who knows the pain of such loss can be ungrateful for what they have. But I am consumed with what I lost. The daughter I wanted so badly, and felt I had suffered so much to deserve. I feel robbed of what I worked for. After being determined to not be filled with hate and anger, for Poppy to not always equal pain, I feel exactly that. I turned her short existence into a shroud of 'It's not fair!'. And it's not, really. No death is ever fair. Someone must always suffer the pain of being left behind.
But today I decided to make her mean more. Make me see the joy in my life again, the goodness that is there. I would be grateful for what I have.
So I started by laying watching G sleep, marvelling in the fact that for some strange reason this man chose me. Chose to be in my life. I am grateful for this man.
Next, Xav came bundling in at 6.51am, and I am grateful he is well enough to bundle out of bed so early and be excited about the day. And when he whispered, "Mummy, thanks for giving me my dragon toy yesterday, I love you," and I'm grateful that he is so kind and tries so hard to be good. I am grateful I was given the job of being his mother. I am grateful for my son.
I made some breakfast, and after my cereal was finished, I was grateful at the fact that the milk was still cold and I was able to have as much as I liked. I am grateful we always have enough to eat.
I thought about seeing my friends last night, and how wonderful it is to have friends who don't treat me weird, despite my weirdness. I am grateful for them.
I got the cupcakes ready for work for tomorrow, and I am grateful that I work in a place where I feel comfortable, and there are people who are great friends and they supportive of me.
I thought about catching up with my family later today, and how great it is that I see my family so much, and we love each other, support each other and always (despite all those little arguments) end up respecting our values and differences. I am grateful I married into much an great family. I am supremely grateful for my family.
I am grateful for the beauty of the sun light streaming through the curtains, and the leaves on Poppy's tree.
I am grateful for the fact we are strong enough to bear what we have been through. I am grateful to understand to medical jargon that was thrown at us, and have people who could and would answer our questions.
It turns out I am grateful for many things. I have love in my life, all around me. I guess it's not that I am ungrateful, I am just broken. The love could not stay in a heart so broken, but not because it isn't there, just because the whole contraption isn't working properly right now. But once I fix it, once it's mended, I think the capacity for love will be more; endless.
I guess a heart needs to stretch in all directions, bear both tremendous heartache and immense joy, to help it become big enough to hold the love that can now fill our life. Poppy has brought us both: in her creation and death.
I am grateful for Poppy. I am grateful.
Thursday, 27 September 2012
Filling the void
You know that big hole in my chest I sometimes talk about? I realised that I don't feel it so keenly anymore. It's still there, still a big part of me, but I've begun to find ways to...fill it? Live around it? I'm not sure how to describe the feeling of knowing it's there but not acknowledging it all the time. I guess I can control the feeling better than I could a while ago.
I've filled it with many things. My beautiful Xav, and making memories with him, learning more about what he's thinking and feeling. Work fills time, and it takes energy. Trying to make time to spend with G. Birthdays. Anniversaries. My family. Cake decorating.
But really what I yearn for is another baby. Not to replace Poppy, but to fulfil this need I have to have more living children than angel ones. But that is a long process, and may take some time to achieve. How do I manage in the mean time? This has plagued me for awhile, ever since I decided that I wasn't quite ready to embark on the trying to conceive journey just yet. I desperately want another baby, but I'm not ready for the rest of it yet. The months of attempts, which should be fun, take all the intimacy out of it. Timing things to fit in with cycles, injections, what I ate today, what G washed his jocks in, phases of the moon, and possibly applying some sort of herbal mix in my bellybutton and under G's left armpit, take all the spontaneity out of things. Since I can't even seem to remember what I'm doing between standing up from my chair and taking the next step, I figured I wasn't quite ready for the schedule of trying again. Not to mention the stressful pregnancy, and the barrage of testing I will need once I am finally up the duff. Anyway, I digress. How was I to cope with needing the baby but not yet ready?
Hamish. My sweet little nephew Hamish, who should be growing up with my Poppy, has been an endless source of joy for me. My amazing sister who lets me completely over mother him, and live outrageously vicariously through him. He's an absolute sweetheart and despite enormous difficulties in his own little life, he is a ray of sunshine for all of us. So I guess through Hamish I get a lot of the baby stuff. I change nappies. I shower him in cuddles and kisses. I watched dotingly as he cut his first teeth, tried his first foods, crawled for the first time. I even looked after him for a whole weekend, and Xav and G and I got to pretend for a little while. It was nice, and it strengthened my resolve that maybe the time had come to really start to move forward.
So with a weekend with a baby under our belts, and not major accidents, illnesses or injuries, we thought it was time to give it a go full time. So I did two things. I started back on fertility meds, and...we bought a puppy. Ostensibly, the puppy was for Xav's 6th birthday. But he is also a piece of puzzle filling the void we feel in Poppy's absence from our lives. We picked what sort of dog we wanted, I found a breeder who had a litter ready to go, and off we went.
We picked up our new fur baby on a Sunday. Ironically, I was violently ill the whole way to get him. Pseudo morning sickness maybe? I was nervous. I had the 'puppy bag' packed, the paper work ready, I'd set up a space at home for him. I read every bit of info I could find about helping him settle in.
We met the lovely breeder in a Macca's car park in Albury. Not quite the glamour befitting our newest addition, but what can you do? We presented him to Xav, who reacted with the surprise and excitement we had hoped for, and after some consideration decided to name him Thor.
My first cuddles with Thor involved me rocking him. Upon realisation that I looked absolutely ridiculous, I reminded myself he was not an actual human baby and rocking was probably not necessary, he snuggled up under my chin and promptly fell asleep. I have to say, at that point, I was hooked. This cute little puppy became another fluffy little piece in helping us heal.
Within two days we were all madly in love with Thor, despite the fact we have to get up through the night, clean up messes, shop for puppy things, live without a phone as he's chewed through the cord... We've started some basic training and Xav and I hate leaving him at home when we go out. Thor cries and snuggles and plays. All the things we'd probably be doing with Poppy about now. Our little fur baby.
It's nice have a new member of the family. But more than that, it's nice having something to be happy and excited about. Nice to share a picture of our new 'baby' and not feel pain. I am glad he's in our lives. If we have to have this void, I'm so glad he's here to help us fill it.
Welcome to our family, Thor. I can't promise a smooth ride, but I can promise endless love and support. We hope you like it here.
So, Thor makes 5. Hopefully we'll make 6, someday soon.
I've filled it with many things. My beautiful Xav, and making memories with him, learning more about what he's thinking and feeling. Work fills time, and it takes energy. Trying to make time to spend with G. Birthdays. Anniversaries. My family. Cake decorating.
But really what I yearn for is another baby. Not to replace Poppy, but to fulfil this need I have to have more living children than angel ones. But that is a long process, and may take some time to achieve. How do I manage in the mean time? This has plagued me for awhile, ever since I decided that I wasn't quite ready to embark on the trying to conceive journey just yet. I desperately want another baby, but I'm not ready for the rest of it yet. The months of attempts, which should be fun, take all the intimacy out of it. Timing things to fit in with cycles, injections, what I ate today, what G washed his jocks in, phases of the moon, and possibly applying some sort of herbal mix in my bellybutton and under G's left armpit, take all the spontaneity out of things. Since I can't even seem to remember what I'm doing between standing up from my chair and taking the next step, I figured I wasn't quite ready for the schedule of trying again. Not to mention the stressful pregnancy, and the barrage of testing I will need once I am finally up the duff. Anyway, I digress. How was I to cope with needing the baby but not yet ready?
Hamish. My sweet little nephew Hamish, who should be growing up with my Poppy, has been an endless source of joy for me. My amazing sister who lets me completely over mother him, and live outrageously vicariously through him. He's an absolute sweetheart and despite enormous difficulties in his own little life, he is a ray of sunshine for all of us. So I guess through Hamish I get a lot of the baby stuff. I change nappies. I shower him in cuddles and kisses. I watched dotingly as he cut his first teeth, tried his first foods, crawled for the first time. I even looked after him for a whole weekend, and Xav and G and I got to pretend for a little while. It was nice, and it strengthened my resolve that maybe the time had come to really start to move forward.
So with a weekend with a baby under our belts, and not major accidents, illnesses or injuries, we thought it was time to give it a go full time. So I did two things. I started back on fertility meds, and...we bought a puppy. Ostensibly, the puppy was for Xav's 6th birthday. But he is also a piece of puzzle filling the void we feel in Poppy's absence from our lives. We picked what sort of dog we wanted, I found a breeder who had a litter ready to go, and off we went.
We picked up our new fur baby on a Sunday. Ironically, I was violently ill the whole way to get him. Pseudo morning sickness maybe? I was nervous. I had the 'puppy bag' packed, the paper work ready, I'd set up a space at home for him. I read every bit of info I could find about helping him settle in.
We met the lovely breeder in a Macca's car park in Albury. Not quite the glamour befitting our newest addition, but what can you do? We presented him to Xav, who reacted with the surprise and excitement we had hoped for, and after some consideration decided to name him Thor.
My first cuddles with Thor involved me rocking him. Upon realisation that I looked absolutely ridiculous, I reminded myself he was not an actual human baby and rocking was probably not necessary, he snuggled up under my chin and promptly fell asleep. I have to say, at that point, I was hooked. This cute little puppy became another fluffy little piece in helping us heal.
Within two days we were all madly in love with Thor, despite the fact we have to get up through the night, clean up messes, shop for puppy things, live without a phone as he's chewed through the cord... We've started some basic training and Xav and I hate leaving him at home when we go out. Thor cries and snuggles and plays. All the things we'd probably be doing with Poppy about now. Our little fur baby.
It's nice have a new member of the family. But more than that, it's nice having something to be happy and excited about. Nice to share a picture of our new 'baby' and not feel pain. I am glad he's in our lives. If we have to have this void, I'm so glad he's here to help us fill it.
Welcome to our family, Thor. I can't promise a smooth ride, but I can promise endless love and support. We hope you like it here.
So, Thor makes 5. Hopefully we'll make 6, someday soon.
Xav and Thor <3
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