… the musings of an overly organized thirty-something, married, southern librarian turned stay-at-home-mom with too many opinions, too much ambition, just enough kids, and a stubborn, mouthy, redheaded country boy to accompany her through life.
On August 16th of 2023, I watched the screen as a little white dot descended into my uterine lining, hoping and praying that my $5,000 embryo transfer would take. I took the envelope from the nurse, containing the photo of my embryo, refusing to look at it until I knew whether or not I’d ever hold that little life in my arms. Just 10 days later, I received the news that, indeed, I was pregnant. I continued my progesterone shots for another six weeks, before I saw and heard confirmation that my baby had a beating heart on my final ultrasound with the fertility clinic. The pregnancy was viable. As I readied to leave, I jokingly told my doctor that I hoped I’d never see him again. Just a few short weeks later, the blood test came back. My baby was a healthy little boy. I would finally have the two girls and two boys I had always wanted. After this third pregnancy and fourth child in three years, we were done… which was exactly how the announcements were worded over the next few months. #fourthandfinalgranger
I spent my pregnancy with my Sullivan cherishing every milestone as the last. Jake vetoed every name for the last time. I made my last Christmas stocking and baby blanket. I felt my last first kick. I saw my last ultrasounds. Every moment was precious, right up to point when they stuck me with that needle to administer the spinal for my C-section. As the doctor opened me up, she affirmed all these sentiments, announcing that she didn’t recommend another pregnancy, because my uterus was so thin. That was quite alright with me, because I’d accepted that this was the last time I’d feel that tug and hear that first cry. It was the last time I’d hold my brand new baby on my chest, whispering how I loved him despite how very gross he was at that moment. This was my last hospital stay and my last recovery.
My Sully was and is perfect, y’all, utterly and completely. He was my largest baby, at 8 pounds, 12 ounces and his birth was the second time in my life that I’ve loved a boy at first sight. Though exhausted from the drugs, I’ll never forget the feeling of knowing his heart was racing until he lay on my chest as I snuggled him. I hardly put him down in the following hours, despite the pain of my surgerical wound. I watched and recorded as the nurse gave him his first bath. I dressed him in his going home outfit and took photos of his first car ride. The next day, I introduced him to his sisters and brother, joking that he was the last one.
Over the next few weeks, I was perfectly content knowing that Sully was my final baby, as I soaked up all of the newborn snuggles. Four years after finding out Jake and I might never have children, I had everything I ever wanted. I could donate my remaining embryos with the peace of mind that I’d had the children I could have without risking their mother. My family was whole.
Four weeks after giving birth, I returned for my follow-up appointment and simply asked for verification that I couldn’t safely carry more children. This time, however, there was a significant shift to my doctor’s tone. What had previously been a recommendation not to get pregnant again had turned to a casual note that I would be fine, as long as we delivered at 36 weeks, to avoid labor. Having had the girls at 35 weeks, I know firsthand that this isn’t a big deal. With that one conversation, my world turned on a dime. Just an hour earlier, I’d been absolutely content with the knowledge that my five remaining embryos would be donated to a couple of my choosing when I was ready. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.
When Jake and I started our IVF journey, we only spoke briefly about what we’d do with leftover embryos. Having been assured by the doctor that we’d be lucky to get three, maybe four, we weren’t especially concerned, particularly since our previous cycle had been a complete failure. When I found out we had eight embryos I figured that, with the odds being 50/50 for each, we could possibly even have all of them ourselves. Then, both embryos took and we had the Violet and Scarlett. Then, Thomas came naturally, despite all odds. Then, my first FET took and gave me Sully. I’m beyond fortunate to have my family, but I’m not sure I can give up more of my children than I’ve even had, knowing I could carry them. It’s been four months since my Sully came into my life and I’m no longer sure my family is whole. I look at his little face and see such a stark resemblance to his sisters. I can’t help but imagine other babies with the same fat cheeks and plump lips. I don’t particularly want more children, but I also feel a responsibility to have as many of the embryos I created as I safely can.
There are a lot of moral objections to IVF. As a practicing Catholic, who simply was not strong enough to trust in God to give her children, I am well aware of the arguments against it. While I won’t debate those here, I am starting to feel that there’s not enough education surrounding the topic of leftover embryos. Sure, you’re told it’s a possibility and given a couple of options, but every single couple experiencing that stage of infertility is lost in a fog of fear that they’ll never have children. Jake and I, quite literally, ended the discussion with the agreement to think about it after we were actually able to have a family. That would be Future Belle’s and Future Jake’s problem. Well, here I am, Future Belle and I… don’t think I can do it.
When I was recovering from heart failure, after the girls were born, my cardiologist told me about a woman who continually played Russian roulette, regardless of being advised against more pregnancies. After her sixth, she ended up in permanent, life-altering heart failure. I am not that woman. If and when I’m told that I can no longer safely carry a child, I will be done. Having had three C-sections already, I know the number of children I can carry is finitem. However many embroys remain, I will donate to a childless couple and hope they have a beautiful life. While it might be difficult, I’m comfortable with explaining to an adult biological child that I couldn’t risk my own life when I had other children. What I’m not comfortable with, however, is explaining that I gave them up because I just wasn’t up for it. Furthermore, I don’t think I can tell my existing children that, had a different embryologist been working that day, they might not have made the cut for my vision of a perfect family.
While Jake hasn’t ruled out the possibility of more children, I do think he’s waiting for me to change my mind. I am so tired of being pregnant. I want to get my body back and feel strong, once again. I want to enjoy the family I have and move on to the next stage of life. He knows that. Personally, I think he’s waiting in vain. I have another six months or so before I’d want to do a transfer, to see if I can come to terms with donating my embryos. I have no desire to put this off, only to panic at 40 and insist it’s not too late. In the meantime, I just don’t know that my family is whole.
PUPO (Pregnant Until Proven Otherwise). It’s a popular acronym in the infertility community, usually accompanied by embryo photos and descriptions of pregnancy symptoms that could realistically only be the side effects of progesterone injections, even if the poster is pregnant. For 10-14 days (depending on the clinic), these maybe mothers-to-be excitedly count down to testing day, imagining the baby that could be. When the time comes, some excitedly announce a “sensitive post,” which literally even the most casual observer like myself knows proceeds a positive test. Others post videos of themselves breaking down. Many just disappear for a few days or weeks to process a lost embryo. I’ve never been an active participant in the infertility community, myself. I understand that different people cope with this terrible situation in different ways, but aside from this blog, I’m a private sufferer. I haven’t told a soul we’ve undergone a transfer. If it fails, no one will know. Maybe that’s healthy and maybe it’s not, but I don’t see how doing full make-up and posting a photo of myself crying behind a letter board announcing the results to the world would any healthier.
These last seven days have been absolutely wretched. My hips are black and blue from the injections. I’m exhausted from stress-induced lack of sleep. I ironically yelled at my precious two-year-old for being rough with a book called “K is for Kindness.” I honestly don’t know how other women choose to embrace the possibility of success, especially those who’ve experienced thedevastating call that goes something like this:
“I need you to stop taking all medications immediately. The side effects should fade within the next week. You can expect a really heavy period. We’d like you to wait at least one cycle before trying again, but after that, it should be quite simple.”
Simple. I just have to fork over another $4,000 – $5,000 and spend two more months yelling at my children and husband, randomly bursting into tears, and feeling like I have the flu… all while wrangling three in diapers. A part of me envies the positivity of these women announcing that they are “PUPO”. The realist in me understands that if the power of positive thinking created babies, we wouldn’t be here. No matter what we do, we are simply experiencing a case of Schrodinger’s Baby, a term anyone who has nerdy friends or a cursory knowledge of The Big Bang Theory, should be able to decipher. Per Wikipedia:
In quantum mechanics, Schrödinger’s cat is a thought experiment that illustrates a paradox of quantum superposition. In the thought experiment, a hypothetical cat may be considered simultaneously both alive and dead, while it is unobserved in a closed box, as a result of its fate being linked to a random subatomic event that may or may not occur.
We are both pregnant and not pregnant simultaneously. More morbidly, our embryos are both alive and not alive. We can do nothing to increase the odds. We just have to wait… miserably.
I’ve spent the last seven days both certain that I’ll complete my family… and also that I’ll let everyone down, destroying our baby, my children’s sibling, and wasting the $5,000 we’ve gambled on this cat being alive when we open the box. I’ve both declared that I’ll drain my own retirement to get my fourth before I’ll donate it with my other embryos… and also that I cannot do this again. I’ve felt hopeful… and I’ve cried in Jake’s arms over the fact that it’s not supposed to be like this, that it’s not fair that this is how we have to make a baby. I’ve cuddled my Thomas and been so very grateful I got to have him the traditional way… and I’ve been bitter that I didn’t get to do so again. I’ve thanked God that I didn’t have to go through IVF again… and I’ve been certain that this is equally difficult.
My blood test is tomorrow. I will either find relief… or long for this state of not knowing, this phenomenon of Schrodinger’s Baby, because at least then, there was a chance and that was better. I cannot do this again… unless I have have to do this again.
When I found out I was pregnant with Thomas, my feelings were surprisingly conflicted. I wanted another baby, but a natural conception meant there was one more frozen embryo I wouldn’t get to use myself. The cost savings were great, but I was still worried about my health. I wanted more children, for my girls to have more siblings, but not at the expense of growing up without a mother. It was good news, of course, but bittersweet in a sense.
A practicing Catholic, I don’t believe in auras, crystals, or intuition beyond the norm. More than once, I’ve lost respect for someone’s intelligence when they’ve tried to sell me on horoscopes or personality tests beyond silly fun. I don’t mean quietly, either. Words like “hogwash” and “malarkey” are my immediate response to any mention of the Enneagram or Myers-Briggs. I’ll even back it up with citations. That said, I’ve always felt that I was meant to have four children, similar to the way I always felt I was meant to have twins. I assign no greater meaning to the idea, nor do I claim to have some kind of foresight or premonition. It’s just a feeling. As I go through this embryo transfer process, however, I feel more and more that this is how it was meant to be, because y’all, I don’t think I could have done this again had it been required to bring my Thomas into the world.
When I wrote about my first appointment to the fertility clinic since 2020, when the girls were conceived, I mentioned how much I seem to have blocked out since then. That being the case, I honestly don’t recall what it was like undergoing back-to-back pandemic IVF. I don’t really remember the mood swings and the side effects of the drugs. Considering the impact of the medications required for this FET, I don’t think I want to remember, either. Last time, I only had Jake to burden, when I lost my temper or found myself incredibly depressed by the entire process. Now, I have three wonderful little humans relying on me as their primary source of affection on an average weekday… and it sucks.
I won’t say that I’m a paragon of “gentle parenting” on a normal day. I firmly believe the constant cajoling and bargaining parents do with their children to get them to behave is why they’re all little nightmares. Still, like most parents, I’m trying to break patterns from my own childhood. I offer choices when possible. I ask nicely at least twice. I try to not to yell, unless someone’s in danger. I refuse to use screentime as a crutch. Put me on birth control pills alone, though…
Folks, I am completely rethinking the ubiquity of hormonal birth control over here. After a couple of years on Mirena with few side effects from the localized hormones, I never went back on any kind of hormonal birth control. Five weeks on the pill before switching to estrogen, though, and I feel like I’m going to be the subject of an HBO docuseries. It doesn’t help that my own mother likely had undiagnosed bipolar disorder, a declaration I don’t make lightly, considering my entire generation’s obsession with self-diagnoses. Whatever the cause, when I was growing up, it wasn’t rare for a night of fun and laughter to take a hard left turn toward broken furniture and bruises. While I’ve certainly not been violent, I loathe feeling as though I can’t control my emotions around my children. They depend on me to be loving, kind, and playful, not angry, short-tempered, and depressed. I know everyone thinks it’s lunacy to have my babies so close together, but my stars, at this point, I’m just glad they won’t remember this.
I hope this transfer works for so many reasons. I want our embryo to thrive and grow into a healthy baby boy or girl. I want our family to finally be complete. I don’t want our financial investment to be for nothing. I want the strain I’m putting on my body to have a purpose. I want a fourth so badly and we have embryos to use, so I can’t say if this fails I won’t try again. Still, I just want this to be over, because I don’t think I can do this more than once.
I’ve never done a frozen embryo transfer, or FET. It’s been almost exactly three years since we started the journey to our family on July 18th, 2020, with what would be our first IVF cycle. An utter failure, we had no embryos to freeze and immediately put down a $1,000 deposit to start the next cycle, as soon as possible. That one resulted in our twin girls, Violet and Scarlett, along with six frozen embryos. We’d planned to do an FET the summer of 2022, despite my fears and hesitancy. Thomas surprised us just in time, though, as the baby we were told we couldn’t conceive. So, I am blessedly the mother of three and have never undergone an FET.
I keep telling myself this is easier than pandemic IVF. There’s no need for theatrics and melodrama. Even if this doesn’t work, if it never works and just isn’t meant to be, we have three children. Two girls and a boy is an infertile couple’s literal dream. Anything less than relentless gratitude is selfish and overdramatic. That’s what I tell myself. It hasn’t really set in, though.
I suppose this is easier, but my stars did I fail to prepare myself for how far that would still land me from easy. The grating sound of every person on HGTV ever as I sit in the waiting room, the ultrasounds, the blood draws, the small crowd looking at my vagina,all have me near my breaking point. The expense as I put our family’s financial well-being on the line, knowing I might disappoint everyone and destroy our embryo, our baby… well, that has me crying in my car over a fresh bag of prescriptions, thinking how it isn’t supposed to be this way. I’m not supposed to be building my family through procedures and medications. I’m supposed to enjoy being with my husband for a few unprotected months and receive wonderful news in my own bathroom for the cost of a one dollar pregnancy test. I’m not supposed to be going through this alone again.
I have to remind myself why I’m alone. It’s not election day 2020, mid-pandemic, and I am not having another egg retrieval while Jake waits in the car, unable to join his wife in surgery because of Covid-19. I’m alone because he’s at home with our three children, who I refuse to bring into a fertility clinic. They were created out of a different kind of love, as a different kind of miracle, but that’s just how our family was meant to be built. It’s not fair that this is how we have to do it, but we’re so lucky it’s an option available to us. We’re so lucky to have gotten Thomas without the cost and drama. They are all so very worth it.
Still, I’m going to allow myself a few more minutes to finish crying in my car.
When I was little, my parents lived in a trailer on five acres, next to the five acres owned by my Gramma and Grandpa, who had built a nice brick home. With few neighbor kids and first responder parents, my brother Beau and I were often left to our own devices, unless we were lucky enough to spend the day with Gramma. Though I remember playing well with my brother when we were little, we fought more and more as time passed. The only boy among his three sisters, my dad seemed to accept the dynamic as antagonistic. An adopted only child, my mother had no basis for sibling relationships at all and followed his lead. Without intervention, by the time our parents bought my grandparents’ house, my brother and I had a much more caustic relationship than was normal. With Gramma across town and our mom and dad always fighting in the garage, life became very lonely for eight-year-old Belle and eleven-year-old Beau.
My mother ultimately bought a modest house in a subdivision and my dad moved into a rental on the other side of town when I was 11. My mother took me. My father took Beau. There was no custody agreement. Sometimes my brother and I saw each other, but we were essentially only children from that point forward. Beau briefly lived with us a couple of times, my mother doting on him in the hopes that he’d stay, but he never did for long. My teenage resentment toward him grew, as it became clear that both of my parents wanted custody of Beau, while neither seemed to want custody of me. I was an angry, dramatic teenager, but I made good grades and mostly stayed out of trouble. Beau smoked pot, drank, even totaled my mother’s Saturn and nearly paralyzed himself at 16. He certainly wasn’t the easier child, so it hurt all the more that he still seemed to be the favored one. At 19, Beau married his high school girlfriend in a desperate attempt to create his own happy family, just as I did three years later. His results were different, though I don’t know that I’d call them successful.
Today, Beau and I see each other at Christmas. It’s tense. It’s awkward. It makes my Gramma happy, so it’s worth it. He did not call when the girls were born, despite my being in the ICU and nearly dying. He didn’t even meet my babies until that Christmas, when they were six months old. Today, Beau has seen Violet and Scarlett less than ten times in their lives and Thomas only once. He recently moved to Texas and neither told me nor visited before he left. When my Gramma dies, I will likely never see my brother again, despite my effort to keep that door open with the occasional text or photo of my children, to which he almost never responds. In many ways, Beau has the worst attributes of both of our parents. He’s idealistic, easily manipulated, selfish, self-absorbed, overdramatic, bitter, paranoid, disloyal, and not particularly intelligent. I have no ill-will toward him, but he is who he is and hoping he’ll be something different hasn’t served me well. Still, were he to call right now, I’d happily talk to him for hours… because he’s my brother.
When I was growing up, my mother and I watched 7th Heaven all the time. A divorced, single mother, my mom imagined a life married to a doting minister, wrangling her seven adoring children. I dreamt of being one of the popular Camden kids, constantly trying and failing to get something by my overly involved parents. In reality, my mother and father couldn’t be in the same room and no one had asked to see my report cards since the 7th grade. My sophomore year, my mother began working evening shifts, which provided me with a reprieve from her intermittent physical abuse… but also meant we shared fewer nights when we’d eat junk food, watch terrible horror movies, and talk about boys. She’d assured I had no relationship with my father years earlier. My brother was gone, his allegiance decidedly with his teenaged fiancé’s family. So, most nights, it was just me; andI longed for a big, loud, inescapable family… so much so that I saw Cheaper By the Dozen in theaters three times, twice in secret. What I wouldn’t have given to be a Camden or a Baker, constantly fighting with someone over the bathroom, the phone, or a general lack of privacy, as long as it meant havingsomeone.
The following years were also somewhat lonely for me… even the good ones, after my divorce and the resulting struggle. I’d reconnected with my family and made friends, but the balm that was coming home to my single girl apartment faded with time. Though I wasn’t sure what exactly I wanted from life anymore, I still fantasized about the delightful chaos of a house full of children. TLC family titles like Jon and Kate Plus 8 and 19 Kids and Counting were the only reality shows I ever followed. Even when I wasn’t entirely sure I still wanted children, I frequently watched Yours, Mine, and Ours while counting the years to see how many I could realistically have before I hit 40.
So, when I asked Jake how many kids he wanted, I countered his three with my four. Twenty-seven at the time, I’d decided at some point in the last ten years that while double digits weren’t a logistical possibility, I still wanted a big family. If I couldn’t be one of a bunch of siblings, I could be the matriarch celebrating holidays with a full house. Four children seemed like just enough to qualify, without breaching the limit of how many I could keep up with emotionally, financially, and physically. So, Jake and I agreed to three or four kids, tentatively, as we acknowledged everyone’s insistence that we’d change our minds when we realized the work of one or two. Now, here we are, three deep… andeveryone was wrong.
I admit it, y’all. I bought the lie that I’d have two children and change my mind about wanting a third. When I was pregnant with the girls, I accepted that twins might be enough of a challenge. When I was told I wouldn’t be able to have more babies, I tried to console myself with the idea that I might eventually not even want them. Still, I grieved for the possibility that I would never meet any more of my embryos, that my girls might only have each other, that I could never have a son. In the following months, I waited. I waited to find out if my heart had fully recovered. I waited to feel that the girls were enough, that our family was whole regardless. Yet, when I received the affirmative on the former, I accepted that the latter wasn’t going to happen. I wanted another child, despite the risk that I could have similar issues with another pregnancy. Even if I couldn’t have four, I wanted the chance to carry and raise one more baby, before donating my embryos to a couple who couldn’t conceive. I worried, of course. I worried that I’d do irreparable damage to my health, leaving my girls with a sick mother. I worried that I wasn’t up for the process of a frozen embryo transfer. I worried that we couldn’t afford it or another child. Then came Thomas.
If you follow my blog, you know that Thomas was the miracle baby we were told, quite definitively, that we couldn’t conceive. He’s the anecdote infertile women hear about from their well-meaning aunt, whose best friend’s daughter thought she couldn’t get pregnant and “just relaxed” and “quit trying.” Jake had one sperm and it’s adorably bouncing up and down in my living room at this very moment. We now have twin girls and their seventeen-months younger little brother. By the average American’s measure, we have The Perfect Little Family. I know, because people tell me so at Sam’s Club, all the time. Yet, as blessed as we were with our Thomas, I still want one more.
When Jake and I planned our family, long before we knew we’d struggle, we always agreed that four was our max, but that we’d probably stop at three. Not only did society have us convinced we likely wouldn’t want a fourth, time suggested we wouldn’t be able to have so many before Jake hit 40. If we’d started at 32 and 35, as planned, spacing them out by two years, we’d be 36 and 39 when we had our third. Neither of us wanted to have babies past that point, yet we allowed for the possibility, primarily based on gender. Had we three boys, we’d have wanted to try for a girl. Had we three girls, we’d have wanted to try for a boy. Living in a far better economy at the time, we also refused to compromise the family we wanted solely for economic reasons. If we wanted four, we’d figure it out financially. Regardless and excepting any surprises, we’d be done after that.
Now, here we are with three beautiful children and six frozen embryos and I stillwant another baby. I’m potty training twins, introducing their brother to solids, have just gotten everyone on the same nap schedule, and I still want the big family, the additional chaos. I also can’t forget that even if we didn’t want to do it again, we’d have been willing to have just one more, had Thomas been a girl. Not only would I have been willing to risk the potential complications; I’d have been willing to pay the $4500 for the transfer, take the hormones, the progesterone injections, all on the possibility that I’d get pregnant and we’d get to raiseanotherof our babies.
On the exceedingly rare occasion that I do consider being done, I remember that it’s not as simple as just not having another child. That fourth child already exists. If I don’t carry and raise him or her, someone else will. As much as I’d love to be that huge Instagram family after personally giving all of our embryos a chance at life, I realize that’s not in the cards for many reasons. For starters, we truly cannot afford nine potential children, nor can we house them in our three bedroom home. While neither of us want to have kids in our forties anyway, I’m also not convinced we can successfully raise such a large family. Money isn’t the only resource in short supply for a family of that size. In fact, while you can always make more money, time and energy are far more difficult to come by and I don’t think we’re up to the challenge. I’ve also already had two C-sections and know VBACs to be a mixed bag, so my ability to carry and birth that many babies is also in question, especially considering my age and prior complications. So, I’ve accepted that raising all of our embryos is simply not possible… but having one more is an opportunity I can’t bring myself to turn down, knowing I’d have been willing solely for gender.
So… we began the frozen embryo transfer process. The appointments are set, the birth control prescribed, and the transfer scheduled. Last week I went in for a repeat of the practice transfer and uterine mapping procedures I did in 2020. Due to my refusal to take babies into an infertility clinic, Jake stayed home with the kids and I confidently drove to my appointment solo… at least until I got on the highway.
Folks, I was not prepared for how awful it would feel just driving to the fertility clinic… let alone sitting in that office, remembering a time when I might never be a mom. I am not one for new age shenanigans. Still, I found myself deep breathing to avoid a legitimate panic attack. While the seats weren’t taped off and I didn’t have to wear a mask, HGTV playing in the background still sent me right back to a time when every day was exactly the same, the world shut down, the possibility of no babies. Property Brothers alone seems to give me PTSD, a phenomenon I didn’t even know was possible until I realized I hadn’t registered a single word the nurse spoke to me… and it did not get better.
I cannot believe how much of the infertility process I’ve blocked out, y’all. It’s so invasive, having three people in a room touching and looking at your vagina. I don’t think a softer bedside manner would make me feel like less of a specimen, either. On the contrary, any more sympathy from my doctors or nurses would likely make me feel moreuncomfortable, considering they already know my grooming habits. There’s just no way around how utterly dehumanizing infertility is, as a typically miraculous occurrence is led by science. As I lay there, staring at my empty uterus on the screen, I reminded myself that this is worth it. Being a mother is the greatest feeling in the world, closely followed by that of watching my children play together and love on each other. Despite infertility, I can actually have the four children I always wanted. I can give my children a large, loving family. I can do this. I can take the birth control, despite the affect the hormones are already having on my nerves. I can take the estrogen supplements. I can take the progesterone shots… all on the chance that I get to have just onemore, because I want to do this… but I really don’t want to do this.
Twelve years ago, the day after Thanksgiving, I kicked my abusive ex out once and for all, starting my life over. Seven years ago, Jake proposed to me, four days before Thanksgiving. Two years ago, after spending $30,000 funded primarily through a lucky Bitcoin investment, we found out our second IVF cycle was successful. Just before Christmas, we found out we were having twins. Now, our miracle baby boy is arriving in just 12 days… if things go as planned with our scheduled C-section.
I love the holidays, y’all. There’s just something about this time of year that makes life feel cozier and more comfortable. The colder weather gives me an entirely acceptable excuse to play the hermit. When I do go out, the world is one of cute winter wardrobes, costumes, colorful leaves, twinkling lights, cheerful music, delicious food, and massive amounts of glitter that even my southern husband finds begrudgingly acceptable. This is my time of year… yet somehow, I’m just now realizing how many great things have happened to me during the holidays, the latest of which will be my baby boy.
I feel so many simultaneous emotions about this baby. Foremost is gratitude that Jake and I get to have a son, in addition to our two beautiful daughters. We’re not a #girldad or #boymom. We get to be both. This baby will be the first grandson of six kids and only the third great grandson of fifteen on Jake’s side. Where I cried when I thought the twins were boys, after our struggles to get pregnant, Jake was thrilled with any healthy children. Now he’s the most amazing dad to our girls, especially considering his cliché cowboy status. I am so happy to give him a boy, not just because he deserves a son, but because the world needs more men like Jake. I’m grateful we got pregnant like normal people, as opposed to in a clinic with thousands of dollars worth of injections. I’m relieved that I won’t have to count down the days until I return to work. I’m thankful that Jake has been able to arrange to stay home through the entirety of my six to eight week C-section recovery.
Beyond gratitude, I admittedly feel fear that things will go as or even more poorly than they did when the girls were born. Never one for birth plans, I had zero expectations for the arrival of my twins and it still went so much worse than I could’ve imagined while still taking home healthy babies.
No one looks that pretty after four days in the ICU, by the way.
I won’t rehash my birth story in detail, but suddenly diagnosed with severe pneumonia and heart complications at 35 weeks, I underwent an emergency C-section and began the most terrifying week of my life. Almost immediately after the death of my estranged mother at 60, I dealt with the very real possibility that I might not see my own girls grow up, or that I might be chronically ill their entire lives. Rushed to the ICU, I first saw my twins at three days old and that was only because I woke up in a drug-induced hysteria screaming that they’d taken my babies. When I was finally released to labor and delivery, I was still receiving intravenous antibiotics and too sick to stand. It wasn’t until day seven that I was able to leave, though the girls had been discharged two days earlier. Say what you will about American healthcare and the $9,000 bill we received, but those doctors did save my life. As grateful as I am for my miracle baby, I admit that I’m petrified everything will go wrong again, perhaps with a far worse ending.
I have more standard concerns as well… that my existing babies will feel replaced and have trouble coping, that I’m having this baby during an unprecedented RSV season, that another child will be another expense during difficult economic times, and as always, that I won’t be the mother I so desperately desire. I’m also hopeful and excited. I’m hopeful that I’ll have a standard delivery with no drama, having scheduled my C-section for 37 weeks to the day. I’m hopeful that I’ll get an uneventful post-partum season, holed up for the winter with Jake by my side to help transition the girls into their new roles as big sisters. I’m hopeful that things will be better this time. I’m excited to meet my son and introduce him to the girls. I’m excited to not be pregnant, at this point. I’m excited to start dieting and exercising. I’m excited for a quiet baby’s first Christmas. You know what I’m not?
I’m not dreading any part of the coming months.
I’m not sorry that my children are going to be so close in age.
I’m not worried about having three under two or three in diapers.
I’m not in need of snarky well-wishes from people in the grocery store.
I’m not looking for sympathy or pity.
I’m not interested in hateful predictions about how I’ll feel when my children are teenagers.
Quite frankly, after my dysfunctional upbringing, my… trying early twenties, my struggle with infertility, I’m not interested inanynegativity toward my family planning. I’m also not clear on why anyone thinks it’s okay to chime in on the subject, with assumptions that this child will be my last, simply for having a penis.
What exactly is the greater tragedy, that I might intentionally have more children or that I don’t care to share those plans with a nosey stranger at the grocery store? Why exactly does someone think they can apologize to me for the existence of my precious daughters, who are doing nothing more than playing peek-a-boo in the shopping cart? How exactly does someone come to the conclusion that this is an appropriate thing to say to a very pregnant mother with her hands full?
I know, I know. People are just looking for something to say. Well, they can say something a lot less presumptive and a lot less ugly, because I’m not interested in keeping the peace with strangers who think saying negative things about my children (who can hear perfectly well, I might add) constitutes proper small talk. I grew up in a volatile home with parents who loved me, but weren’t that great at it. I desperately wanted this life that I have, shopping cart peek-a-boo and all. I hoped my hands would one day be full and my bank account empty. I prayed for this stress. I wept for these blessings, because I want this. I’m thankful for this.
So perhaps, this Thanksgiving, people can pull their heads out of their asses and be thankful for the families and lives they have, as well.
I had a dream the other night, that I gave birth to triplets, they all died, and I didn’t know until days later, because I was so sick. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to watch Chernobyl right after I called the fertility clinic. I suppose hindsight is 2020.
It feels like only yesterday that Jake and I got the news that we’d have to do IVF if we ever wanted a family, just before a global pandemic hit. Yet, here we are, two years later with twin girls turning one in June. I’m turning 35 in September and Jake is turning 38 in October. We have six frozen embryos.
When we started this process, we were told that having so many embryos left to freeze wasn’t a likelihood. A good IVF cycle might yield enough to try once or twice and hopefully result in as many children. After our first attempt resulted in a complete and utter failure, we’d have been happy with the latter… but that’s not what we got. We got six in the freezer.
Jake and I have always talked about having three or four children, agreeing that regardless of gender, we’d stop at four at the most. Jake is one of three and grew up surrounded by cousins and family friends. I had a fairly lonely childhood, living on 10 acres with few kids nearby. The ones who did live close, came from equally poor families, who alsolived in trailers, and my dad didn’t want us to spend time with them. Despite it having been just my brother and I, my parents encouraged a strange level of animosity between us. We didn’t just bicker. We despised each other. As a kid, I adored Nick at Nite’s Block Party Summer event, when I could binge The Brady Bunch and dream of being one of a family of eight. In high school, I secretly saw Cheaper by the Dozen in theaters multiple times, by myself, fantasizing about having 11 brothers and sisters. Today, I only even see my brother at Christmas. His nieces were six months old the first time he met them. He didn’t even call when they were born, when I was in the ICU.
As an adult, my desire for a large family never faded. I spent my twenties living it up in my single girl apartment, cuddling with the dog while watching Yours, Mine, and Ours, imagining a life with a loud, chaotic, happy home. I, quite deliberately, enjoyed being single, so I don’t think I even realized how truly lonely I had been until I married Jake. Suddenly, I didn’t have to do everything by myself, whether chores or entertainment. Five years later, every night is still a slumber party with my best friend. He filled a void I hadn’t realized existed and now, eight months in with twins, the party has only grown and I know I’m not done. While I do feel a responsibility to use as many of my embryos as I reasonably can, before donating them, I also want more children.
Y’all, being a librarian was wonderful, but being a mom is the best job I’ve ever had. I love it. I love changing diapers during changing table gymnastics, dragging babies out of the dog bed on loop, seeing little faces light up with every bite of solid food. I love celebrating every new milestone and making up songs about mundane activities. I love the meltdowns and the giggles and the ever-increasing chaos. I love the idea of having one, even two more children. If things were different, I’d probably already be pregnant. They are the way they are, however, and I don’t love the thought of going through infertility treatments to get there.
Being in our mid-thirties, Jake and I have communicated pretty regularly about when we’d like to try to get pregnant again. We’ve agreed to wait the full recommended year after my C-section and see what my cardiologist has to say on the subject. If all goes well, the plan has been to transfer another embryo this summer. Infertility, however, is a hurry up and wait game, so that means the process starts… well, now. The first step was calling the clinic. The next step will be a consult with my reproductive endocrinologist. On one had, the idea of growing our family is exciting. On the other, the idea of doing an embryo transfer during a pandemic sounds awful… and after pandemic IVF, I feel like I’m something of an authority on the matter.
When I started IVF, I told Jake that my greatest fear after failure was that it would fundamentally change me as a person, that I wouldn’t be strong enough to retain my sense of self. As I’ve shared a few times, I feel that was valid. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover from the toll infertility has taken… and the journey isn’t over. Am I ready for this? Am I ready for the shots, mood swings, and physical side effects? Am I ready for another pandemic pregnancy? It’ll be less stressful this time around, not working and knowing that whatever happens, I have my girls. It’ll still be a gamble of approximately $5,000 on my uterus, though. It’ll still be on me to give us another child, my girls another sibling, my embryos a chance at life. Ideally, I wouldn’t mind waiting a bit longer, but time is somewhat limited, especially with the health issues I suffered last time. Am I ready to dust off the old infertility blog? Am I ready for the pressure, the stress, the tears? I don’t know, but I wasn’t really ready the first time, so… I guess we’ll see.
A little over seven months ago, I was one month out from grieving the death of my mother, petrified that I’d never bond with my babies, hoping that over the next three weeks something would click and I’d suddenly feel connected to the lives inside of me. You see, the complicated way we had to conceive impacted my ability to attach to my unborn babies. I was perpetually afraid something would go wrong and awaiting the inevitable ultrasound where one or both little heartbeats were lost. Covid-19 complicated matters even further, as I feared contracting the illness and/or having to give birth without my husband.
As much of a planner as I am, I’ve never been one for birth plans. My only real goal for what would happen in the delivery room was that all three of us would get through safely and without complication. I’ll enter my disclaimer here and state that I truly don’t care what other women do, but coming from a line of many nurses, childbirth has always been a medical procedure for me. I didn’t care about the music playing or the lighting or having a positive energy. I had a preference for whodelivered my babies, who was in the room, and who visited after the fact. Call that a birth plan if you like, but that’s as specific as I was willing to get over something I knew I ultimately could not control. Fertility treatments just strengthened that conviction, as did a high risk twin pregnancy.
When you’re going through IVF, a lot of people look at your vagina. I’ve always been a bodily private person, but I was forced to set that aside for a full year, starting with IVF monitoring appointments in July of 2020. By the time I found myself facing a second egg retrieval, I did not care about modesty. When asked if a resident could view the procedure, I answered that they could live stream it if they could get me pregnant. In the end, there were six people in the room when my children were conceived and my husband wasn’t one of them. God and science were in their conception. God and science would be in their birth. I didn’t need it to be magical. On the contrary, I knew it would be painful, gross, and awkward. When the doctor and I discussed arrangements, I jokingly informed her that I had 28 different birth plans, one for each phase of the lunar cycle.
This feeling was, of course, exacerbated by my status as “high risk.” After exhausting amounts of research and a refusal by my doctor to insist on one or the other, I ultimately decided to schedule a C-section, but keep my mind open to a vaginal delivery if things worked out perfectly for me to have one with twins. They… did not.
Here’s a trigger warning (ends with Fozzie Bear) for references to childbirth that require a trigger warning…
June 18, 2021 was a Friday. I had my standard bi-weekly doctor’s appointment, where the doctor talked to me about how I was feeling, verified that she thought I would be able to make it to the date of my scheduled C-section, July 14, and sent a nurse in to check my vitals. When the nurse informed me that my blood pressure was high and sent me to Labor and Delivery for monitoring, I was sure this was the moment when everything would go south, particularly since she told me I might need to stay over night. I was hooked to fetal monitors and blood pressure cuffs, given a steroid shot for the babies’ lung development, and had just started to worry, when the nurses told me I could go home. My blood pressure was a little high and we’d need to keep an eye on it. I was fine, though, and would just need to come back the next day for monitoring and the other shot in my steroid course. That appointment was far less scary, with Jake by my side. My blood pressure was briefly monitored, a shot was administered, and I was sent on my way with assurances that those babies would stay put for another three and half weeks.
I spent the weekend doing chores and felt good and strong… until Monday morning, when I headed to my high-risk ultrasound at a different hospital. I’d previously been out of breath, but had assumed it was a combination of twin pregnancy, asthma, and wearing a mask at work. Monday was different, though. I was short of breath, exhausted, and my heart was racing. I didn’t think I’d make it from my car into the doctor’s office. I assumed I was getting a cold or a sinus infection, but when the tech had trouble differentiating the babies’ heartbeats, I struggled to lie on my back, because I couldn’t stop coughing. The doctor arrived and asked how I felt, to which I responded I felt like I was coming down with a cold. He assured me that I could use over-the-counter medication, so I stopped by Wal-Mart and stocked up. I didn’t want to use sick leave for the rest of the day and was determined to return to work, but since I was scheduled to do a virtual program alone at one of the satellite branches after telework ended, I decided that just this one time, no one would be the wiser (nor would my managers have cared) if I worked from home for the day. So, I watched a couple of webinars and oversaw some teenagers as they played DnD, refusing to cancel, because I knew it might be one of the last times I got to play with them. I visited the chiropractor that evening, hoping to ease my back pain and took it easy.
The next day, I woke feeling utterly miserable and called in sick to work. My back still hurt and I felt like I hadn’t slept in weeks, both of which I blamed on being 14 months pregnant with what I could only assume were Godzilla and Kong, if their movements were any indication. I tried to sleep on the couch, but couldn’t stop coughing. I knew it wasn’t Covid-19, because it wasn’t a dry cough and I had no other related symptoms. My stars I felt awful, though, so I decided a hot shower might help… like ten times.
I now realize that I was growing delirious, as I took shower after shower, hoping to ease the tightness in my back along with my coughing. As my skin grew chapped, I doused my legs in baby powder, too foggy to clean up the mess. Had Jake been home, I’m certain he’d have noticed something wasn’t right and taken me to the hospital, but as it was, he only came home for lunch and wondered about the mess. When he got home for the day, however, I told him how poorly I felt and that my heart raced every time I stood up. I asked if he’d call the hospital and we were told to come to the emergency room, just to be safe. I remember telling Jake that we’d forgotten my hospital bag and asking him to turn around.
Jake: “We won’t need the bag.” Me: “We’re gonna need the bag.”
Spoiler alert: we needed the bag.
When Jake and I arrived at the ER, where I told them I couldn’t breathe, the first thing they did was put a mask on my face. They wouldn’t test me for Covid-19, because I’d been vaccinated. Many of the nurses weren’t wearing masks, because they weren’t required to behind counters I can only assume were made of medical grade magic, but it was vitally important that the fully vaccinated massively pregnant woman who couldn’t breathe wear one “for the safety of everyone in this hospital.” I was immediately seated on an ER bed and told to lie back… a position I couldn’t maintain, because I would immediately start coughing. After a couple of hours of trying to be accommodating, I flat-out refused to lie back and sat with Jake in front of me, waving the nurse off and telling her he was there if I fell.
Much of the night following our 6:00 arrival at the ER has blurred in my memory. I was taken for a CT scan, after having an IV put in my arm, without warning that it would vibrate due to the magnets. I remember lying there, terrified because I was instructed to hold my breath and I thought I’d cough up a lung, but also because I feared the IV had been left in by mistake and would be pulled out. I wasn’t allowed water, in case I had to deliver that night and I have never been so thirsty in my life. I received an echocardiogram and was told my doctor was on her way, with reinforcements to deliver our babies in an emergency C-section.
Me: “I’m scared.” Jake: “It’ll be okay.” Me: “What if I don’t love them?”
In hindsight, the fact that I was most worried about properly loving my daughters, as opposed to my own health in this moment, was proof that I needn’t have worried about it as I was rushed to the delivery room. Another mask was put on my face, this time over an oxygen mask, so I thought I’d be okay, until I realized I still couldn’t breathe. I vaguely remember hearing the nurses say they’d forgotten to turn the oxygen on, so at least that mystery was solved.
I remember even less of what happened from there. I was briefly held in a labor and delivery room, where I was asked to change into a gown. Once again, all modesty was thrown out of the window as I stripped the XXXL Summer Reading t-shirt and maternity shorts from my massive body in a room full of nurses, who began to freely discuss whether or not I needed to be shaved. I was wheeled to an operating room, where a kind anesthesiologist did his best to calm me, as I panicked over having to lie on my back for the surgery. I have had a lot of surgeries in my life, y’all. A C-section was never really something I feared… until I thought I might drown while I was fully aware of everything that was happening. In fact, when the doctor warned me that he’d have to insert a breathing tube if I couldn’t calm down, I begged him to do just that. I only vaguely remember the spinal block as I coughed and coughed, with the anesthesiologist reassuring me that breathing would be easier once it had taken effect.
While I could breathe more easily than before, that wasn’t saying much. I lie on the table shaking from the adrenaline with an oxygen mask over my face as I coughed as best I could, numb from the waist down. I vaguely remember hearing a baby cry as my sweet Violet was brought into the world. A nurse brought Scarlett to me, so I could see her, but I was much too concerned with my own discomfort for much to register. If I’d known I wouldn’t see my girls for two more days, I might have cherished that moment a little more.
I was then rushed to the ICU, shocked that this was where they’d put me. It was only over the next few days that I would learn that I had been diagnosed with “substantial pneumonia” and perinatal cardiomyopathy, a pregnancy-induced heart condition that impacts .00001% of women in the U.S. My lungs were full of fluid. I was technically in heart failure. I’d lost over half the blood in my body, with only five units left. After two back-to-back rounds of IVF during a global pandemic, I almost died giving birth. Although I couldn’t have predicted how, the disaster I had so greatly feared had come to pass.
Over the next four days, I was given three blood transfusions and a mile long list of medications, as a team of doctors worked to regulate my heart, build up my blood supply, cure my pneumonia, and treat my surgical incision. Say what you want about the American healthcare system, but that hospital saved my life. It was the most terrifying and dehumanizing thing I’ve ever experienced, as nurses cleaned the blood from between my legs, rolled me over to give me sponge baths, and helped me use the bathroom, all while providing a constant infusion of medication and antibiotics.
I spent the first two days in darkness, since the pain medication gave me crippling headaches and caused me to relentlessly scratch my face due to the itching. While I’m not sure I was present enough to realize my girls weren’t with me that first day, the depression began to set in on day two, when I woke screaming that they’d taken my babies, that I hadn’t even gotten to hold them. Jake, who had not left my side, sleeping in the uncomfortable recliner, tried to soothe me and assure me they were alright. Still, I barely spoke, was uninterested in conversation, reading, listening to music or audiobooks, or any form of entertainment or socialization as I feared for my health and yearned to hold my girls. I finally my chance, when the nurses assembled a security team to bring them down for a visit and I was able to snuggle my precious babies for a few moments, before admitting that I was too sick to do so much longer.
On day four, I was released to labor and deliver, on the insistence of the ICU staff that they weren’t doing anything for me that couldn’t be done on another floor. One nurse adamantly insisted that I needed to be with my babies and I eagerly waited all day to be transferred, so I could have my girls in the room. The first thing I did when I arrived in the same room I’d briefly visited before my C-section, was to take a shower supervised and assisted by Jake. I desperately wanted to feel human again, but didn’t quite accomplish it over the next three days, constantly interrupted by a stream of nurses and doctors running tests and administering antibiotics… but I had my girls.
I’d love to report that all was well, once my family was united, but alas, it was not. The first night with our girls, we were plagued with absolutely useless nurses in a ward with no nursery, despite the fact that I was literally instructed not to get out of bed. We weren’t informed that the girls should be double-swaddled, when they were only brought to us in one, nor were we told that this was due to the fact that the thermostat was broken in our room and would suddenly drop to the low 60s. After being administered Benadryl via IV, I woke several hours later to Violet screeching and Jake exhaustedly snoring away. Not knowing if Jake was just sleeping through the crying or if he just didn’t understand that such small babies cannot be ignored when they cry, I left him alone and tended to her myself. The only reason a nurse came to assist was because my heart rate sky rocketed and the company that was monitoring it called to let them know that I was going to pass out.
When the nurse arrived, she scolded me for letting the babies get too cold, as I lay there crying and in pain, feeling like a failure of a mother when I couldn’t even get out of bed to care for my own children. She spent a good five minutes lecturing me on how hard all of this was on my husband and how we couldn’t do this by ourselves. Later, I reported her sexist diatribe and discouraging warnings that proved completely untrue, but in that moment, I was devastated. It was 3:00 a.m., after I’d finally gotten to be with my babies and I had failed them. They’d gotten so cold, they had to be put under the warmer. I had no mother and no idea what I was doing and now I was suffering from heart complications and was literally unable to do it by myself. In that moment, I felt so lost and alone and that nurse can go kick rocks.
The next day was better, with a competent nurse, who actually told us the girls were on a schedule… which no one had even mentioned… and stressed the importance of keeping it. She showed us how to feed and burp and swaddle our not-quite-five-pound babies, leaving us much better prepared for the night, since the girls would be officially discharged, even though I couldn’t leave yet. At this point, I desperately wanted to be home with my babies, but it would be another two days before we could leave. By the time I was discharged, I was on the verge of a mental breakdown for fear they’d make me stay. Jake was even prepared to tell the doctor he thought it would be worse for me if I had to stay another night. After one full week in the hospital, though, I finally got to go home with my baby girls and it was the greatest day of motherhood I’d experienced so far.
… end trigger warning.
I’d like to say that life was smooth sailing from this point forward, but my health issues persisted for some time. In fact, I spent the first few months of my girls’ lives fearing I wouldn’t get to see them grow up, as I waited to see how my heart was recovering. In November, I received the news that my heart was back to normal, but that if there was another pregnancy, it would be high-risk, with a 20% chance of similar troubles. My girls were six months old before I finally felt strong enough to walk around the neighborhood or put their double stroller in the hatchback, without struggling. Physically, I would say I’m 95% recovered and that I feel almost normal.
I don’t only keep this blog for my readers, as grateful as I am to have them, but for my own sense of nostalgia and record keeping, as well. It’s taken me a long time to share my “birth story.” As Valentine’s Day nears, though, Jake and I are closing in on two years since February 13, 2020, the day we received the news that we’d have to pursue IVF if we ever wanted a family. My girls just turned seven months old and I’m starting to realize that, while I have mostly recovered my physical strength, emotionally, I’m no longer the same person I was before Covid-19.
When Jake and I started infertility treatments, I remember telling him that I wasn’t sure if I had the emotional fortitude to go through something so heart wrenching as pandemic IVF and come out the same person. Well, I’m nothing if not self aware, because it seems I was right. I’m not as strong as I once was and I don’t think that’s just because I’m getting older and cry more over news stories or sad TV shows, as other women report after 30. I’m beginning to realize that before Covid-19, I was… tougher. I had mettle and grit and I didn’t give myself enough credit for that. I was more capable of rationalizing away illegitimate worries and trains of thought. I didn’t get as upset over the things other people thought and said. I took life more in stride and had a lot greater sense of emotional control.
I’m not a complete basket case, today, but I am generally a more anxious person. I struggle to be away from my girls, more than is normal, to the extent that being around extended family stresses me out as they pass them back and forth. I worry about them irrationally at times, having gone so far as to begin to hyperventilate because Scarlett had a fever one night. I’m sure this is one of the reasons I couldn’t adjust to being back at work, though the other was that work itself had fundamentally changed for the worse. I’m more sensitive, more easily frustrated, and just less emotionally stable than I used to be and that… ticks meoff. I know, I know, I’ve been through a lot, but I was supposed to bounce back, as I did in my teens when my mother became abusive and again in my early twenties when I miscarried and lost a baby I loved and left a terrifying marriage.
I graduated college despite my terrible homelife after getting married at 19. I once got drunk on Christmas Eve and threw out everything I owned, because I wanted a fresh start after said horrific marriage. I lost 100 pounds and had an epic rom-com worthy glow-up in my early twenties. I met strangers online and attended Match.com meetups alone, hoping to have another chance at my happily ever after. I held two jobs through grad school and worked my way up in my library system. I lived alone for years and took care of everything on my own, with little help from anyone else. I was a manager for a year and moved to a new city to be a teen librarian. I kicked butt, y’all.
I also spent six weeks at home, at the beginning of the pandemic, thinking my career was gone, along with any hope of having a family. I lay in bed in a catatonic state for days. I drank too much and didn’t sleep at all. I started cutting myself again and finally applied for a medical card. My mother had taken me to several awful therapists and dosed me with 250 mg of Wellbutrin a day in high school, in an effort to make me more manageable. After that experience, marijuana was the only help I’d consider. I was suddenly able to sleep and my anxiety and depression eased. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped and I was no longer self-harming. I could see past the present state of my life and the rest of the world and have hope it would improve.
I spent a month taking massive amounts of drugs to get pregnant, only to realize that it had been a complete and utter failure. All those shots and all that money was for nothing. $15,000 was gone, but just days after the negative test, I called and put down a deposit on a second round of IVF. I spent the ice storm of 2020 praying we wouldn’t lose power, when a thousand dollars of medication had to be refrigerated. I spent election day in surgery alone, for the second time in just a few months. Throughout all of this, I knew that a single fever would cancel my cycle and forfeit our money, ending our chances to become parents any time soon and possibly at all.
Even after I got pregnant, it seemed like the hits just kept on coming. Just after the first of the year, I had to make the decision to put down my Jude, the dog who had seen me through every heartbreaking moment prior. He was my best friend for thirteen years and I had to kill him. Then, my mother was put on a ventilator after contracting Covid-19 and never fully recovered. She had several strokes and died of a heart attack the day after Mother’s Day, when I was seven months pregnant with my twins.
I hadn’t seen my mother in four and a half years and I will never forgive myself for not putting up with her psychotic behavior for just a few years longer, for ignoring the text message asking me to get lunch six months earlier, for throwing away the last birthday card she ever sent me. I said goodbye to her alone, massively pregnant, while Jake waited in the lobby due to Covid-19 restrictions. I forced the nurse to set aside all platitudes and attempts to comfort me and tell it to me straight, that she was going to die. I wrote her obituary myself, but never got to attend a funeral, since her sleezy husband refused to give her one, even though my grandmother offered to pay.
The word “trauma” has become grossly overused, but ‘m afraid the last two years have just been too much for me. I worry that I’ll never be the person I was prior to 2020. I wish I’d been prouder of her accomplishments and strength. I wish I’d been nicer to myself. Perhaps, as before, I’ll recover… slowly. I wasn’t exactly a bastion of mental health when I was sleeping with a .357 in my bed at 25. It’s entirely possible that I’m looking at my previous recoveries through rose-colored glasses. I’m sure there are posts on this nearly ten-year-old blog proving it. Maybe I’ll have that 2019 strength once again, but for now, I feel as if something inside of me has broken and I’m not entirely sure it will ever fully heal.
I’m sure I’m not alone in this. I’m hardly the person who’s struggled the most through the pandemic, but the last two years have been rough. They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and I’m not sure if that’s true. I don’t feel stronger, but perhaps in time, I will. I know that this struggle has taught me not to take my family for granted, to be patient and loving with my girls, to consider how I’ll look back on my decisions and how I spent my time one day… and maybe that is stronger in a way, but I really miss who I was in 2019.
One year ago today was a big day for me. On November 3, 2020 the country was watching our presidential election with bated breath… but not me.
I started the day alone, mask-clad, in an operating room, with Jake in the car, after an ice storm had ravaged the state. I’d spent the last week praying we’d keep power, because we had over a thousand dollars worth of medication in the refrigerator. My ovaries were the size of clementines and I was, once again, irritated that no one told me how physically painful IVF could be. Although it was my second time to go through an egg retrieval alone, I felt it even more so, since we’d kept the entire cycle a secret. After six months of fertility treatments, it was the first time I broke down in a doctor’s office, crying uncontrollably after the procedure, because I wanted my husband and would never be a mom.
After my retrieval, I took every single hydrocodone pill over the next two days, not because of the puncture wounds in the wall of my vagina, but because it took the edge off of the stress of Pandemic Election Year Back-to-Back IVF. My Gramma called to rant about Russia, having no idea that I couldn’t possibly care less about the fate of the country that day. I didn’t care if we fell into anarchy, as long as I got to be a mom. It was one of my hardest days of 2020. Now…
I can’t even believe they’re real, y’all. They’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, the best thing I’ve ever done. A year ago, today, I thought I’d never be a mom and now I have not one, but two, beautiful baby girls. It was all worth it.
I’m writing this on November 17, 2020, at 5:00 in the morning, the first day that I can take a pregnancy test with doctor approval. I’ll post it the day I have a baby.
I couldn’t sleep at all the night before last, getting around three to four hours, total. Progesterone gives me weird dreams and I was anxious over whether or not the last 10 days of shots and headaches and nausea and a swollen belly were worth it. I spent all of yesterday trying to prepare for the crushing disappointment of a failed transfer and the inevitable two to three days in bed that would surely follow. I attended the staff meeting, since the other option was Wednesday, when I planned to be staring at the ceiling in a catatonic state. I also completed all of my weeding, since the end of November really sneaks up on us in libraries, after we close for Thanksgiving and Black Friday and have a weekend.
Weeding is the process of pulling and processing old books, to make room in the collection for new books. It’s not an incredibly taxing job, if you’re not on hormones that make you uniquely ill. By the end of the day, my swollen belly felt even worse and my head hurt. Since I couldn’t stem the tide of my emotions, going from hopeful to tears, I took two flexiril at about 8:00 and went to bed around 9:30, setting the pregnancy test out for easy access, at around 6:00, before Jake went to work, but late enough that we wouldn’t lose much sleep.
I woke around 4:30, my belly aching, and anxious. I wanted to take the test right away. Then I never wanted to take the test and either get a period or a baby. Then I wanted to go back to sleep and take it later in the morning, as planned. Finally, as bladder pinged at me, I admitted that waiting was pointless and would have zero impact on the outcome. I made my way into the bathroom, half asleep, grabbed the test and peed in the cup… only to promptly drop it, spilling urine all over the bathroom. I tried to tear open the test with my teeth, realizing that it definitely had pee on it and only barely managed to cut it open with nail clippers. I was able to tilt the cup and use the remaining sample to actually take the test and was distracted during the wait time with cleaning the bathroom. Finally, I pulled on my big girl panties, to review the test… and it was positive.
I immediately ran into the bedroom, turned on the light, and jumped on the bed to wake a startled husband.
Jake: “What?” Me: “It’s positive.“ Jake: ::hugs me and pulls me to him:: Me: “The perk of spilling pee all over the bathroom, when you take a pregnancy test, is that you have something to do while you wait for the results.” Jake: ::laughs and tries to pull me further into the bed, when he realizes I’m breathing hard:: Jake: “Are you okay?” Me: “Yeah, I’m just…” ::I search for the right words:: “…covered in pee.”
So, I took a shower, while Jake threw the bathmats in the wash and came to bed, where Jake was already mostly asleep again, just a like a man. I lie there for a bit, realized I was never going to get back to sleep and got up to write a blog, until Wal-Mart opens at 7:00, cuz Covid-19, so I can buy ten $1 pregnancy tests to get me through tomorrow, when I’ll hear confirmation from the doctor’s office, after bloodwork.
Belle of the Library 