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The Call is in.

Nurse Pregnancy Department just called back with “good news”. My beta is 58. Um. ok. I asked if that was a bit high for this stage of the game and she said, I shit you not, “Well it is less than the last beta you had. All we are looking for is that it is going down.” It could, in fact be another month (or two!) before it “resets” to zero. Holy hell. I had no effing idea it could take this long. I am to have repeat betas every week until it reaches zero. Great- so I get to spend my small FET fund on getting motherfucking repeat betas. At least this validates my feeling knocked up for all this time.

Yay- I’m not crazy. I just have crazy female bits.

Apples and Oranges:comparing sucks

I can’t remember when I first realized that my family was not like other families. There might have been a moment of confusion upon meeting someone’s father or carpooling with someone’s sibling. I would view the extra addition to a friend’s family as “just one of those things”. The differences didn’t bother me as I didn’t feel like I was lacking.

But there were other things, other differences, that I was honing in on. How come my friend got designer jeans? How come my friend didn’t have tummy rolls? How come my friend didn’t have a face dotted with freckles or an overbite? These differences made me suspicious of the world. They made me wonder if I was good enough or clever enough or pretty enough. Having friends in the 3rd grade is like having built in barometers to constantly measure one’s self worth.  By age 9 I was far better at coveting than I was at cursive handwriting.

As I got older I continued to compare myself with others. I was aware of differences in looks, attitude, faith, financial security, foot size. I began to work hard to make money so that I could buy the fancy face creams and have weekend visits to spas. I had this deep seeded need to be successful- but my view of success was pretty warped.

I have never been so hard on myself as I was/am during the years of trying to make a baby. Not only was I body hating and freaking out, but I was also part of a community where you saw women get lucky their first try. And immediately you need to know why. Why is that girl getting a baby and I am not? Why is that girl covered with amazing fertility insurance and I am not? Why is that girl so damn lucky?

What sucks is that even now, when I have come farther that I ever have, I am still stuck in the mindset of comparing myself to others. I read about other people’s betas and I feel immediately like the 9 year old girl that had the generic trapper keeper. As if I am some sort of beta fraud with my low and sad little number.

And I know it is stupid, but I just can’t turn off that angsty and jealous feeling of not being cool enough. Here is how messed up my head is: there is a fabulous site that rounds up blog news and puts it in a concise newsletter format. I have dreamed about being listed in the newly knocked up section for ages. AGES. Finally I am listed among women with positive beta numbers. The stinger: every other woman is said to have a “great beta”. My listing says “good”.  I mean I guess it is better than “mediocre” or “lame”. But my need to be just as good (or should I say just as great) is supreme.

I wonder if I am already dooming this blob of cells. Am I not being grateful enough? Am I not appreciative enough? I am not sure that is the case. Just thinking that it might work makes my lip quiver with hope.

But I can’t turn off this giant, huge, massive need to have excellence. I want that giant beta and the perfect labs. Everyone else’s beta is greener on the other side.

The longest day EVER.

I could drag this post out like my day has, but I love you all too much to do that. Beta was 155, a doubling time of 1.42 days. Still not one of those Ferrari type of numbers, but I’ll take it. (& why does the betabase site always seem broken when I need it?)

Let’s just say that the wait today was hell. HELL.

This hell was exacerbated by the fact that at exactly 5pm I found out that the Clinic had never received my lab results from the local blood lab I go to. Yes. 5pm on New Year’s Eve I had to track down a real, live human being to tell me where the eff my labs had gone.

Turns out they had gone to the infectious disease specialist I had to meet with in October. Not that there was ANY indication that the lab results should go to that doctor. Finally it was sorted out and the blood lab swore they would fax the Clinic asap. (& no. They would not tell me my results over the phone.)

I had been in contact with the Clinic since I broke down and called them at 4pm crying and snotty looking for answers. I was told that they were still making calls and to calm the fuck down…or something like that.

Oh hell, I am not making any sense right now I am just, at this moment, allowing myself to feel a touch relieved.

Mother was home and holding my hand (and literally holding me up) when the call came. When I got off I cried. Oh good lord did I cry. This was the cry that I had been waiting to cry for days now. And as Mother patted my head she looked out the window and exclaimed, “oh. The stork is in the backyard.”

And because I know half of you didn’t believe me the first time- I blew my nose, got out my camera, and took a photo.

My weekend.

My weekend is a whirlwind of busy. I spent most of Saturday shopping for maternity clothes & registering for baby gifts. Today it is ALL about decorating the nursery and calling family with the news. We will also distribute a note to all of our neighbors requesting baby name ideas. Oh what fun it will be!

heh.

The truth: I spent the first waking hours of Saturday reading all about how low estrogen in early pregnancy is one of the top causes of miscarriages. Next was lurking on all of the “I just found out that I am pregnant!” message boards and going green with envy over everyone’s pretty, triple digit, beta numbers. So many posts from so many women wondering if their beta of 200 or more was “good enough”.

Bitches.
Then I peeled myself away from the computer and slept for most of the day. (well slept and watched Merlin on the SciFi network.)

I wanted this moment in my life to be filled with excitement and wonder. Two fucking years of waiting for my body to make it work and when it does it does it in such a half-assed way. I am completely disappointed and irritated in how inglorious this feels.

Where is my choir singing Ode to Joy? Where is my God Damn glow? Where is my congratulations without the tacked on decree to be “cautiously” optimistic? Fuck that.

I want all or nothing here. I want you ARE or you are NOT. I don’t want to be the gal that gets reassured that it can all work out. I want to be the girl that everyone says, “holy shit! That beta is so getting a high five!” “Check you out and your fancy beta bonanza!”

And I don’t mean to be ungrateful here. Yes I have seen the chart that says my little number is in some sort of range…it just isn’t what I wanted. I wanted a number that would calm me, reassure me, make me proud.

I wanted being pregnant to be the exact opposite of being infertile. With infertility there is bitter body hating, raging jealousy, sadness, fear, anxiety, depression, and clock watching. So far that is all still the same. I didn’t get to cross some invisible line or join some fancy club of smug belly rubbers.

My body hating is in full effect, my jealousy is out of control, my sadness, fear and anxiety feed the depression. I am still totally an infertile today.

And I can’t turn my brain off thinking about statistics. I am in a great buddy group on eff eff and just this week four of us had two lines on pee sticks. Four. Odds are that we won’t all be holding fat and healthy babies in September. And because I am in the right state of mind to say it - it looks like I am the one that is doomed.

Now I can’t get away with saying any of this shit out-loud in my house. Mother is going through one of those, “be positive!” “don’t wallow in negativity!” phases. It just kills me. I can’t be positive right now & I don’t think being positive is going to make a lick of difference. If anything it seems ridiculous to slap a grin on my face and hope for the best. I don’t want to fucking hope- I want to BE.

I just want to curl into the smallest shape possible at the end of my couch and melt away.

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