no. 571 – Yes, You Knew I Had To Do A 2007 In Review

January – Spent most of it recovering from Miscarriage #3, Wolf

February – Posted an abnormal number of picture posts including this one.

March – Wow. I bored myself with the number of posts on basically nonsense.

AprilWe met with our RE for the first time following our miscarriage to discuss what next in our treatment, including the possibility of a couple more dIUI and donor egg.

May – Marked the donor sperm IUI that wasn’t donor. It also marked pregnancy number five (and later miscarriage number four) that should have been.

JunePainful, painful, painful.

July – I prepared for the long wait on the donor egg list by focusing on the positive.

August – I met in real life my new bestest blogging friend and my old best friend and her new baby.

September – I continued on with a severe case of The Bitters.

OctoberCompleted many of the necessary steps in preparation of the Donor Egg cycle, which only took a couple of months to be matched, but a couple more to actually get there.

November – There were 21 posts in October. Only 3 in November as I was in the middle of my Donor Egg cycle documented over here.

December – I’m marveling over the fact that in 2007 I was pregnant twice but didn’t have any D&Cs.

For many of those who came before me, 2007 was your year – finally. The sheer number of those I wish for 2008 to be "their" year, including myself, is overwhelming.

Thank you for helping me make it through this past year when I really didn’t know if I could.

SNOW & PUKE

The snowy special affects? Wow. It just proves to me that you all are easily amused. Apparently so am I.

I’ve been meaning to explain to the newbies (new since Spring 2006, so just about everyone) that the email address you may see in my responses to your comments, ddknockedup@yahoo.com, was not taken on as a direct result of Murdock’s appearance. Instead, it was my original email from 2005 to match my blog, knockedupthenknockeddown.blogspot.com. Unfortunately, wordpress registers you based on an email and instead of creating ANOTHER email address (I currently have 5 yahoo and 1 gmail), I just went with this one. Judge me not.

Congratulations to me. I puked Saturday morning about an hour after breakfast. Strangely, Captain Crunch tastes the same coming up as it does going down. Take my word for it.

I also bought a bellaband. The jury is still out however I admit I like how it bridges the unsightly gap between my just-a-little-too-short sweater and the zippered region of my pants. It’s the first purchase as a direct relationship to this pregnancy that I did not have to pick up from a pharmacist.

Happy New Year, everyone. At least I hope it is.

no. 570 – Pandora

Thanks for the bitch-slapping. I guess I am the one paying the bills on this blog and until some generous benefactor comes along and donates the $54.andsomeoddcents a year, I will carry on with business as usual.

I guess I was worried that I wouldn’t have anything of interest to offer. I’m not puking 24/7 or bleeding or cramping or gestating quints. There’s no drama! Where’s the fothermucking drama?!

I still have quite a bit of concern in the next few weeks because everything looked this normal with Vivienne as well. And even after that, there’s no telling how this will end. Hell, I could be on the op table getting my c-section and I could go into cardiac arrest…(note to self, need to leave instructions with husband on how to update blog in case of untimely demise because fellow bloggers will be pissed if I stopped blogging all together).

What I’ve been thinking about more than ever is telling. Mr. DD told the secretary at work because she knew about the donor egg cycle. I told the So. Co. niece two weeks ago. And that’s it. Not even our parents know. . . even though Mr. DD’s mother has been asking every time she sees him. She never asks me.

When I brought home the 10 wk scan picture yesterday, I had it on the fridge to show Mr. DD. He asked if I showed XBoy and I stared back at him as if he had grown a penis right out between his eyes (no, not with wonder…stop it). I would love nothing more than to tell XBoy, but I would also hate nothing more than to tell him after the fact: "Nope, sorry. No baby sister/brother for you this summer. Just kidding!"

I’ve read online some suggestions on when to tell, but it just makes me feel sick how blithely these experts answer the question ("tell them when the pregnancy is well established" – WTF?). I thought about telling XBoy when/if I can feel Murdock move so it can become something more than just an abstract anomaly. That means a possibility of another 8 weeks or so. It’s doable except for one minor snag: I have to tell my mother very soon.

Why do I have to tell my Mom? Well, she’s heading to Jordan to see my sister and she’ll be gone for three months. I don’t think she’ll be too happy to come back and find me (surprise!) obviously pregnant. But by telling my Mom, I risk someone letting the cat out of the bag in front of my son before I have told him and I can’t tell you how that makes me shudder to think that my son could hear it from anyone other than his Mom and Dad.

It’s just been hard keeping it a secret. And while it’s exciting, it also has that very distinct odor of Pandora’s Box that I’m just not ready to deal with right now.

no. 569 – Quarter

I’ve made it through one quarter of a pregnancy – 10 weeks. With this last appointment, I have been instructed to seek a "prenatal" appointment with an OB; wean myself off the estrace; reduce my PIO shots to just one every other day for another week (damn!); and scheduled my "Ultra Scan" which is what my RE’s clinic calls the Nuchal Tranlucency Screening test in another two weeks.

So, now that we’ve got that out of the way, we need to talk.

I’ve learned a lot about blogging in 2 1/2 years. I learned a lot about myself and infertility. I have developed a list in my head over the years of what I would do if I was ever to get (and theoretically stay) pregnant.

I will post ultrasound pictures

I will not post belly shots

I will not nickname the pregnancy after something edible (Peanut, Raisin, Goober, etc.)

I will not set up blinkies or tickers

I will not compile a birth plan

I will not post a 12-part birth story

Etc.

Etc.

Notice all the "Don’ts"?

I thought I was rather confident about my one "Do" – Continue to Blog.

But now? I just don’t know what you want to read about as I’ve based my above opinions on what irked me in the past (if I was able to get past the envy, pick my ass off the floor, and continue to read someone’s blog after they got pregnant). Obviously the "relationship" we had has changed. It’s not even a subtle change, either. It’s palatable, trust me.

I am out of my element.

Infertility….

Miscarriages…..

These were my comfort zones, as sick as that may sound, so now I flounder. I know that for many, you don’t know what to say, what to offer, but I seriously can’t find my voice in an empty forest.

no. 568 – Monster

angry when i see pregnant women after my loss

That was a google search that brought someone by my blog recently.

I still remember vividly the weeks that followed the loss of Vivienne because it was during the Holidays and I had to get gift shopping done. Never before had I noticed how many women out and about were pregnant. It was like the movie, Phenomenon, where a man suddenly acquires amazing powers after experiencing a flash of light out of the night sky.

My first miscarriage was that flash out of nowhere that suddenly opened my eyes to emotions I never had before, much less even heard of: the feelings of anger and jealousy towards pregnant women. See my last post if in doubt.

Those feelings have never wavered in three years. Not even my current pregnancy has helped soften the blow. I can only try to temper the emotions by reminding myself that maybe it wasn’t as easy for them as one would presume. That’s exceptionally hard because I know for the vast majority of women, it really was that easy. I mean, it was really that easy for me in the beginning.

So I find long after the visual onslaught of a bulging belly, I still wage the war in my head that keeps me from glaring too obviously at the back of some strangers head as they waddle out of site. I feel that blackness of jealousy and I know without a doubt, I always will. That’s just how I am emotionally.

I apologize if I hurt anyone’s feelings or let anyone down with my last post. The emails came in from several bloggers wondering if it was them and I could not deny that I felt it towards any one of them at some point or another. Something just snapped in me last week as I just couldn’t take it anymore. And while I know that I’m entitled to express myself here, supposedly without censure, I shouldn’t use that as an excuse to be spiteful, especially to those who have been there for me in the past.

UNTIL NEXT TIME

I have accepted a doppler from Catherine, who is graciously loaning me hers. I will try my damnednest not to become spastic if I do not have any luck at first.

I’m glad I didn’t try to sneak in an ultrasound before Christmas. I figured if Murdock was dead that I wouldn’t want that hanging over my head over the next few days. I still expect to see blood when I go into the bathroom and really? I hate feeling relatively well.

Next time you see me, I’ll have a new haircut. I’m getting it cut and re-colored tonight. Now while I hold no stock in the perception that hair-coloring is bad when pregnant, I will feel inclined to shave my head if next Thursday, they calculate that Murdock ceased growing around 9w2d.

More than likely, I will not get a chance to post again until after Christmas. If so, I’ll let you know now that I wish you all peace and comforting love from those who mean the most to you.

Happy Christmas – Merry Holidays

no. 566 – Call Me Lame-io

I have deduced that the reason the Ass-Mouth has disappeared is because I switched prenatals earlier this week upon my clinic’s recommendation. While I certainly enjoyed gagging down one of those ginormous pills, they said I could just switch to the Flinstone’s chewables as long as I take 2 folic acid tablets instead of just one.

Can’t really say it’s much of an improvement as far as tolerance goes as the Flintstone tablet must be held together with some kind of gum substance that has been scraped from under the desks of some high-school’s homeroom. I always find myself spitting bits and pieces of the vitamin out later since they don’t dissolve.

Total number of pills now taken daily (I take them all before bedtime): 9, counting the two I still have to take daily for the hives, which yes, I still get with still fluctuating frequency and severity.

Now I am certainly not saying I’m feeling confident, especially if I was to go by the fact I picked up my phone and dialed my old OB in an attempt to beg a scan from him, but hung up when the receptionist answered. I’m a picture of pathetic.

As a distraction, I finally logged back onto facebook to try to figure that piece of crap out. As Jess and I discussed on my wall (oooh, look at me, I have a wall!), we don’t really get what the big deal is. I have found it fascinating the common "friends" I have with other users and spent a good deal of my time hunting down inviting new friends to my facebook.

For those of you who have a facebook account and know my real name via the Card Exchange, feel free to poke me (ooooh….more facebook techie talk!). You’ll easily pick me out of all the DD’s as I use my boxing babies as my photo avatar.

Wow. I am so lame.

no. 565 – In Need Of Reassurance

I’m not feeling particularly well today. Last night I was horribly constipated and bloated and barely managed to sit through supper at a restaurant with my in-laws while both my intestines and uterus cramped in protest. Particularly bothersome was Mr. DD’s nephew visiting from the south who thinks that he’s some football star in the making for this team, even though he’s not even ON the team. He put away a salad, onion rings, his pound-plus of steak, his hash browns, XBoy’s left-over steak sandwich, a boat dish of french fries and a boat dish of cottage fries. I’m sure he would have put away more if Mr. DD’s family didn’t have such "healthy" appetites.

This summer when he’s finally graduated from college, he’s going to watch with a mixture horror and disbelief as his body quickly melts into 300 pounds of fat since he will no longer have free access to the team’s work out equipment. It’s rather pathetic, really.

Add to it, my asthma is really sticking it to me. Symptoms can either get better, worse or stay the same when an asthmatic gets pregnant. Mine is worse. Every time I cough, I get a nasty pull in the abdomen. I see a hernia coming on if I’m not careful.

Take all that and add in even less breast tenderness, decreased appetite and noticeably absent Ass-Mouth today and I’m not feeling all warm and fuzzy about tomorrow marking 9 weeks. It’s only another week before my next scan to see if Murdock made it through the holidays.

Any actuaries out there want to calculate the odds of a heartbeat in another week? Is there actually a way to calibrate in 4 miscarriages (3 before 9 weeks) and a pregnancy at 40 with a 31 year old’s donated eggs?

Is it any surprise that I chant to myself, "PUP-O. PUP-O. PUP-O" as if I were in meditation?

no. 564 – Small Talk

The other day I was in the cafeteria when the cashier noticed the unusual buttons on the sweater I was wearing. I felt inclined to allow her closer examination. She then asked where did I get the sweater from and I answered, Old Navy. She responded, "I love those commercials and wish I had a wardrobe like that!"

I just flashed her a smile and stepped out of the way for the next person in line. In my head I thought, "Really? An Old Navy wardrobe would make you happy? Why not GAP, or hell, why not think big and think Banana Republic?!"

What I realize is that discussing clothing decisions wasn’t the cashier’s intent. She was making small talk.

I suck at small talk. Seriously – I SUCK!

I’ll give you another example: yesterday I headed to the post office to mail out the last of the cards for the Card Exchange. As I stood in the line that snaked out into the lobby, I called Mr. DD to pass the time. We chatted briefly about nothing and then he instructed me to do something later in the day. I responded with, "Yes, sir." and said goodbye. Yes, I actually do say "yes, sir" or "no, sir" when talking to my husband. That’s for another post.

Anyhow, there was an elderly lady behind me and once I put my phone away, she said to me, "Yes, sir? Was that your husband?" Yes, I told her, it was. "Sounds like me and my husband." Oh? I responded. "He died last year." Sorry to hear that, was all I could say in response.

Ack!

Mr. DD, on the other hand, can small-talk it up with anyone, anywhere. It’s not unusual for me to roll my eyes at him when we go out to eat because he has to chat it up with the waiter. The eye-roll is usually followed by an apologetic look at the waiter for my dinner date’s crappy jokes and for keeping him from his other customers.

How many times have you read that if you are at a social gathering and you have nothing else to say, bring up the topic of the weather. No way and no how am I going to discuss the weather. That just pegs me as the dork who doesn’t know what to say and that I take my advice from a fashion magazine.

So are you a good small-talker? What makes one "good"?

no. 563 – Accepting

Can you tell by the extraordinary posts (as I’m sure I dazzled you before) that something’s amiss? I’ve got the dreaded "survivor’s guilt syndrome" even though I won’t technically have "survived" this pregnancy until sometime in July when someone cuts a baby out of me and tells me that we all can go home.

I feel like such a hypocrite, too, because I will admit that I roll my eyes when others explain how they are feeling guilty for having obtained pregnancy. Well, der, isn’t that what all this is about?

I remember when I first started blogging in 2005 and I didn’t feel comfortable talking about my son. I had seen too many posts where SIF just didn’t seem to warrant the same kind of empathy as PIF. But then I realized that having my son had nothing to do with having infertility as well as my infertility had nothing to do with my son. The two are wholly unrelated.

As I found a niche in blogging, I talked more about my son. He provided subject matter when we were waffling about what next on the totem of treatment when I could have just not posted at all. Maybe fore some that was preferable and so they came, they saw, and they went. But many of you stayed. I didn’t feel the need to preempt a post with the warning that I was going to write about XBoy. He’s part of the package.

So now I have to get used to the fact that this "Technical Pregnancy" is part of the package, and it’s not like it’s came out of the blue: it took three years, 10 ART cycles and I had to let go of 4 other pregnancies.

Expect to hear me bitching (about Ass Mouth and Hormonal Bloating) (about the sensitive gag reflex triggered by taking gum out of my mouth) (about the prenatal vitamin that’s as big as a hissing cockroach and about as tolerable) about pregnancy symptoms from time to time. Just as I will let you into the not-so-pleasant world of raising a now six-year old who has a quaint way of screaming at us like a banshee when we tell him to get ready for his bath or how when he won’t go willingly into a time-out he flops to the floor like a noodle when you physically manipulate him making him the poster child for anyone who wants to perform an illegal demonstration in front of the White House.

So what’s next? I may have to get the ball rolling by talking about poop and its annoying absence.