tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873731347837344512024-03-13T00:22:53.637-04:00the infertile bird<i>chirping about infertility, IVF, donor eggs, miscarriage and recurrent pregnancy loss, <br>
and hoping for the day I have a new song to sing.</i>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-7381950697402590442012-05-24T03:57:00.000-04:002012-05-24T03:57:23.006-04:00How to Survive a Miscarriage<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y5NBP0JtFMQ/T72NQ4gzZZI/AAAAAAAAAYo/ITjivd3sPHs/s1600/miscarriage-of-justice-lina-scarfi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y5NBP0JtFMQ/T72NQ4gzZZI/AAAAAAAAAYo/ITjivd3sPHs/s320/miscarriage-of-justice-lina-scarfi.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://fineartamerica.com/featured/miscarriage-of-justice-lina-scarfi.html">Miscarriage of justice by Lina Scarfi</a></td></tr>
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First off, who do I think I am, attempting to write a miscarriage survival guide? The jury is still out on whether or not I sufficiently survived my own, how can I counsel anybody else on hers?<br />
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Well, maybe I can't. But I'll try, because if my words bring solace, a smile, or at least a moment's distraction to someone else who's going through it, then maybe I'll feel slightly less broken and empty.<br />
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I don't presume to have all the answers and what worked for me won't work for everyone. YMMV. But after two first-trimester miscarriages, I've learned a thing or two about what I, personally, need to survive a zombie wombpocalypse. Those things, in no particular order are:<br />
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1. A fucked-up sense of humor that thinks calling a miscarriage a zombie wombpocalypse is kind of hilarious in a warped and twisted way. When just about everything you see makes you want to cry (there are non-zombie babies EVERYWHERE) you have to take your laughs where you can get them. <br />
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2. A solid acceptance of the immutable fact that I am going to be emotionally fucked up for a while. If I had broken my leg, I'd wear a cast for weeks. Well, my miscarriages left me feeling like I had a cast around my heart: it was heavy and hobbled, a thick shell protecting a raw and wounded lump. I wouldn't expect a broken leg to heal overnight: I'd expect to use crutches and take it easy until it mended. My heart deserves the same. It's just as important as a leg. More so, because I have two legs.<br />
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3. Cupcakes. Miscarriage makes me hungry. My pregnancies left me feeling queasy and pecking at my food, but after the babies died I became ravenous, insatiable. Almost like I was trying to fill the void inside me with food...hmm. <br />
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4. At least two solid days of wallowing. No more than three consecutive, or things start getting weird and smelling bad. I try to spend the first 24 hours sleeping as much as possible. Before my D&C, I tell the anesthesiologist that anesthesia makes me vomit. This is not only true, but it also ensures that they slip an anti-nausea med into my IV, a sweet nectar that helps me pass the rest of the day in a somnolent haze. The ensuing days of wallow are spent in bed. Pity party activities may include: 80's <a href="http://www.thebratpacksite.com/">Brat Pack</a> movie marathons, hysterical sobbing, Ben & Jerry's, incoherent ranting on infertility message boards, staring blankly into space, teaching my dogs to cuddle on command, and wrestling with existential questions like "why does God hate me?" Absolutely forbidden: showering, laundry or housework of any kind, signing on to the work email account, looking at the Facebook feeds of friends who are pregnant or have children, and feeling guilty about any of the above.<br />
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5. An <a href="http://theroadlesstravelledlb.blogspot.com/2012/05/i-am-childless-hear-me-roar.html">"I am Woman hear me roar"</a> moment in which I leap out of bed and assert my control over <i>something</i> in an excessively bold and dramatic manner. Maybe I can't make a baby but watch me catch up on all the office work and housework that I've neglected during the wallowing AND completely re-do our bathroom all in a single weekend and yes, our health and beauty items have all been sterilized, categorized and alphabetized, is there anything wrong with that?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SpqQQnAYX7U/T71-Q_UrzBI/AAAAAAAAAYA/yon5Yavsyxw/s1600/cleanallthethings" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SpqQQnAYX7U/T71-Q_UrzBI/AAAAAAAAAYA/yon5Yavsyxw/s320/cleanallthethings" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artwork/meme courtesy of the awesome Allie at <a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/06/this-is-why-ill-never-be-adult.html">Hyperbole and a Half. </a><br />
If you haven't read her blog yet, you really should.</td></tr>
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6. A willingness to play the Miscarriage Card. Yes, it makes people uncomfortable to hear that you lost your baby, especially if they hadn't known you were pregnant in the first place, but so what. Life is full of uncomfortable situations. If just hearing about a miscarriage upsets them, they should be glad they didn't have one. But I did and <i>I'm so sorry but I wont be able to attend that baby shower for the girl from Human Resources because it will be too upsetting for me</i>. And I don't care if word gets around because while I don't usually share much of my personal life with my co-workers, I'd rather they know I just had a miscarriage than think I'm strung out on drugs because I'm wandering around the office red-eyed, edgy and too distracted to turn my monthly report in on time. <br />
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7. Time. In the end, it's the only thing that really makes a difference. Just like that fractured bone would eventually rebuild, so will my heart. Tortured metaphors aside, your body literally DOES need time to heal, too. It takes 4-6 weeks for your hormones to stabilize and until they do, your emotions will see-saw, yo-yo, flip-flop and zig-zag. Avoid making important decisions and operating heavy machinery if at all possible. But I've found that if I can just hang in there, lean on whatever crutches are handy (friends, family, cupcakes and/or Molly Ringwald), and ride it out, it eventually gets better. The sadness and sense of loss never completely go away, but I can compartmentalize them, put on my tough girl boots and carry on much more easily once some time passes and my hormones return to normal.<br />
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<i>What about you? If you've had the misfortune of losing a pregnancy, what people places or things helped get you through the worst times? </i>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-91225378744054255932012-05-19T13:50:00.003-04:002012-05-19T13:56:28.252-04:00The Birds' Tale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yhq04IGPq2U/T7fcvMgx5UI/AAAAAAAAAXw/ZNsKIxUAGIE/s1600/2wrens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yhq04IGPq2U/T7fcvMgx5UI/AAAAAAAAAXw/ZNsKIxUAGIE/s320/2wrens.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Hi friends. I've added a new page to this blog - see the link up there that says "our story?" I wrote it for anyone who's wondered about the early days of our infertility journey, before I started writing about it. And I wrote it for myself, to let all the words out so they can stop rattling around in my head. If you're interested in the tale of Jenny and Mr Wren, you can click the link up top or <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/p/our-story-birds-eye-view.html">this one here.</a>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-3546864258985888812012-05-14T21:43:00.000-04:002012-05-14T21:43:58.973-04:00I'm Just Not That Into My Doctor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3-gMPllV__I/T7Agh-AzgjI/AAAAAAAAAT8/xSLXWRXrZd0/s1600/doctor-unicorn-md.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3-gMPllV__I/T7Agh-AzgjI/AAAAAAAAAT8/xSLXWRXrZd0/s400/doctor-unicorn-md.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My doctor is not a unicorn, and this is not a fairy tale. If it were, I would be the fair lady banished to the Barren Wasteland and my doctor would be, not the magical unicorn on which she rides safely to the Fertile Valley, but the scheming goblin who promises to remove the curse in exchange for all her gold and future riches and demands a series of impossible tasks. But after she meets all his conditions and masters his challenges through her outstanding determination strength and will, after she has given everything she has, he twists and grins and finds a loophole to slither through. "<i>Sorry, sweetheart, but you danced by the light of the full moon, not the new moon, so our contract is null and void. But if you want to try again I have another quest in mind.....bwahahahahah"</i></div>
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OK, so I have an overactive imagination. My fertility doctor is not a goblin or an evil troll, a snake-oil-salesman or a quack. He is a highly educated medical professional, respected in his field and partner at the leading fertility clinic in our region. He's a smarmy little automaton and I hate his fucking guts.</div>
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I hate the way he acts like he's a doctor on TV. Everything is so slick and rehearsed, down to the well-timed hand on your shoulder. I hate his smug little grin and shiny immobile hair and his scripted responses to every question you ask. </div>
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He doesn't like me, either. He bristles defensively whenever I ask about other treatments and protocols that I've read about online. He hates that I do my own research, question his methods and suggest alternatives. </div>
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After my first miscarriage I asked, several times, about Heparin and Lovenox. He was pompous and dismissive: "nonono, you don't need that, you don't have clotting factors and it's extremely risky and the evidence supporting it is weak at best."</div>
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Another year, another miscarriage, and Dr Smuglestiltskin twists and grins and says <i>Sorry, sweetheart, but you failed to keep the baby alive so our contract is null and void. But if you want to try again I have another plan in mind..."</i>Listen, we can treat you with something called Heparin. It's been shown to be helpful, even for women who don't have clotting factors, and the evidence looks good and we're having a lot of luck with it."</div>
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So. It's a risky and unproven treatment unless he suggests it, then it's OMG AWESOME.</div>
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This is why I hate my doctor.</div>
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So, what am I going to do about it? I've never in my life stayed in a relationship with anyone who made me feel so helpless, hopeless, weak and wrong. When every conversation leaves me sobbing tears of frustration and self-loathing, I know it's over. When I dread seeing someone as much I dread seeing Dr S at the follow-up-to-the-miscarriage appointment that I keep putting off scheduling, I know it's time to walk away.</div>
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But I can't break up with my doctor, can I? </div>
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<i>Can I? </i></div>
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There are three doctors at the clinic. Dr C is a doddering old fool who grievously botched one of my embryo transfers and is not allowed anywhere near my vagina. I've been with Dr S for over four years and he knows my whole story and I hate him. But Dr G seems nice. I'd like to at least talk with him, see what he thinks about my case and where he stands on the whole Heparin/Lovenox/Pushy Patient thing. Y'know, a little first date of sorts, to see if there's a spark, if we hit it off. </div>
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But I don't want to be that crazy bitch who's burned through the entire office. </div>
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But maybe I am crazy. </div>
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Maybe I'm just hoping for a Doctor Unicorn to ride in on a rainbow and prescribe a magical potion to grant me my baby-ever-after.</div>
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Maybe it's not him, it's me.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HN4HrF8z9PU/T7AfZXLw29I/AAAAAAAAATk/FNZkR1PFhyY/s1600/an-apple-or-four-a-day-keeps-the-doctor-away.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="452" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HN4HrF8z9PU/T7AfZXLw29I/AAAAAAAAATk/FNZkR1PFhyY/s640/an-apple-or-four-a-day-keeps-the-doctor-away.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visit <a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/">Natalie Dee's blog</a>. It will make you smile.</td></tr>
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<br />Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-22549036944907807222012-05-13T11:34:00.000-04:002012-05-25T11:15:00.720-04:00An UnMothers Day Story Starring Various Turkeys.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HHtnvWl5g10/T6_R59eyEUI/AAAAAAAAATU/OJ8fp_2Jkbs/s1600/mother-of-mothers-day-anna-jarvis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HHtnvWl5g10/T6_R59eyEUI/AAAAAAAAATU/OJ8fp_2Jkbs/s320/mother-of-mothers-day-anna-jarvis.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anna Jarvis, the founder of Mother's Day</td></tr>
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Based on the comments I received on yesterday's post, and the fact that somebody out there in internetland found it by googling "fuck mother's day infertility," it seems I'm not alone in feeling sad and inadequate on this day that celebrates the very thing that I want so desperately but am consistently denied.<br />
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Once, during my Carrie Bradshaw years, a guy broke up with me on Thanksgiving. We had plans to eat dinner with his friends at 4:00 and were going to drive to Florida to meet my parents the next day. Around noon we argued about something - you'd think I'd remember what it was considering it was the first fight we'd ever had but it really was that insignificant an issue. I think it had something to do with flip-flops. His disproportionate anger stunned me. The argument went from a minor flare-up to a raging forest fire in a frighteningly short time and by 2:00 he was packing up his computer and hair products and bungee-ing his mountain bike to the roof of his Corolla, making it clear he intended to never have anything more to do with me ever. <i>Bear with me, I have a point here.</i><br />
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It was THANKSGIVING. A day to spend with friends and family. And I was alone. It was 3:00 in the afternoon and everyone had plans, they were already bellied up to a bird or just about to be. My friends were all at relatives' homes, and this was before cell phones (yeah, I'm old) so I had no way to get in touch with them. My own family was 7 hours away and my car couldn't be trusted to make the trip (we had planned to take Angry Guy's Corolla). <br />
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I ended up walking down to the beach, which is what I always do when I don't know what to do with myself. On the beach, the familiar briny smell mingled with the scent of roasted bird wafting from nearly every house along the shore.<br />
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Children dressed in holiday best tumbled out of these houses and ran laughing towards the surf, <i>loving</i> Thanksgiving at Aunt Sophie's house. And I felt acutely aware of my aloneness. I was an outsider, observing a holiday in which I was not included. It did not pertain to me. <br />
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And that's how I feel today. (See, I told you there was a point.) This stupid holiday is going on all around me and it has NOTHING to do with me. (y<i>es, ok, I do have my own mother to honor and I promise I'm going to call her just as soon as I finish venting here.)</i><br />
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I find it FASCINATING that the woman who invented Mother's Day and fought to make it a national holiday, <a href="http://www.babble.com/mom/mom-relationships/anna-jarvis-mothers-day-history-gifts-enough-thank-you">Anna Jarvis</a>, came to resent the holiday and spent her final days campaigning to have it abolished. She claimed to hate the commercialism of it all and I get that. (She should see it now.) But also, she never married and had no children. She started a holiday to honor mothers and then never got to become one. I'm just saying.<br />
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Anyway, in honor of Mother's Day and Anna Jarvis, I leave you with this anecdote:<br />
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<em>Years after she founded Mother’s Day, Anna Jarvis was dining at the
Tea Room at Wanamaker’s department store in Philadelphia. She saw they
were offering a “Mother’s Day Salad.” She ordered the salad and when it
was served, she stood up, dumped it on the floor, left the money to pay
for it, and walked out in a huff. Jarvis had lost control of the holiday
she helped create, and she was crushed by her belief that commercialism
was destroying Mother’s Day</em><br />
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Read the full text here: <a href="http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/126538#ixzz1ulKIqMVn" style="color: #003399;">http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/126538#ixzz1ulKIqMVn</a>
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Also: I'm not completely bitter and heartless. To all of my friends who have been blessed with children, a very happy Mother's Day. And I hope you know how lucky you are.Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-53917669389114917692012-05-12T13:40:00.000-04:002012-05-12T13:44:11.691-04:00Another UnMother's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wkaqN4NyFEY/T66XvKIpH-I/AAAAAAAAAS0/0m8vwsorzsA/s1600/notamom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wkaqN4NyFEY/T66XvKIpH-I/AAAAAAAAAS0/0m8vwsorzsA/s320/notamom.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awesome t-shirt idea from the <a href="http://fivecamels.blogspot.com/2011/05/salty-mocha-frappe-anyone.html">Five Camels blog</a>. <br />
Hope they don't mind that I stole it cause I kind of love it.</td></tr>
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Mother's Day is the infertile woman's day of reckoning. It presents a unique kind of torture to those of us who have been trying (and trying and trying) and failing (and failing and failing) to become a mother. Tomorrow will be my fifth consecutive I-am-NOT-a-Mother's-Day.<br />
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I spent the first few wistfully longing for the day when it would be my turn to get a handcrafted glitter-crusted mother's day card and dried pasta necklace. (I have to assume that any child of mine would be proficient in the use of craft supplies, regardless of gender) That day was taking a long time coming but I was sure it would get here eventually. But as each year passed and the failures piled up I became a little less certain.<br />
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Last year, Mother's Day fell on the day before my frozen embryos were to be transferred. A friend said encouragingly that it would be my very last Wanna-Be-a-Mother's Day, that by "this time next year" my life would have changed and I'd be celebrating Mother's Day for real. <br />
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I believed it. I almost had reason to. One embryo stuck. It was my first pregnancy. <br />
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7 weeks later, my first miscarriage. <br />
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And now here we are, it's Mother's Day again. My baby boy Oliver would have been 4 months old by now. 4 months exactly on Sunday. Old enough to hold his head up and grab at my dangly earrings and laugh and smile and coo. Maybe even sleeping through the night. But no. He left us in July and is nothing more than a might-have-been. A small smooth seashell sitting on my dresser all that remains to remember him by.<br />
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Amazingly, I was given a second chance at this year's Mother's Day. Tomorrow I would be 14 weeks along in my second pregnancy. I would have just crossed safely into the second trimester. That would have been enough of a milestone for us to celebrate the holiday. Mr Wren would have brought me flowers, called me "mommy" at least a dozen times, we'd have watched <a href="http://focusfeatures.com/away_we_go">Away We Go</a> and I'd have been snuffling hormonal tears of joy all day. But no. That baby left us, too.<br />
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<a href="http://focusfeatures.com/away_we_go"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F6TwaUm3u6E/T66afxU9hdI/AAAAAAAAATE/1dJxLm28RZk/s400/away-we-go-074.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My friend was partially right. This past year has changed my life, but not in the way any of us hoped. I want to spend this Mother's Day the way I've spent much of the past month since my miscarriage: studiously NOT thinking about mothers or babies, or how some of the former manage to get loads of the latter without even trying, while some of us try every thing known to man and still end up childless.<br />
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But I know that's near impossible. I have my own mother to think about, after all, and my MIL. And my many beautiful, amazing, inspiring friends, both IRL and on the internet, who are mothers. I need to find a way out of my pit of selfish misery to honor the countless sacrifices, the unconditional love, the comfort and nurturing and undying support of mothers everywhere. <br />
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I'd like to design a greeting card for infertile women to give to their friends-with-kids on Mother's Day. The outside would show a mother cradling a newborn babe. Inside, it would say, "I hope you know how lucky you are." <i>Happy fucking Mother's Day from your jealous and bitter infertile friend. </i><br />
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Instead, I'll send flowers to my mom, take MIL to brunch, and spend the rest of the day quietly feeling bad about myself.<br />
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<br />Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-89752063145041583472012-05-05T19:59:00.002-04:002012-05-06T12:12:03.339-04:00What Fresh Hell is This?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uavB7kXfJh0/T6WzUXlAckI/AAAAAAAAAR8/htxrvaKlMRs/s1600/sisyphus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uavB7kXfJh0/T6WzUXlAckI/AAAAAAAAAR8/htxrvaKlMRs/s320/sisyphus.jpg" width="316" /></a></div>
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Oh hi, I'm back.<br />
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I stopped writing because for a long time I had no news to report. Then, when I did have news to report, quite good news in fact, the very best news that an infertile bird can hope to get....well, I was afraid to write about it because I didn't want to jinx it and I didn't want to tell the internet that I was pregnant until I was sure it was going to stick, because I didn't want to liveblog my miscarriage, if that's what was going to happen.<br />
<br />
It seems my instincts were sound.<br />
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I got pregnant in March. After a picture-perfect cycle: a young, fertile and conscientious <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/10/weighing-my-options.html#more">donor</a>, healthy eggs and awesome embryos, two pink lines on the peestick and higher-than-average beta results, after we had seen the heartbeat on two ultrasounds, saw our baby develop from a 6-week tadpole into a 7-week shrimp, and had been told by our doctor that we had a 95% chance of carrying it to term and he had "a really good feeling about this one," after weeks of queasiness and dizziness and omgIreallyFEELpregnant, after telling my parents the news because we truly deep-down believed it was going to happen this time because everything was happening exactly like it was supposed to and we did everything right and goddammit we deserve it, our baby quietly and inexplicably died one night when I was 8 weeks along.<br />
<br />
I felt it happen. People will say it's impossible and I imagined it, but I knew the minute that tiny heart stopped beating. I felt the life that had been growing inside me, stop. I startled awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding and full of dread. I felt all the energy in my body that had been directed to creating and sustaining the little butterbean suddenly surge through me. Life support had been turned off but the circuit was still live and the wire crackled and sparked. I knew it was over. Everyone tried to reassure me that it's totally normal to have these feelings and that loads of women had fears, anxiety and worries when they were pregnant and everything turned out just FINE. But 3 days later the ultrasound showed that my baby had died and it had happened about 3 days earlier. Don't tell me I don't know my fucking body.<br />
<br />
So, anyway, here I am. Again. <br />
<br />
You might not be surprised to hear I'm having a tough time. I think I seem OK on the outside. There's a lot going on at work so I have to keep my shit together at least during the day. But I'm a whole bundle of grief and rage and despair wrapped in a layer of tissue paper, tied with a thin piece of string. Don't look too close, don't ask too much of me, I just might fall apart.<br />
<br />
See, here's The Thing: they have no idea WHY it happened. Once again, nothing wrong with the baby. Something horribly wrong with me, something they can't even identify, let alone conquer. I've battled Advanced Maternal Age and Premature Ovarian Failure, but now I'm being attacked by the Voldemort of infertility, That-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named: Undiagnosed Recurrent Miscarriage. They can get me pregnant but can't keep me there and they've run out of things to try.<br />
<br />
At this point a rational person might throw up their hands and say, enough. We have tried literally EVERYTHING to have a baby and we can't make it happen. Maybe it's time to admit that it's Just Not Meant To Be. Maybe it's time to move on with our lives.<br />
<br />
But we can't.<br />
<br />
Our young and fertile <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/10/taking-plunge.html">egg donor</a> gave us so many robust eggs that we ended up with six frozen embryos. The shared-risk program means we get to keep trying until all six have been used. If we don't succeed, we will get our money back. ALL OF IT. It's a not insignificant amount. I'd give it all and then some to have a child, but if I. Just. Can't. then I will take our money back, thankyouverymuch. <br />
<br />
And I can't very well tell myself that we tried everything if we give up before ALL our chances have been used up. <br />
<br />
So I have to keep trying. My doctor won't transfer more than two at once, so I may have to put myself through all of this THREE more times, because let's be honest: my odds of success? Not so good. If they don't know what's wrong with me, how can they fix it? Right now I feel that the best I can hope for is that none of the frozen embryos even "take," so that I don't have to go through three more miscarriages, three more rounds of hope and despair, three more cycles of grief and healing. <br />
<br />
I have to keep trying, even though I'll probably fail. And no amount of will or want or science or prayer will change the outcome.<br />
<br />
Even <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sisyphus">Sisyphus</a> would think it's pretty fucked up. <br />
<br />
I don't know if anyone is reading or caring anymore. But I think I'm going to have to start using writing as therapy again, so maybe I'll see you around.<br />
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<br />Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-67278542420161739552011-10-20T12:42:00.001-04:002011-10-20T12:47:18.870-04:00This Post Is Brought To You By The Letter "F"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalWVvseOcxYgGhytjfcft7Tk9cbtvQWqERkiWYihGldVCJaKKxFLMsKmG_mpBH29mQxGdzFetbcpfpy8COW_iNG0njt1DJcsk6hhM5SKoYwU8PcNCAn6lDh0vANpNudQASaZkC3gu7LuP/s1600/letterf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalWVvseOcxYgGhytjfcft7Tk9cbtvQWqERkiWYihGldVCJaKKxFLMsKmG_mpBH29mQxGdzFetbcpfpy8COW_iNG0njt1DJcsk6hhM5SKoYwU8PcNCAn6lDh0vANpNudQASaZkC3gu7LuP/s1600/letterf.jpg" /></a></div><br />
F as in Failure. F as in Freak. F as in Faulty, Fatigued, and Forlorn. F as in Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, I failed my mock cycle.<br />
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<br />
This recent foray into fomenting my fertility has fallen flat. Today's ultrasound was a farce. My uterine lining is feeble. My hope for the future is flagging. <br />
<br />
F used not to be a letter with which I was familiar. Always an overacheiver, I spent most of my life striving for, and usually getting, "A"s. Infertility has changed all that. In the pursuit of fecundity and family I have failed time and time again. I should be used to it by now.<br />
<br />
Following this morning's disappointing ultrasound, the nurse met me in the hallway. "What are we going to do with you?" She asked.<br />
<br />
I only wish I knew.<br />
<br />
Somehow I will find the fortitude to move forward. I will submit to further tests and trials to find a way to fix my faulty female fabric. I will fight for my future flock. But for now I'm fundamentally frustrated. It all seems so futile. <br />
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Fuck.Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-89556060080590156482011-10-14T12:24:00.000-04:002011-10-14T12:24:17.591-04:00Taking the Plunge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzzMj3KXO9H-WcU5TYplsK03XmRUPcKjRqo1nqzp1pxS71aAY6z5ALb-HhG_vPc1oBhvhvYAa9tOjmbV-xz3cQE9FCTSFhsAV9sNDP2-55KISwEjiwSuJ-kqhLbla51uiOw3vpmjwjr9I/s1600/take-the-plunge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzzMj3KXO9H-WcU5TYplsK03XmRUPcKjRqo1nqzp1pxS71aAY6z5ALb-HhG_vPc1oBhvhvYAa9tOjmbV-xz3cQE9FCTSFhsAV9sNDP2-55KISwEjiwSuJ-kqhLbla51uiOw3vpmjwjr9I/s320/take-the-plunge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For weeks I've been standing on the edge of the high-dive, scared to leap off into the unknown. I was paralyzed, unable to commit to an egg donor and unwilling to leave the safety of my ledge and free-fall into another IVF cycle. Those waters are deep and treacherous. Last time, I almost drowned.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But you can't live on the edge indefinitely. Sooner or later you have to screw your courage to the sticking place, take a deep breath, close your eyes, cross your fingers and hope for the best. Eventually you have to jump.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And at 4:00 this morning, I did.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Unable to sleep, I logged into the donor database one more time, to pore over our prospective donor's profile for the eight-thousand and twelfth time, and noticed that something had changed. Next to the picture of her tow-headed toothless toddler grin, a notation appeared. She had been selected by another couple!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A34316-2004May17.html">shared-risk plan</a> that pays for all of this mandates that we do "split cycles," and share our donor with another couple, so the fact that someone else had already signed on for her wasn't a deal breaker. It did however put us at sudden risk of losing her, if a second couple chose her while I hesitated on the edge, staring down at the waters below. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That thought was enough to wake me from my trance. <i>No! </i> I thought, <i>that's OUR donor. We can't lose her!</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I poked the snoring Mr Wren until he stirred and opened one eye. "Are you up?" I demanded, "I need to talk."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It is to his infinite credit that he didn't even groan despite it being the middle of the fucking night. Damn, he's a good man. Have I said lately how much I love him?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He didn't require any convincing. He said last week that he was ready to choose her, but the ultimate decision was mine to make. Still, I needed to hear him say "<i>ok, let's do this</i>" before I clicked "final selection." I needed him to be there beside me, holding my hand as we made this final leap into the blue unknown. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I squeezed his hand, held my breath, and together we jumped.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4SIJRwyZo9tKhABTGc5J884i5yx-M07ayjtKVDFtnzlDZJKo0DEPmJJvTdMpYqkwSLuG6_OIwB9SID7cvlmLDU-h4EJg25-K-CpTngJ1rbfeqwdDT3QSiop1-mQXcKo08xuB0MuuEnniq/s1600/couple+jumping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4SIJRwyZo9tKhABTGc5J884i5yx-M07ayjtKVDFtnzlDZJKo0DEPmJJvTdMpYqkwSLuG6_OIwB9SID7cvlmLDU-h4EJg25-K-CpTngJ1rbfeqwdDT3QSiop1-mQXcKo08xuB0MuuEnniq/s400/couple+jumping.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1818; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"><strong style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 10px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Credit:</strong> <a alt="Click here to view all the images by this contributor" href="http://www.sciencephoto.com/media/394390/enlarge#" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; color: #990000; font-family: inherit; font-size: 10px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" title="Click here to view all the images by this contributor">CARLOS HERNANDEZ/SCIENCE PHOTO LIBRARY</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And awaaaaaaaay we go. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-29638180149761972612011-10-14T03:08:00.000-04:002011-10-14T03:08:28.153-04:00Infertiles Hate You, Too<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSRATxUmCILffXMS3HSSRutIVXlWbd_soFlZ_dC-cdZ6LqWti1j7Ob3w-CmLhT27Yk8Emf6OHGsix7fvQ3vNHTyoC9sjZIZcb3_XlDLU5v7kq8VprTvtrPdOROxC-M4pkGctptEcK610N/s1600/no+baybeez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSRATxUmCILffXMS3HSSRutIVXlWbd_soFlZ_dC-cdZ6LqWti1j7Ob3w-CmLhT27Yk8Emf6OHGsix7fvQ3vNHTyoC9sjZIZcb3_XlDLU5v7kq8VprTvtrPdOROxC-M4pkGctptEcK610N/s400/no+baybeez.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<a name='more'></a>I admit, I'm a bit obsessed with Blogger stats. It tickles me no end to learn that someone in Singapore is reading my little ol' blog RIGHT NOW. <em>(What up, Singapore!)</em> But my favorite function by far is the one that tells me which search terms have led people here. A sample:<br />
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"Infertility grief" - y<i>ep, got that.</i> <br />
"Craving a baby" - <i>indeed I am</i>. <br />
"Birds head in sand" - <i>denial, I have it</i>. <br />
"Jenny Wren boobs" - <i>sorry to disappoint.</i><br />
"Big boobs infertile" - <i>this really isn't that kind of website so stop asking. </i><br />
<i>"</i>What is a four letter word for what a bird does?" - <i>peck.</i><i> </i><br />
"Four letter word for bird" - <i> actually,</i> <i>I know lots of four-letter words and I could unleash quite a few of them on whomever searched for this gem:</i><br />
"I hate infertiles."<br />
<br />
Seriously. Someone out there typed those three words into Google and hit enter. It makes me wonder: who hates on infertiles?<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, Infertile-hater, is my heart breaking too loudly for you? Is the echo coming from my perpetually empty uterus making it difficult for you to concentrate? Or do you resent me because sometimes you wish you hadn't birthed your rotten little rugrats and then you look at me and feel guilty for regretting your children, and instead of having any shred of self-awareness you hate me for making you feel bad?<br />
<br />
Mr Wren just popped in and suggested I was perhaps getting my feathers in a ruffle and flying off the handle for no reason. Irritating little devil's advocate that he is, he insisted I give this stranger on the internet, this anonymous googler, the benefit of the doubt and consider possible reasons why one might search "I hate infertiles" without actually, you know, <i>hating</i> infertiles.<br />
<br />
I was resolute. "No!" I squawked, "there are people out there who actually HATE us just because we're infertile! There's probably an entire web community of haters who sit around posting LOLcats with infertile-bashing captions like<i> no, you can't haz baybeez</i>."<br />
<br />
And to prove my point I typed "I hate infertiles" into Google. YES, I'm aware that by doing so I proved his point too, but whatEVER.<br />
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Well, I didn't find any infertile-hating message boards populated with smug mommies and childless hipsters. I did, however, find <a href="http://www.ivfquestion.com/topic/i-have-a-confession-i-hate-infertile-people">this post</a> on an infertility forum. It's a provocative and visceral piece of writing by a fellow veteran of the infertility wars. And while she says she hates infertile people, what she really means is she hates people who are less infertile than she is. And it's pretty clear that she "hates" them in much the same way I hate babies in my <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/07/i-hate-your-baby.html">post-miscarriage post</a>.<br />
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Sometimes I feel like I'm in the ninth circle of infertility hell and it's a lonely place to be. Most people have sex and make babies. Some don't. Those that don't, but want babies anyway, seek help. Lots get lucky with their first treatment attempts: medication, IUIs. Some don't, and move on to IVF. Most of them succeed within three tries. Some don't, and take more drastic measures: donor eggs, donor sperm, surrogates. A really high percentage of these people end up with perfect little miracle babies snuggled in their arms. <i>Some just don't</i>. <br />
<br />
It sucks to be one of the ones that don't. It's enough to make you really, really angry. The kind of anger that lashes out in all directions, feeding on jealousy and despair and targeting everyone who has the thing you are constantly denied. I've been there. I'm not there anymore, much to the relief of everyone around me, but I remember and I understand.<br />
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And I can't pretend it didn't sting a little when, in the past 2 weeks, several of my internet friends got their long-hoped-for positive pregnancy tests. All were hard-won victories for infertility warriors who have endured more than their share of staggering blows, only to rise and fight anew. I'm thrilled for each and every one of them and they inspire me to reclaim my sword and shield and get ready to rumble again, but I'm battle-worn and weary and wonder if it will ever be my turn to be victorious. <br />
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Will I ever have a miracle baby snuggled in my arms? What if I just don't?<br />
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</i>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-22267757198666160512011-10-09T13:33:00.000-04:002011-10-09T13:33:46.469-04:00Weighing My Options<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtB088QUzJYnXfHXXFkBqc9zwmxYy_BBE41KeVoeXT6KY3CX6gSAh76Iv4dma_sFUg7xSdfjqMKFt3patJagQJLpZVeZjJFoqcWKb-XwqJcPgUBmksUv6kKwvHYIt-2M-r9SliSkHq3fG5/s1600/weighing+eggs1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtB088QUzJYnXfHXXFkBqc9zwmxYy_BBE41KeVoeXT6KY3CX6gSAh76Iv4dma_sFUg7xSdfjqMKFt3patJagQJLpZVeZjJFoqcWKb-XwqJcPgUBmksUv6kKwvHYIt-2M-r9SliSkHq3fG5/s320/weighing+eggs1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
We've been trying to select an egg donor for the past few weeks and still haven't made a decision. <br />
<br />
The dilemma, <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/10/shopping-for-eggs.html">as I wrote the other day</a>, boils down to one basic question: how much does it matter if our egg donor (and therefore our potential child) looks nothing like me?<br />
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The donor that we are considering appears very close to the perfect package: healthy, intelligent, athletic, ambitious and compassionate. But she's a fair-skinned blue-eyed blonde and I'm none of the above. Total opposite, in fact.<br />
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Logically, I've come to accept the reality that no matter what, our child will not carry my genes. And honestly, that's probably a good thing - there are some serious coconuts and bananas hanging off the branches of my family tree and I'd just as soon not risk passing along any of their traits that may be twisted among the strands of my DNA.<br />
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But still. I had hoped, on an emotional level, to find a donor that looked a little like me. One with at least a few drops of Italian blood in her veins. It's hard for me to let go of that. I've already had to let go of so much. As a friend commented on my last post, "...you've made so many concessions. If you don't have to make this one, better."<br />
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But sometimes I think that infertility is the universe's way of forcing me to let go of my need for perfection and control. Oh yes, I'm a hard-core control freak and the universe really does have to hit me over the head with this lesson a bunch of times before it sinks in. <b>There's no such thing as the perfect child and I can't create one by finding the "perfect" donor.</b> The ache to hold a baby in my arms goes down to the marrow of my bones and I know just as deeply that I will love and cherish that child whether they are anything like me or not.<br />
<br />
I asked the question: <i>if we adopted a child he or she would look nothing like me and it wouldn't matter, so why does it matter now?</i><br />
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I guess the difference is when someone says to an adopted child, "gee, you look nothing like your parents," the answer, "I'm adopted" is easily understood and accepted and everyone moves on. My child would have to face a decision, every time someone comments about how they look so different from their mother, either to share the very personal story of their unusual conception and deal with the questions and reactions that ensue, or shrug it off by saying "I take after my Dad's side of the family."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I don't want to make this decision based on fears of what random strangers may say, because random strangers say stupid shit all the time and you can't live your life worrying about those assholes. <br />
<br />
But I don't want my child to be reminded constantly of their "otherness," and I fear that's what all those comments and questions may do. Adoption has been around for centuries and is universally understood, but donor egg IVF is a relatively new technique and still shrouded in secrecy and confusion. Some women choose not to tell anyone they used DE IVF, not even the child that results from it. While I respect that choice, it is not the one that I plan to make. <br />
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I still haven't made up my mind. I can't bring myself to pull the trigger and I can't bring myself to walk away. But in the meantime, I'm watching this video a LOT and hoping that I could raise a child as well-adjusted as the lovely Allegra.<br />
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</div>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-37536686489376389982011-10-07T00:07:00.000-04:002011-10-07T00:07:01.796-04:00Shopping for Eggs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyzxj9lqy9NoHGQcc9LfS1_lknrBIOYySNpiE_iqsquHzUycynHDyJB_Pj_DhuCWrtTU23vlC21fI5WKHy39nkZFjH3aKzZuRLIBCzrAOUMoZrp3eaHfo9LgiO-c3V3pOFVim0ulGijDo/s1600/egg+shopping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyzxj9lqy9NoHGQcc9LfS1_lknrBIOYySNpiE_iqsquHzUycynHDyJB_Pj_DhuCWrtTU23vlC21fI5WKHy39nkZFjH3aKzZuRLIBCzrAOUMoZrp3eaHfo9LgiO-c3V3pOFVim0ulGijDo/s320/egg+shopping.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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For the past two weeks we've been trying to select an egg donor. <br />
<br />
In some ways, it's not so different from shopping for anything else online.<br />
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The problem is I suck at online shopping. I love online <i>looking</i>, clicking through pages and pages of beautiful things that I imagine myself owning. I'll envision a life in which I strut around in purple suede thigh-high boots, attend garden parties wearing sweet embroidered frocks, and have a spare closet filled with unique knick-knacks so I always have a gift on hand when I've forgotten someone's birthday.<br />
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But as my mouse hovers over the "add to cart" button, I convince myself those <a href="http://www.ebay.com/itm/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=260710685303&hlp=false">boots</a> are impractical, that <a href="http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=20909388&catId=CLOTHES-DRESSES&pushId=CLOTHES-DRESSES&popId=CLOTHES&navCount=6&color=030&isProduct=true&fromCategoryPage=true&isSubcategory=true&subCategoryId=CLOTHES-DRESSES&templateType=subCategory">dress</a> won't work with my sallow skin and garden-party-less lifestyle, and trinkets crafted from old <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/82626946/typewriter-key-jewelry-necklace-letter-j?utm_source=googleproduct&utm_medium=syndication&utm_campaign=GPS">typewriter keys</a> and <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/63161813/photo-frame-with-scrabble-tile?ref=sr_gallery_40&ga_langid_override=-1&ga_search_query=scrabble+tiles&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_noautofacet=1&ga_search_type=handmade&ga_facet=handmade%2Fhousewares">Scrabble tiles</a> are the kinds of gifts that only I would appreciate. The cursor meekly slides over to the corner of the screen and I close the window, buying nothing.<br />
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As it turns out, I'm just as ambivalent when shopping for DNA.<br />
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Our clinic has an in-house donor pool and strictly safeguards the privacy of everyone involved. Donor profiles are stripped of any identifying information; photos show them as babies or young children, not adults. They provide basic facts: height and weight, hair and eye color, racial and cultural background, personal and family health history, education and talents. It's all there to browse through, in the online database.<br />
<br />
We have to assemble all these discrete bits of information and try to create an image of the young woman they describe. It's like doing a jigsaw puzzle without first seeing the picture on the box. You really don't know how the pieces fit or if you're putting them together the right way.<br />
<br />
At first glance, I saw lots of potential. I envisioned healthy and attractive young women generously donating precious gifts of hope. I pictured the children that would result from blending their characteristics with my husband's. I fantasized about finger-paint masterpieces created by a child who combined Donor A's artistic abilities with Mr Wren's self-discipline and focus, or the easy friendships enjoyed by one with Donor B's outgoing nature and Mr Wren's winning smile. <br />
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But the deeper I delved into their profiles, the more I faltered. Donor A has a troubling amount of alcoholism and mental health issues in her immediate family. Donor B has other medical conditions that could combine with my husband's genes in a most unfortunate manner. Donor C, our last remaining option, is nothing - and I mean NOTHING - like me. She's fair where I'm dark. She's an athlete where I'm an uncoordinated clutz. She's smart and motivated where I'm smart but a slack-ass. OK, so in some ways she's <em>better</em> than me and that's cool.<br />
<br />
In all, Donor C is our top candidate. But I keep getting caught up on her conspicuous lack of physical resemblance to anyone in my family. Her baby pictures show an adorable tow-headed toddler with bright blue eyes and a wide laughing smile. She looks like Mr. Wren's cousins and even though his hair is dark, his eyes are blue so a blond-haired blue-eyed baby could believably take after his side of the family. But only his side.<br />
<br />
And I don't know why it's so imperative that this child resemble me. Any resemblance would be superficial. Even if I could find a clutzy, slack-ass <a href="http://www.findmydoppelganger.com/">doppelganger </a>of a donor and gave birth to a sallow brown-eyed child, he or she wouldn't have "my" eyes so why would it matter? Maybe it shouldn't matter at all. The ONLY thing that really matters is that the baby is healthy. Obviously if we adopted a child it wouldn't look like me and I wouldn't care, so why do I care now?<br />
<br />
I have a lot to think about. I convinced the clinic to extend my access to the database by one more week. <br />
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<i>To be continued....</i>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-62146620383153851632011-10-02T22:28:00.001-04:002011-10-02T22:33:41.487-04:00On the Road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEign8GdzdWmlVCxsB9gLvjqjqwcW84ILDFDgrtZ3nIfptgqFaLkKSQczWFYSCX5_UMskV2T_aP8quvXqVVdOn3QytsCTcuUMBvrYMJZdAqZ2G8n1IpomX_7JgIA1kJ-iIbNtE1E1-1ryoZP/s1600/chicago.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEign8GdzdWmlVCxsB9gLvjqjqwcW84ILDFDgrtZ3nIfptgqFaLkKSQczWFYSCX5_UMskV2T_aP8quvXqVVdOn3QytsCTcuUMBvrYMJZdAqZ2G8n1IpomX_7JgIA1kJ-iIbNtE1E1-1ryoZP/s320/chicago.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>I just took a week off. I declared a vacation from work and worry and went on the road with Mr Wren. He had business in Chicago and I had never been there, so I asked for the time off work and packed my bags.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>We were heading to the Windy City, so of course I packed a jacket. But in another (metaphorical) suitcase I also packed away all thoughts of babies, lack of babies, lost babies, potential babies, and the terrifying possibility of life without babies. This latter suitcase, and as much excess emotional baggage as I could shed, I happily left on the curb as we set off on our road trip.<br />
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<a name='more'></a></div><div>For the next seven days I lived in the moment. An East Coast bird who hasn't seen much of this country, I gazed in fascination at the lush mountains of Tennessee and the vast corn-rowed landscapes of Indiana as they rolled past, soaking in the newness of it all. In Chicago, world-class <a href="http://www.artic.edu/aic/">art museums</a>, <a href="http://www.themagnificentmile.com/">shops</a>, <a href="http://www.rickbayless.com/restaurants/grill.html">restaurants</a> and <a href="http://www.chicagoarchitecture.info/Building/636/Cloud-Gate.php">giant reflecting beans</a> beckoned, and in my frenzy to see and do it all there was no room left in my little bird brain for all the other thoughts that usually consume me. At the end of each day I was overwhelmed, exhausted, and happy. It. Was. Awesome.</div><div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But all good things must come to an end, and so have my days off. Tomorrow morning I have to flip the switch and turn it all back on: all the stresses of work and infertility and real fucking life will start coursing through me like electricity, powering my thoughts and over-powering my emotions. I have to unpack all that luggage, both real and metaphorical.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I haven't even allowed myself the luxury of easing into things. My day starts with a visit to my friendly neighborhood fertility clinic, where I will offer my veins for draining and my lady parts for scraping. As if Monday mornings weren't bad enough, I'll be spread-eagled in stirrups before I even have a cup of coffee. What's that old saying, something about eating a live toad for breakfast so that nothing worse can happen for the rest of the day? Hopefully that's true for fertility appointments, too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These are the tests Dr K requested, and they kick off the start of my "mock cycle." In other words, I'm officially getting in line for another ride on the IVF roller coaster. After all this time in limbo, things could start moving along steadily. It's time to choose an egg donor. The gravity of that decision makes my head spin. But I'll worry about that tomorrow. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For now, I still have a few hours of vacation left. I'm going to download all the photos from my camera and relive our trip. I want to wrap myself in the sense of wonder and exhilaration I felt as Mr Wren and I explored new horizons together, and remember how we howled with laughter at our goofy rhythmless dancing and ridiculous puns even after spending two long days in the car together. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Because the best thing about our vacation was that it reminded me of just how much fun I have with my husband. It provided a glimpse into that terrifying future of a childless life, and you know what? It wasn't the dismal existential hell I've feared. In a worst-case scenario, one where the next and final IVF cycle fails and we are just too broken too consider running the gauntlet of adoption and spend the rest of our lives getting tables for two, we will be OK. Our lives will still be full of love and joy and adventure. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And I need to know that, I need to know that even if we fail we'll be OK, before I can steel myself to try again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div></div>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-82866996491365563852011-09-23T10:45:00.000-04:002011-09-23T10:45:29.479-04:00The Big Reveal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzav_8Wt0Ul1VwuGTfcGwWKuFMIMKQ_kiI5zdZUcvMOOmxNHoEaT55AAKjycu4wZZtttkiuW1XaanjScgMwVINEOXXMe-7ukB6nPvpOAbG9aoqbYissbdRQv3u-Fz3rwKaQ3qur0o-sPo/s1600/partridge+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzav_8Wt0Ul1VwuGTfcGwWKuFMIMKQ_kiI5zdZUcvMOOmxNHoEaT55AAKjycu4wZZtttkiuW1XaanjScgMwVINEOXXMe-7ukB6nPvpOAbG9aoqbYissbdRQv3u-Fz3rwKaQ3qur0o-sPo/s400/partridge+family.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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I haven't written for awhile, because I've struggled with the writing of this post. This is the post that I didn't want to write, that I was afraid to write, that I didn't know how to write. <br />
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You see, I haven't told you the whole story.<br />
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Unlike most infertility blogs, I haven't laid out my medical history, listing every step in the journey that's taken me from a bright young chick who was so assured of her fertility that she started picking out baby names the day she stopped taking the pill, to this bitter old crow who's tried every trick in the book and still has a chronically empty nest.<br />
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I've written in general terms about my own experiences, intending to reach out to all infertile women regardless of their diagnoses or treatment plans. But also - and maybe mostly - I wanted to keep some things private. <br />
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I write here anonymously (Surprise! My name's not really Jenny and I'm not really a bird. I know you're shocked and secretly imagined me hopping around on my laptop, hitting keys with my tiny beak and I'm so sorry to burst your bubble) but some of my readers know me outside of the internet, so I don't always feel entirely free as...a bird...to say whatever I want.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FFImoGTR1I9TT_S3Qm327XvMWM-USJlnnHhoDf5act9ExNKSjXQkM8Z8ETVmVq5Dx7AwCW9CZpdbS180Fm8V6EOfhEnQ-8TO9UH3406a96vABPDtxRFC0P8MRYPf5uQjU2oW9ftDEF6Q/s1600/keyboard+bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FFImoGTR1I9TT_S3Qm327XvMWM-USJlnnHhoDf5act9ExNKSjXQkM8Z8ETVmVq5Dx7AwCW9CZpdbS180Fm8V6EOfhEnQ-8TO9UH3406a96vABPDtxRFC0P8MRYPf5uQjU2oW9ftDEF6Q/s1600/keyboard+bird.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not me.</i></td></tr>
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But keeping certain facts to myself is starting to feel dishonest and that's so not the point of this blog. It's one thing to pretend to be a bird, it's quite another to fake being candid.<br />
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So, yeah. <deep breath> Here's the deal: not only am I not really a bird, if I were a bird I wouldn't even be a wren. I'd be an infertile partridge.<br />
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According to <a href="http://bestiary.ca/beasts/beast247.htm">medieval mythology</a>, the partridge takes the eggs of other birds and raises the hatchlings as her own. Which is my roundabout and nerdy way of telling you that I am using <a href="http://www.babycenter.com/0_fertility-treatment-donor-eggs-and-embryos_4098.bc">donor eggs</a> in my IVF attempts.<br />
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I chose a bird metaphor for this blog because years of fertility treatments made me so obsessed with eggs (<i>How many eggs can I produce this month? Are they good eggs or bad eggs? Are they hatching yet?</i>) I felt like I was about to sprout feathers. And after two IUIs, and two IVFs - none of which yielded even the faintest glimmer of success - we were forced to admit that they were very bad eggs indeed.<br />
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The decision to create our baby using another woman's DNA did not come easily. We summarily rejected the notion when Dr. S first brought it up. How we got from there to here is a story for another day.<br />
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When I told Mr Wren (<i>also not his real name or species*</i>) that I was considering writing about donor eggs because keeping it a secret implied there was something shameful and embarrassing about it he looked at me and said, "well, you are embarrassed, aren't you?" And that's when I flew into a rage and threatened to peck his eyes out for not understanding me AT ALL.<br />
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When I un-ruffled my feathers, I realized I needed to write this post. Because no, I am NOT embarrassed about wanting to have a child badly enough that I will take advantage of whatever options modern science can offer to get me there. I'm not ashamed that we live in a time when medical research gives us choices our grandparents could never have imagined. Of course, our grandparents probably never would have HAD to imagine them, since they were obviously fertile or none of us would be here, but I digress. <br />
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I'm proud that I am strong enough to survive the failures and disappointments and rise again with new hope. I'm so grateful for the young women who give a piece of themselves to help create families when all other hope is lost. I'm scared that one day people may judge my child differently because of how he or she was conceived, but you know what? Fuck them. There will always be haters. But my child (God willing) will be brought into this world with love and will be surrounded by an abundance of it their entire life and that matters so much more than who donated their genetic code or what anybody thinks about it. <br />
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And it is NOTHING to be ashamed of. <br />
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The abundance of bird puns in this post, however, is another story and for that I humbly apologize.<br />
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<i>*Mr Wren would like you all to know that he does not identify with the male partridge AT ALL. Read the link if you're wondering why.</i>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-49480622719635580502011-09-11T12:51:00.000-04:002011-09-11T12:51:01.248-04:00Wishful Thinking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuNCufegkep3Z72itSrpunUAxakpgWWDrU92-AL0yXQtHURrLXp0QMO97RR3zNshZ3jzwxEW6RZurUGncouIERYWBb0F0E-4iNuE8p7tyOMfbKIMIUIoEBvvl4BooUZ_k2Hti8ojmJvLh/s1600/wish.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuNCufegkep3Z72itSrpunUAxakpgWWDrU92-AL0yXQtHURrLXp0QMO97RR3zNshZ3jzwxEW6RZurUGncouIERYWBb0F0E-4iNuE8p7tyOMfbKIMIUIoEBvvl4BooUZ_k2Hti8ojmJvLh/s320/wish.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The old saying goes: if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Well, if wishes <i>were</i> horses, I'd have several hundred stables full and would be trying to figure out how to trade them all for a baby.<br />
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I've always been a little superstitious, but infertility has taken things to a new level. Since starting this journey I've wished for a baby on thousands of stars, candles, wishbones, eyelashes, pennies in fountains and dandelions.<br />
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I've resurrected rituals from my childhood, like "kiss the clock." Did you know that whenever a digital clock displays the same number in repetition (1:11, 2:22, 3:33, etc...) you have 60 seconds to make as many wishes as you can before the digits change? It's true - but you have to kiss the clock for every wish.<br />
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This was taught to me by the other girls in Sister Catherine's eighth-grade English class, who explained that if you couldn't physically reach the clock, you still got wish-credit by blowing a kiss. Every morning at 11:11, we all would surreptitously kiss our palms and puff air in the general direction of the digital clock mounted to the wall over the giant crucifix whenever the nun turned to write on the blackboard.<br />
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I always wished for a kitten.<br />
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My mother told me when I was very young that, if you wait long enough, all your wishes will eventually come true. I believed her then and I still do, on a deep abiding level that defies logic. After all, I did eventually get a kitten. Not until I was a Junior in college, but still. It was a kitten and it was mine.<br />
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Here I am, so many years later, once again taking advantage of every possible opportunity to wish for something small and helpless to love and nurture. <br />
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I have put faith in Science and God and Magic. I've consulted specialists, done my own research, and sought second opinions. I've prayed and repented and attended mass. And every time I see a shooting star I shut my eyes and whisper, "<i>I wish to conceive and give birth to a healthy baby. Please and Thank You.</i>" Maybe the great cosmic wish-granter gives bonus points for politeness. You never know.<br />
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So far Medicine, Religion, and the great cosmic wish-granter have all let me down. On a good day I can believe that it's all part of a larger plan and that if I wait long enough the science will work and my wishes and prayers will come true.<br />
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So if you ever happen to catch sight of me smooching my cell phone, relax. I haven't become an <i><a href="http://jezebel.com/5146666/objectum-sexuality-when-relationships-with-inanimate-objects-become-intimate">objectum sexual</a>. </i>It's just 4:44 and I'm wishing for babies.Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-63905239992058354552011-09-09T00:21:00.000-04:002011-09-09T00:21:02.479-04:00The Best Friends I Never Met<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8vMZazSZ4IE/TmmP1ndx1HI/AAAAAAAAALg/eofBiD62eWQ/s1600/friends3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8vMZazSZ4IE/TmmP1ndx1HI/AAAAAAAAALg/eofBiD62eWQ/s400/friends3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Infertility killed my social life. <br />
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When Mr Wren and I first announced we were trying to start a family, some of our friends - our child-free good time crew with whom we shared boisterous cookouts and cocktail parties - started to distance themselves in anticipation of our impending transition into parenthood. Other friends, the ones who already had car seats in their minivans and baggies full of cheerios in their purses, prepared for us to join their ranks and excitedly shared pregnancy and parenting tips. <br />
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As the years passed with no happy announcement coming from the Wren nest, the first group of friends stayed away, finding infertility an even bigger buzzkill than childbearing. The second group eventually stopped starting sentences with, "when <i>you</i> have a baby.." and drifted away because they didn't know how else to fill the silence. No-one knew what to say to me, or where I fit. I didn't know, either.<br />
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A Venn diagram of my social life would look like this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DogbPa8emR8/TmgumXh_NCI/AAAAAAAAALU/Df8HA2T5mtw/s1600/venn3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DogbPa8emR8/TmgumXh_NCI/AAAAAAAAALU/Df8HA2T5mtw/s320/venn3.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">OK, that looks kind of pathetic. Maybe I exaggerate a bit. I don't mean to say that ALL my friends abandoned me because that's untrue, and unfair to those who stuck by me and struggled to say the right things and tried to understand what I was going through even though they couldn't relate to it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But even those faithful friends stumbled at times. They didn't always say the right things. Sometimes they unintentionally said things that were <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/08/what-not-to-say.html">very, very wrong</a>. But even worse, sometimes they said nothing. I wish I could have given them these words of advice, taken from <a href="http://eggsandsperm.com/2011/09/06/so-whats-a-fertile-to-do/">this blog post</a> offering fertile women tips for supporting their infertile friends (emphasis mine):</div><blockquote><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Whatever you do, don’t pretend like nothing is going on. Don’t shy away from conversations about miscarriages and IVFs because it makes you uncomfortable. <b>For me, nothing hurt more than everyone around me pretending that nothing was going on.</b> I wanted to scream and shout until they saw me, until they understood that I was hurting. Ask your friend (regularly) how she’s doing. Ask your friend when she’s getting ready to cycle. <em>Be there</em> with a big bottle of wine when her IUI doesn’t work or she’s found out she’d had yet another chemical pregnancy or missed miscarriage.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Some people are more willing to share details than others, but again, only your friend can tell you what she is comfortable with. But be sure to <em>ask.</em></div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But no matter how good their intentions or how well they've been coached, people who haven't gone through it themselves can't fully comprehend how a piece of you dies with every failed IVF, every miscarriage, every fucking pee stick that only shows one line. Unless they've fought on the front lines of the fertility wars themselves, they just can't understand the fortitude required to put on your armor and march bravely into battle after facing defeat time and time and time again. There's just no substitute for experience.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And that's where the internet comes in. A resourceful gal in the pre-Google days could always hit her local public library and research diagnoses and treatments <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Library_catalog">the old-school way</a>, but social networking has really changed the world. As lonely and isolating as infertility feels today, it had to have been a billion times worse before hundreds of other infertiles were just a mouseclick away, ready to share their stories and lend support. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The women I've met through the <a href="http://forums.fertilitycommunity.com/">fertility forums</a> helped carry me this far. Their successes have given me hope and encouragement to persevere, and their failures have broken my heart but also demonstrated how to face disappointment and loss with grace and courage. Flygirl, Tomago, Godiva, Adkwmn, Egghunter, Goldenhicks, Illusion and more...many of them I know only by their usernames, but their friendship is as real and sustaining to me as any other. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And now that I've thrown myself into the blogosphere, my circle of support has widened. The sheer number of <a href="http://www.stirrup-queens.com/a-whole-lot-of-blogging-brought-to-you-sorted-and-filed/">infertility blogs</a> out there, and the amount of sadness, anger, hope and strength they contain is both stunning and sobering.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even though it feels that way at times, we are NOT alone. We are barren and we are legion. We are the sisterhood of the obstreperous uterus and we shall overcome.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-5918332735826514102011-09-02T14:37:00.000-04:002011-09-02T14:37:43.792-04:00I'm Zero Weeks and Craving a Baby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_T-uMAnfnEoUQRsLhZe8D-MQ5HpoDklGXGMVjCbOFymWvKuf_o24ya-aw2Y3dbF3EQIBSn7HODhbZsKRKrw8GXTmM2vUPLvYg5yt0I0-zez9nWTVabyIgaFkJTkQIMMRn1d9cPJmFhuW/s1600/facebook-dislike-button.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_T-uMAnfnEoUQRsLhZe8D-MQ5HpoDklGXGMVjCbOFymWvKuf_o24ya-aw2Y3dbF3EQIBSn7HODhbZsKRKrw8GXTmM2vUPLvYg5yt0I0-zez9nWTVabyIgaFkJTkQIMMRn1d9cPJmFhuW/s320/facebook-dislike-button.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Be warned. There's a dangerous new "game" going around on Facebook. Just like the meme where you put the color of your bra in your status update, this is intended to somehow raise awareness about breast cancer among women and as an added bonus, drive men crazy wondering what the heck all the ladies are talking about. Fun! <br />
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Except, not. <br />
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I just spent the past 20 minutes in a tailspin of anxiety and jealousy after seeing a good friend's update that she was "6 weeks and craving Skittles." I couldn't believe it. <i>She's pregnant again?! She said she was done having kids. Did she seriously get pregnant without even trying? At her age? And THIS is how she tells me?</i> I was hurt that she hadn't broken the news to me privately, but even more stunned and appalled at the audacity of a woman over 40 to publicly announce her pregnancy so early in the first trimester - <i>doesn't she know the odds?</i><br />
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I replied to her post, succinctly expressing my shock and disbelief: "???"<br />
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She sent me a private message explaining the game: you post an update saying, "I am ___ weeks and craving ____" Fill in the first blank with the number that correlates to your birth month, and the second one with a candy that matches your birth day, according to the handy chart provided. For instance, if today were your birthday you would post: "I'm 13 weeks and craving Starburst."<br />
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The message said this would raise awareness about breast cancer and included the warning "DO NOT tell any males what the status' mean, keep them guessing" and yes, the grammatical error irritates me almost as much as the thought that it's somehow funny to encourage non-pregnant women to post updates implying pregnancy.<br />
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Perhaps I'm being a self-absorbed infertile again. Maybe only someone who has known the pain of infertility and miscarriage would fail to find the humor in pretending to be pregnant. Probably there are a lot of girls out there, posting this status and LOL-ing hysterically when their boyfriends read it and freak out. <br />
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But can someone please tell me what, exactly, this has to do with breast cancer? The bra-color thing was harmless enough, and while one could argue that it did little to actually combat the disease, at least the connection between bras and breasts is obvious. But this? I just don't see it. <br />
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Also, we want to raise awareness but only among half the population? We should keep men "guessing" about this disease that affects their mothers, sisters, friends and wives? This game fails miserably as a call to action against breast cancer but succeeds brilliantly as a painful reminder to infertile women of their reproductive inadequacies.<br />
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Breast cancer is a cruel and vicious disease. It's taken the life of my aunt and my BFF's mother and millions of other vibrant and amazing women. But instead of posting a Facebook update that taunts all the brave warriors desperately battling infertility, I'm going to make a donation to the <a href="http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/How-To-Help/Donate-Online.aspx?gclid=CKa2-7WS_6oCFYFU7Aodvgh95Q">National Breast Cancer Foundation.</a> <br />
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Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-18834641691511118182011-09-01T11:38:00.000-04:002011-09-01T11:38:12.387-04:00The $500 word<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TilLxMCHlBI/Tl-Nxgkbs7I/AAAAAAAAAKU/RiP3DNvmPEo/s1600/Waiting-for-phone-to-ring1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TilLxMCHlBI/Tl-Nxgkbs7I/AAAAAAAAAKU/RiP3DNvmPEo/s320/Waiting-for-phone-to-ring1.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
For the past few weeks I've felt like a high-school girl with an unrequited crush. I've been constantly checking my phone, wondering: has he called yet? <i>Why</i> hasn't he called yet? Will he EVER call? <br />
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The elusive "he" in this case is not, however, a cute boy in my algebra class, but the RPL specialist with whom I had scheduled a phone consult, my last best chance to figure out what caused the miscarriage and how to prevent another one: the esteemed Dr. K. <br />
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Yesterday afternoon my phone finally rang, the display showing a <a href="http://www.fertilitymemphis.com/">Memphis</a> area code. Squee!!! For a minute there I really was a teenage girl getting a call from the most popular boy in school: my heart started pounding, my hands were shaking, and I had no idea what to say. <br />
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Luckily I had pages of notes to fall back on. It's a good thing I spent all that time obsessively googling and reading <a href="http://www.stirrup-queens.com/a-whole-lot-of-blogging-brought-to-you-sorted-and-filed/">infertility blogs</a> on the days I was too preoccupied with the aching void in my womb to focus on my real job. If only I had been so well-prepared for those awkward adolescent phone calls back in the day.<br />
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As it turned out, Dr. K was significantly easier to talk to than a teenage boy, which was good because there's a whole lot more <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/07/eyes-on-prize.html">at stake here</a> than a date to the prom.<br />
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At the end of our intricately detailed discussion recounting my repeated reproductive failures, there's good news and bad. The bad news, which I had anticipated, is that he can't tell me why my baby died. All the tests so far, including a thorough <a href="http://www.fertilityplus.org/faq/miscarriage/rpl.html">RPL panel</a>, came up -in his words- "stone cold normal." The good news is that, based on how the pregnancy progressed, (before things went horribly wrong) he thinks my chances of having a healthy baby with my next IVF cycle are "encouraging." <br />
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He wants to run a few more tests, and do a <a href="http://www.houstonfertilityspecialist.com/articles/mockivfcycle.pdf">mock cycle</a> to see if tweaking my meds will result in bountiful hormones and a more fertile ground in which to plant a baby bean. In summary: no guarantees, no easy answers, and still no clear sense of when the next real IVF cycle will begin, so technically I'm still in limbo. Still Jenny In-Between. <br />
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But I'm holding on - really tightly - to that one word: <i>encouraging</i>. The phone consult cost $500 and to me it was worth every penny just to hear that reassuring word. It was a life-preserver thrown to a drowning woman. I've been struggling lately, exhausted from the effort of keeping my head above water while waves of hopelessness crash over me again and again, and now I have this one little raft of hope and I'm clinging to it for dear life.<br />
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Dr. S made me feel that because my pregnancy ended so abruptly and inexplicably, my chances for next time were dim. Dr. K made me feel that because it developed perfectly for as long as it did, my chances for next time are "encouraging." There's probably evidence to support both views, but I choose to believe the latter. I have to. I've been discouraged long enough.<br />
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Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-37543964886994616602011-08-23T16:34:00.001-04:002011-08-23T17:21:04.034-04:00Come on Irene<span id="goog_752647634"></span><span id="goog_752647635"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwkFT-IACNxOnnKsG9ilp6CijmULN0yel295PYAYwk-WjHk8KwuHLS_ezppvyVo6ilP9u5b0UnWoFnVCbVtTtd6gdf3LWkZNKMs6G-TuQ6tv_19YzIE36xAVztE0mGFDJkKWug4wMD6gAI/s1600/irene2" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwkFT-IACNxOnnKsG9ilp6CijmULN0yel295PYAYwk-WjHk8KwuHLS_ezppvyVo6ilP9u5b0UnWoFnVCbVtTtd6gdf3LWkZNKMs6G-TuQ6tv_19YzIE36xAVztE0mGFDJkKWug4wMD6gAI/s400/irene2" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Some things are bigger than infertility. Not much, I grant you. As we all know, infertility (and the quest to overcome it) takes over your life and <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/07/single-minded-self-absorption-of.html">changes the way you see everything</a>. But some things are bigger.<br />
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Like hurricanes. I live on the coast. And this bitch <a href="http://www.weather.com/weather/hurricanecentral/article/tropical-depression-nine-storm-hurricane-irene_2011-08-20">Irene</a> may be headed our way. There's nothing like the <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/americas/08/23/tropical.weather/index.html?eref=rss_us&utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+rss%2Fcnn_us+%28RSS%3A+U.S.%29&utm_content=Google+Feedfetcher">threat of natural disaster</a> to put things in perspective.<br />
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I could write a post using hurricanes as a metaphor for the emotional turmoil of infertility and IVF....and now that I think about it, it IS an apt analogy for the effects of overstimulated hormones and how they can make you feel like an angry force of nature spinning out of control, but right now I'm more concerned about making sure we have enough batteries, candles, and canned goods in the cupboards. Or gas in the car and a pet-friendly hotel on higher ground, because we may have to pack up and get out of town. <br />
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I've only had to evacuate once in fourteen years of coastal living, and it was terrifying to drive away from my house knowing it might not be there when I returned. And back then I was only renting. Now Mr Wren and I own our nest, and the thought of losing it is...well, unthinkable. <br />
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Forced to confront the possibility of losing everything, I realize just how much I have: a beautiful home, a sexy and supportive husband who ALSO does the dishes, a steady job that I love more often than hate, two crazy dogs giving me reasons to laugh every single day. Of these, the house is the most dispensible and I will gladly leave it behind to keep myself, Mr Wren, and those furballs safe.<br />
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Before you become too alarmed, the latest forecast track indicates that we will be spared a direct hit, and Irene will be 150 miles offshore Friday night. But -- the storm is 200 miles wide. We still could be in harm's way. The County just put us all on evacuation warning. They may call for mandatory evacuation in the next 24 hours. <br />
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We have a plan and we'll be fine, but I can't stop thinking about all the women who are doing IVF at the local clinic right now. What if their egg retrieval or embryo transfer is scheduled for Saturday and there's a mandatory evacuation on Friday? Poor C, the nurse coordinator who is probably fielding dozens of phone calls today from panicked IVF patients who were already very much on edge about their upcoming procedures and now have to worry about a <i>hurricane</i> of all things.<br />
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So, yeah. If we have to pack up our dogs and our clothes and our wedding album and leave everything else behind, not knowing what we'll find when we return, I will be looking on the bright side: at least I'm not not in the middle of an IVF cycle right now.<br />
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Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-47467784564029148082011-08-20T15:48:00.002-04:002011-09-01T13:53:19.683-04:00In-Between Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-J82X9IrEGoZV6Wu2oFXDjiZlhIeH-WetLDFHgEHanf6FopotshqkdnCozY3RlQtNgHYxmkQ89aCYcYpnqVqRQxgGwUmLvDFw2r4LPHR8eEjP8Y7cvhyq1X5_b9XFJ9WffANWHnnwgVO/s1600/inbetween+wren2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-J82X9IrEGoZV6Wu2oFXDjiZlhIeH-WetLDFHgEHanf6FopotshqkdnCozY3RlQtNgHYxmkQ89aCYcYpnqVqRQxgGwUmLvDFw2r4LPHR8eEjP8Y7cvhyq1X5_b9XFJ9WffANWHnnwgVO/s400/inbetween+wren2.jpg" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by David Speiser. <br />
See more of his bird photos <a href="http://www.lilibirds.com/gallery2/main.php">here</a></td></tr>
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Years of infertility has left me with a split personality. There's "Jenny on the Nest" and "Jenny In-Between."<br />
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<i>Jenny on the Nest </i>is who I become when I'm gearing up for or in the middle of an IVF cycle. This Jenny is a bird whose entire field of vision has narrowed to a single focus: baby bird. Every minute of every day, every thought, every breath is focused on that goal. Most mornings start out with a needle being jabbed into her fleshy bits, so that pretty much sets the tone for the day. <br />
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Jenny on the Nest is a wanna-be-momma machine. Her diet is impeccable: a rigidly scheduled regimen of organic free-range locally-grown hormone-free calcim-fortified goodness, studded with a rainbow of vitamins and supplements. She doesn't drink coffee or alcohol or stand near the microwave when it's running. She's always looking ahead, to the next injection, the next ultrasound, the next trimester. She's useless at the office, spending all her time researching whatever stage of the process she's in and measuring her progress against that of anonymous people on the internet. She's also kind of a bitch. The hormones and the stress and the sheer energy it takes to hold on to hope that THIS time it will all be worth it leave nesting Jenny exhausted and cranky. She tends to overreact and fly into squawking rages. <br />
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<i>Jenny In-Between</i> is who I am the rest of the time. This is the laid-back Jenny. Jenny Light. She knows she wants a child but also knows there's nothing to be done about it until the next cycle starts so there's no reason to stress about it now. She lives in the moment. She drinks wine and eats sushi and is interested in the whole wide world that exists outside her uterus. Sometimes she forgets to eat lunch and grabs a Snickers bar out of the vending machine instead. She cares about her job and is actually quite good at it, especially when she has that extra cup of coffee in the morning. In-between Jenny is a much nicer person. Trust me, if you had a choice, this is the Jenny you'd want to hang out with.<br />
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After the miscarriage, I fell off the nest into a dark spiral of anger and grief. In a way, there was no Jenny at all, just an empty shell going through the motions. <br />
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But time has passed, I've confronted those scary emotions and completed the transition back to Jenny In-Between. Now I'm coasting along, seizing the days, enjoying the comfortable life Mr Wren and I have made for ourselves and not obsessing about what's missing from it. <br />
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BUT. I finally sent that paperwork off to Dr K. In the next week or two I'll get a response. He will either request more blood work, or schedule the phone consult, and then we start moving forward with the next (and final) IVF. And then it's back in the nest. <br />
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But for now I'm enjoying the in-between days.<br />
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<i>This song has nothing to do with anything but it's been in my head since I started writing this post, so enjoy:</i><br />
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Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-63727407772409950062011-08-17T01:34:00.000-04:002011-08-17T01:34:03.907-04:00What Not to Say<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtb2GUlIp4gVHYfeLiPRNNgMEj5gl7nV7clE4-k6bze9VBf_u0jMyvFNGdg8Pk7cTNyzWghrcPuxn_m84OfAmCI1jbxszK8cTtjBV2gqswk4oFasLEzRMNY-I7_Cg7MEOwtieFbUwM0k6X/s1600/stacy-london-tlc-what-not-wear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtb2GUlIp4gVHYfeLiPRNNgMEj5gl7nV7clE4-k6bze9VBf_u0jMyvFNGdg8Pk7cTNyzWghrcPuxn_m84OfAmCI1jbxszK8cTtjBV2gqswk4oFasLEzRMNY-I7_Cg7MEOwtieFbUwM0k6X/s1600/stacy-london-tlc-what-not-wear.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I love that show <a href="http://tlc.howstuffworks.com/tv/what-not-to-wear">What Not to Wear</a>. You know, the one where snarky New Yorkers descend on small-town frumps, mock their outdated sweaters and ill-fitting trousers, fly them to NYC for a $5,000 shopping spree and teach them how to dress appropriately. <br />
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I have an idea for a new show: What Not to Say. It would secretly film cocktail parties and coffee shops and wherever friends and acquaintances gather. Whenever someone made an egregious conversational misstep, the sassy hosts would barge in on the social bumblers, mock their cliched comments and tacky remarks, and teach them how to communicate appropriately.<br />
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There could be an entire episode on the subject of infertility. Here's my Top 5 for <b>What Not to Say: Infertility Edition. </b><br />
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<i><b>1. Just relax and it will happen.</b> </i> An infertility blogger riffing on "just relax" is like a stand-up comedian joking about airline peanuts - it's been done to death, but you people out there keep SAYING it to us so you leave me no choice. Look, it's just about the most ironic thing you can say to an infertile woman because it induces a state of mind that is the polar opposite of "relaxed." Seriously, it drives us insane. The implication that we have somehow exacerbated our infertility by worrying too much about it just adds another heaping pile of guilt and shame to our already overloaded plates. Also, it's <i>infertility</i>, not a tension headache -- a massage and a long hot shower aren't going to fix the problem and it's insulting to the entire field of reproductive medicine to suggest otherwise.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><b>2. You can always just adopt.</b></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i> </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">You do realize that it's not like adopting a puppy, right? They don't have special events at Babies-R-Us where adorable infants sit in cardboard boxes just waiting for someone to pay for their shots and take them home.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i> </i></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">It's a whole lot more complicated than that and I simply don't have the energy to contemplate that journey while I'm still in the middle of this one. And please don't tell me about that person you know who got pregnant as soon as they adopted, as if that's a valid reason to pursue adoption. The idea of adopting a child in hopes of God having double coupon day and giving me a two-for-one deal is offensive. </span></i><br />
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<i><b>3. Maybe it's just not meant to be</b>. </i>So, what you're saying is God or the universe or whatever you believe in doesn't want me to have children? Is there a reason for this or is it random? Am I being punished for something I did in this life or a previous one? And do you really want to have this existential debate here in Starbucks?<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><b>4. You can have one of mine.</b></i> I get that you're just trying to defuse the situation with humor, but to someone who is desperate to have even one child, there is nothing funny about the fact that you have "extras" and can joke about giving one away like a spare ballpoint pen. Especially when you obviously have no intention of making good on the offer. It's like telling a double amputee, "sorry you lost your legs, you can have one of mine, hahahaha"<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<b><i>5. Pretend you're a prostitute</i>.</b> <i> </i>Actual quote from my mother: <i>"just pretend you're a prostitute or one of those 15-year-old girls having sex in a bathroom...think to yourself, 'I hope I don't get pregnant' because that's what they do and they ALWAYS get pregnant." </i> I'm not sure what's more appalling, that my mother told me to act like a whore or that she honestly thinks my uterus will respond to reverse psychology. But thanks for reminding me that many women who are ill-equipped to parent get pregnant without even trying. Sigh.<br />
<br />
<br />
There's a simple makeover solution for all who would commit these gaffes: accept that <em>you can't fix this for us</em>. You can't make us laugh about it before we're ready. You can't make us understand why it's happening. There's nothing you can say that will help solve the problem, unless you happen to be a fertility professional and can tell us about some groundbreaking new IVF protocol, or serious clinical research that proves eating grapes during the full moon and doing it doggie style significantly improves pregnancy rates - in that case we're all ears and what kind of grapes?<br />
<br />
Otherwise, don't say anything. Ask, instead.<br />
<br />
Ask how we're doing. Ask how we feel. Ask if we want to talk about it or if there's anything you can do. Listen. Let us know that you care and you're there.<br />
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It's basic compassion, the little black dress of the conversational wardrobe, and it never goes out of style.<br />
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Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-84308064134819159122011-08-14T11:38:00.001-04:002011-08-14T12:09:58.968-04:00Ask Me About My Dogs<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RAGJ6KuLgaI/TkfnHmu9R_I/AAAAAAAAAHc/dtkaJcAExLg/s1600/IMG_1774.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RAGJ6KuLgaI/TkfnHmu9R_I/AAAAAAAAAHc/dtkaJcAExLg/s320/IMG_1774.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously, ask.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div>I ran into a casual acquaintance the other day, a woman I was friendly with in grad school but see infrequently now. <br />
<div><br />
</div><div>We had the exact same superficial conversation that we've had every time we've bumped into each other in the past seven years: "Not much, what's new with you? Yes, work is keeping me busy, especially this time of year; no, I don't live at the beach anymore, I moved into town with Mr Wren when we got married seven years ago; yes it's been <i>seven</i> years; no I don't know where the time goes..." You get the idea.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>And then, out of nowhere, she threw a conversational grenade right in the middle of our boring but harmless little chat. <br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>"Do you have any kids?"</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Now, if I had birthed a baby at some point in the year and a half since I saw you last, don't you think it might have come up during the "what's new" portion of our conversation? </i> But fine, it's a common question and one I'm used to dodging.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Nope, no kids. The two dogs keep us plenty busy!" A<i>sk me about my dogs, please ask me about my dogs and get off the subject of kids. I have lots of cute stories about the dogs, let me tell you one.</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>"Well, do you think you'll EVER have kids?" </div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div><i>Fuck.</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>Could there possibly be a worse question to ask a woman dealing with infertility? To be fair, she has no way of knowing that I miscarried 6 weeks ago after three years of unsuccessful treatments, and that I have been asking the exact same thing of the universe for a long time now, but it's a grossly inappropriate question to ask during idle chit-chat regardless. </div><div><br />
</div><div>My reproductive choices, functions and issues are none of your business, person who can't remember where I've lived for the past seven years despite my telling you EVERY TIME we talk.</div><div><br />
</div><div>In the intervening days and after a few glasses of red wine, I came up with several scathing retorts, including: "Do you think YOU'LL ever have good manners?" "Do you think you'll ever stop asking me if I still live at the beach?" And, "do you think you'll EVER find a man or are you going to die alone with your cats?" </div><div><br />
</div><div>But I'd like to think that in the moment I handled myself with grace and dignity, and made my point without being unnecessarily cruel. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I smiled, ladled a little extra sugar into my southern drawl and said, "well, THAT'S personal" in a tone that both conveyed mild amusement and delivered a velvet-gloved verbal smack down.</div><div><br />
</div><div>She apologized and asked about my dogs. I was more than happy to tell her about them.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-12641386902252654432011-08-12T07:55:00.000-04:002011-08-12T07:55:15.708-04:00So Long at the Fair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsj_UcwHKdhVR5qvku2mB_FfsDO5UDdJbdHl9imyLy_N_QzZIPmnG_H6AnVnzbvfn14_M7dTcJRgY4yrMSdGyJRet0xsBxeUpiUONqV9csI_cJkJsy3KTbzzmqp5UExQbcqmHfUihL04rZ/s1600/roller_coaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsj_UcwHKdhVR5qvku2mB_FfsDO5UDdJbdHl9imyLy_N_QzZIPmnG_H6AnVnzbvfn14_M7dTcJRgY4yrMSdGyJRet0xsBxeUpiUONqV9csI_cJkJsy3KTbzzmqp5UExQbcqmHfUihL04rZ/s320/roller_coaster.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It's such a cliche it hurts to type it, but that doesn't make it any less true: these past few months of IVF, pregnancy and miscarriage have been one hell of a roller coaster ride. There were dizzying ascents and devastating drops. I was thrown for a loop and spun around until I wasn't sure which end was up.<br />
<br />
I'm only just beginning to get my equilibrium back.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Six weeks after the miscarriage, my hormones have leveled out and I'm feeling much more steady. It hit me today: I feel like myself again. I'll always grieve the loss of our little boy (did I mention that last week I found out, entirely by accident and in a manner as casual as this parenthetical digression, that the baby was a boy?) but now that the hormones have stopped turning all my emotions <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Up_to_eleven">up to eleven</a>, I can deal with it much more gracefully.<br />
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Yesterday I told the story of the past 3 months to my hairstylist (she charges about the same as a therapist, AND I get snazzy highlights) and made it all the way to the end without crying or retching.<br />
<br />
A co-worker ambushed me in the parking lot and foisted her 2-month-old butterbean on me, squealing "I know you want to hold the baby!" And I cuddled and cooed and breathed in the sweet new-baby scent of his feathery hair without rancor or sorrow, and also without crying or retching.<br />
<br />
<div>I don't really <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/07/i-hate-your-baby.html">hate babies</a>. But I do hate roller coasters. I'm not a thrill-seeker, I don't get off on the "rush." Sheer panic short-circuits my brain, I freeze in terror, I hurl expletives -- there's nothing amusing about it. You couldn't pay me to get on one of those contraptions at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Six_Flags">Six Flags</a> or the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State_fair">State Fair</a>. No thanks, you all go ahead and have fun with that, I'll be over here tossing rings over milk bottles to win a stuffed frog.</div><div><div><br />
</div><div>But I've willingly hopped on the IVF roller coaster again and again. I have one ticket left, one final ride before the carnival moves on. Forget the stuffed frog, I'm going for the big prize - the golden baby - and my only chance of winning it is to brave the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coney_Island_Cyclone">Cyclone</a> one last time.</div><div><br />
All the paperwork from Dr K's office arrived in the mail this week. We've decided to do the phone consult with him. Dr S has already sent him all my records and test results. Once I send in my completed medical history form, the ball is in motion. We'll find out what Dr K recommends, and then it's just a matter of time before the wild, final ride will start.<br />
<br />
This form is the thing that, so far, has impressed me most about Dr K. One of the questions asks, "what do you believe is causing the problem?" I've been waiting for someone to ask that, and take my answer seriously, for a long time. Of course I don't <i>know</i> what's causing the problem, but I have some ideas and more to say on the subject than will easily fit in the 3 short lines they've allowed me.<br />
<br />
But I'm dragging my feet. I've had the form for several days and have yet to fill in as much as my name. It's like I'm standing outside the fairgrounds, admission ticket in hand, hesitant to enter the gates and get in line. Maybe I'm not ready to ride again. Maybe I'm scared to use my last ticket. Maybe I just want to wander around and eat cotton candy for a little while, now that I've finally stopped <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/07/i-dont-want-to-talk-about-it.html">projectile vomiting my emotions</a> all over the place. <br />
<br />
</div><div>The scariest thing about a roller coaster is that once you're in motion, you have no control over what happens next. There's no steering wheel and no brakes. All you can do is hang on for dear life. <br />
<br />
I'm not ready for another white-knuckle ride. Not yet. <br />
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</div></div></div>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-28557555502584493922011-08-08T21:39:00.000-04:002011-08-08T21:39:25.519-04:00All Summer in a Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBCs2Q_hfgg1bXD1fIEq4SvzMQ59dpTEBEbeA4_5Vylk2NEeL2dMPbPhDiYQ3BjAUCS-pZxqzcHMcFL2PoQbLYFOopr3Z6rmfhd7aiFjdmaKzFEF1YiRH9R4_KbXh2lMXnnYdOVLmUXzfS/s1600/folly+beach+062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBCs2Q_hfgg1bXD1fIEq4SvzMQ59dpTEBEbeA4_5Vylk2NEeL2dMPbPhDiYQ3BjAUCS-pZxqzcHMcFL2PoQbLYFOopr3Z6rmfhd7aiFjdmaKzFEF1YiRH9R4_KbXh2lMXnnYdOVLmUXzfS/s320/folly+beach+062.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Infertility stole my summer. Which sucks, because it's my favorite season. I love sunshine. I'm convinced that I have chlorophyll in my blood because I crave sunlight like a plant and without it I shrivel and wilt. I love the heat, and even love the humidity that smacks you wetly in the face the second you step outside this time of year. I love the beach. LoveloveLOVE the beach. I can spend hours walking up and down the shore, looking for shells and thinking about everything and nothing at all. I'm so grateful to live near the coast. I spend long lazy summers with salt on my skin and sand between my toes.<br />
<br />
Except this year. Summer is almost over and I missed it. I feel like the girl from my favorite <a href="http://www.wssb.org/content/Classrooms/tate/content/freshman/All%20Summer%20In%20a%20Day/story.htm">Ray Bradbury story </a>who was trapped in a closet during the only day in seven years when the rain stopped and the sun shone on her planet.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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Oh, I had salty skin and sandy toes for a week in June, when my WIL (Wrens-in-law) went out of town and we house-sat their lovely oceanside home. We do this every summer and it's usually my favorite week of the year. But <em>this</em> year I was pregnant.<br />
<br />
Walks on the beach were cut short because I was dizzy and queasy. Sunbathing was curtailed because I didn't want to risk raising my core temperature and cooking the baby. Swimming was off-limits because I was afraid of being smacked in the stomach by a powerful wave and worried that I was emitting some sort of pregnancy hormone that made me more appealing to sharks. Cocktails at sunset were obviously out of the question. <br />
<br />
All of that would have been tolerable and worthwhile if I could have just relaxed and enjoyed the miracle of finally being pregnant.<br />
<br />
But no. Despite all the encouraging ultrasounds showing appropriate development and steady heartbeats, my doctor used the word "miscarriage" at every single appointment, reminding me that I had a higher-than-average risk of having one. In retrospect, he was trying to prepare me for what he saw as inevitable, and I guess he was right to do so. But it made relaxing and enjoying impossible. I spent every free moment glued to the Internet, frantically googling pregnancy symptoms, lack of symptoms, and miscarriage statistics. <br />
<br />
A week after we left the beach, I became one of those statistics when we found out the baby had died. Summer, for me, died with it.<br />
<br />
For the next month I stayed locked in that metaphorical closet. Stunned by grief, I became virtually vampiric in my habits. I shunned the light of day. I shriveled and wilted. I went to work late and left early and spent the rest of my time in bed, up all night slouched over my laptop spewing <a href="http://theinfertilebird.blogspot.com/2011/07/i-hate-your-baby.html">vitriolic blog posts</a> and obsessively building a virtual universe in the Facebook game <a href="http://www.facebook.com/GardensofTime">Gardens of Time</a>. (My imaginary garden has a dragon statue, a panda refuge, lots of purple flowers and no talk of babies whatsoEVER.) I thoroughly wallowed in misery. I reveled in it.<br />
<br />
But I'm starting to snap out of it. My grief is becoming tiresome, even to me. My depression bores me. The closet door is opening and I'm allowing it. It's time to let in the light.<br />
<br />
The WIL are out of town again, and Mr Wren and I are back at the beach, housesitting for one last time this summer. <br />
<br />
Yesterday, I set myself free from the closet of my self-imposed exile, and had all my summer in a day. <em> </em>I played in the surf, laughing as the waves slapped me in the stomach, in the back, and upside the head. I napped in the sun at noon and walked on the beach until the sun slipped behind the row of brightly-painted houses. I gathered seashells and sharks' teeth. I rode my bicycle along the water's edge. I drank a margarita on the back porch as the sunset painted the sky shades of indigo and gold and the sultry air caressed my skin. I sat in the hot tub and drank another margarita. <br />
<br />
I remembered that there is still a lot of beauty in this world. <br />
<br />
Sometimes one day of summer is all you get; sometimes it's enough.<br />
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Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-675994359206538682011-08-05T02:23:00.001-04:002011-08-05T02:25:19.379-04:00Cupcakes at Midnight<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/garycruz/3184536090/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nENqpkIPnIEf8aL-IDXiZJPOGOC4cIp2dqaHvcj7NLvA43GIkjKdhwyHfoRa3B9lQVLa08LqMsV0Ti-HQPF2WL5r7hSsIWZ4NTWHSqpwiPppOYJk10QbTbuINnwpxoOrxFXMaJaVq5YT/s320/cupcake.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Gary Cruz. <br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/garycruz/3184536090/">Click here to see more of his work</a>.</td></tr>
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I've been wanting to write about </span><a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424053111903461104576458134196248312.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">this essay</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> by <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/holly-finn">Holly Finn</a> since I read it last week. </span>Much of it describes my own experiences and emotions so accurately that reading it was like looking in the mirror. <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The author and I are the same age, both started fertility treatments in the fall of 2008, have suffered through the same number of hormone injections, spent roughly the same amount of time on our backs with strangers poking around in our lady parts, and even have similar hairstyles.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a name='more'></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Neither of us has a baby.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"When we were young, we were taught again and again that we shouldn't get pregnant. Now we can't."</i></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We both came of age in the 80's, our generation the little sisters of the sexual revolution. I'd bet good money that, like me, she read Judy Blume's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Forever</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> at a young age and learned how to talk openly about sex and birth control and the funny names boys give to their penises. We were comfortable with our sexuality. Getting pregnant was an unfortunate side effect, but one we were prepared to prevent.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We both spent our twenties drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, having adventures and loving the wrong men. We both thought we'd have plenty of time to have children...later. We trusted that it would happen when the time was right. We took our fertility for granted.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span>We both have the urge to grab women like us in their late 20s and early 30s and admonish them to start procreating before it's too late. I actually did this to a co-worker once, shaking my finger at her like a crazy old hag with an ominous threat, "you don't want to end up like me!"</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We're both running out of options and running out of time and so afraid of the irrevocable "never" - never having children - that we will spend vast amounts of money, time and energy to stave it off.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We both believe in soul mates. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But while mine walks beside me, she is taking this journey alone. </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Her bravery and determination humbles me. I stand in awe of her and the other amazing women I've met online who are doing IVF solo. I have so much admiration and respect for these warriors because I know I could not have taken even the first step down this path on my own. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I have no doubt that without the rare confluence of fate, luck, and meddling schoolteachers that brought Mr. Wren into my life nine years ago, I would be single today. Would I still be wanting a baby as much as I do now? Absolutely. Would I have the fortitude to pursue IVF as a single woman? Absolutely not.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My fertile friends look at all I've been through in the past 3 years and marvel at my strength, my ability to rebound from all the setbacks and disappointments and perservere. Yes, I'm stubborn and I act real tough, but when it comes to this, the strength they see is only half my own. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"IVF brings you to your knees and dares you to stagger to your feet again."</i></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I cannot imagine battling infertility without Mr. Wren by my side, lending support as I stagger to my feet again and again. He is my rock. He's my hero. He wields hypodermic needles with precision and ease, holds my hand through every ultrasound, suffers the slings and arrows of my outrageous hormonally-induced tantrums and still goes to the grocery store at midnight to get a stick of butter when I desperately need to make devil's food cupcakes. At midnight.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">During every IVF cycle, as the tension and anticipation skyrocket along with my hormone levels, Mr. Wren looks me in the eye and says, "remember, no matter what happens, we love each other." He has no idea how reassuring this is or how much it helps to keep me grounded. How much I love him.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It's easy, when you want something so badly, to lose sight of what you already have. I ache for Mr. Wren to be the wonderful father I know he will be, but I can't lose sight of the fact that he is and always will be a wonderful husband. And whether or not we ever have a child, he'll make sure I always have cupcakes. At any time of day.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I'm a lucky bird. </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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</span>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-587373134783734451.post-43858452823321224662011-08-02T19:37:00.001-04:002011-08-02T20:27:46.293-04:00(500) Days of Infertility<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlXqQuuBxP9QZaNGPdcnMcHAlZhAoRP96ybzMSpQF9pqAEOdQFvYyl-E3X95twFnSjDPV0e6g8xkPPWIpYXv_dLq0Ii3Fd5JvszfWpBEkJayRzES43useMYvQNxg8gajJBT1DVVG4KMte/s1600/500days.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlXqQuuBxP9QZaNGPdcnMcHAlZhAoRP96ybzMSpQF9pqAEOdQFvYyl-E3X95twFnSjDPV0e6g8xkPPWIpYXv_dLq0Ii3Fd5JvszfWpBEkJayRzES43useMYvQNxg8gajJBT1DVVG4KMte/s320/500days.png" t$="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Sunday was my dad's birthday. It didn't go as planned.<br />
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Have you seen the movie <a href="http://www.foxsearchlight.com/500daysofsummer/">(500) Days of Summer</a>? It's one of my all-time favorites. There's a scene near the end (spoiler alert) where the heartbroken hipster Tom Hansen (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) goes to a party at the apartment of his ex-girlfriend, the unattainable dreamgirl Summer Finn (Zooey Deschanel.) As Tom arrives at the party, the screen splits in two. <br />
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On one side, captioned "expectations" we see what Tom hoped would happen: Summer spends the entire night at his side, the spark between them re-ignites and they live happily ever after. The other half of the screen is labeled "reality": he goes to the party, stands alone by the bar, and from across the room notices Summer showing off the sparkly engagement ring she just got from her new boyfriend. It's a powerful and poignant sequence that breaks your heart without a single word of dialogue.<br />
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That's how I felt last weekend. In my head there was a split screen playing two different scenarios, the one I planned and the reality. <br />
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The plans that I made, 2 months ago, included me showing up at my parents' house wearing a loose-fitting dress to hide my growing baby bump. My eagle-eyed mother would have noticed my increased girth and cocked an eyebrow but would have wisely held her tongue. We would have arrived on Saturday and given my dad his birthday card immediately, and he would've grumbled, "I can't open this yet, my birthday's not until tomorrow." But I would have been bursting with excitement, unable to keep my amazing secret one minute longer and would have insisted he open the darn thing right away. <br />
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Inside the card would have been an ultrasound image of his first grandchild, and the words "Happy Birthday Grampa." It was how I planned to announce the good news. There would have been much rejoicing. We'd have spent the weekend talking about names, nurseries, and nannies.<br />
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Reality matched my expectations about as closely as Tom Hansen's did. <br />
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We got there on Saturday and I was wearing a loose-fitting dress (why is it so much harder to lose the baby weight than it was to lose the baby?), but the similarities end there. I didn't even give my dad a birthday card; I couldn't stand to see him open it knowing that there should have been a miracle inside, but wasn't. Instead of rejoicing there was forced festivity and stilted conversations that veered uncomfortably away from any mention of babies, children or pregnancy. <br />
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I never got the chance to tell my parents I was pregnant. Instead I had to call them last month with the news I had miscarried. My father cried. <br />
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I know he doesn't blame me, but I felt like such a failure. Like I had let him down.<br />
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At the very end of the movie, Tom finally recovers from his broken heart, comes to terms with the fact that his romance with Summer was not meant to be, and is offered a hint of hope that there's been something (or someone) better for him out there all along.<br />
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Maybe I really am like Tom. Right now my heart is broken and I feel like staying in bed all day drinking whiskey and eating snack cakes. I can't see beyond my disappointment. But eventually I'll shake off the funk and accept that some things are simply not meant to be. And have faith that my something better will reveal itself when the time is right. <br />
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Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you. </div>Jenny Wrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06487538134256471025noreply@blogger.com4