September 26, 2008
Up and Running
I just have to tell you all that I’m so glad it’s Friday. This has been the week from hell. The good news? Internet, telephone and wireless networks are all back up in Casa La Dana Files. This is fantastic.
It only took 15 telephone calls, 3 technician no-shows, one failed system reset and 3 threats to call the FCC and BBB. Charter finally came through and everything works. The problem was that the company was making frequency changes in our area and this caused the system to fail. Do you think their brilliant call center representatives could have just told me that, instead of promising things and not delivering?
I mean, I’m a reasonable person when I’m told the honest truth. But this company lied to me repeatedly, and the poor tech guy who came over to help was furious when he discovered that those same brilliant call center reps reset the modem and router remotely (over the phone) and this is what screwed up my entire communication system.
Anyhow, it’s working now (knock on wood) and I can blog, check e-mails, get work done and download some iTunes that I’ve been patiently (ha ha) waiting to buy.
The plan for the day is to get all my work done, clean the house, and lock myself at home for the weekend. I’ve got a stack of books to read that I checked out from the library (two of which are about PCOS and infertility, good reads), even though I have another stack of books I’ve bought one time or another and haven’t read, and a few books I need to read and review.
Actually, I do have to leave the house a couple times this weekend, once for a trip to the grocery store and another to the gym. My workouts have been lacking and I’m noticing the fit and trim feeling I once knew is long gone.
Also, I’ve just had a “fertility check-up” with my OB/GYN and it turns out I’m not ovulating. After all the changes I’d been making health-wise, I thought for sure this would be the month I would conceive, but my temperature charting didn’t show much of a spike which means I’m probably not releasing those necessary things called eggs.
It’s a frustrating battle, one I’m tired of, frankly. I really feel like giving up and sulking and feeling sorry for myself, but this little voice is screaming at me because she knows that self-pity will only delay this process. So it’s back to square one. I met with Dr. F, had tests done and we decided I need to do the same things I did when I got pregnant with Dawson: cut out carbs, drop the weight and start taking all those vitamins again.
I know I have to do this, but I suddenly crave mashed potatoes and pasta, the very evil insulin releasing enemies that are screwing up my life. Wish me luck. I need lots of it.
September 8, 2008
Book Review: Maybe Baby: An Infertile Love Story
Several years ago, four years and nine months to be exact, I discovered I was pregnant with my beautiful baby boy. But only a year before that, I was diagnosed with Poly-cystic ovarian syndrome, and told that my chances of conceiving a child were slim — or that it would be very difficult for my body to ovulate, thus making my journey to motherhood a long and windy road of uncertainty.
I can’t count the number of times I cried and cursed, confessed and denied my anger, and prayed to God; please Dear Lord, grant me a child. All I wanted was to be a mother. From the moment Doug and I spoke our vows in front of hundreds of relatives and friends at beautiful St. Bronislava church, visions of babies danced in my head.
As a Polish Catholic, I was raised with the notion that a woman’s purpose was to have lots of babies, cook too much food and feed everyone. After all, the women in my family are baby factories. Most have four or more children. When I realized my body may never house a child, I panicked.
Thanks be to God, I did get pregnant and delivered a healthy baby boy, but those early trials still haunt me. As if they happened only yesterday, I still remember the frustration, sadness and anger. The questions from family as to when we’d have children and why….why wasn’t it happening already?
Four years and 9 months later, I’m suffering infertility once again. My husband and I have been trying to have a second child for over a year without success. It’s a battle that I often feel like I’m losing. How can two people who love each other so much survive the battle of infertility?
The Parent Bloggers Network asked me if I’d like to read the book Maybe Baby by Matthew M.F. Miller and I jumped at the chance. I was excited to read a man’s point of view on infertility issues. Then the book arrived and I read the back cover and began to cry.
“Constance got her period for the tenth month in a row, and I stood in the bathroom having never felt like less of a man in my entire life.”
I cried because when it comes to infertility, it’s usually the woman with the “problem”. In Matthew’s case, he discovered he had a low sperm count. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, if you’re “the one,” the infertile, the feelings of inadequacy are devastatingly real.
Matthew’s story begins with memories of his youth, from the house he grew up in, to his struggles as an overweight teen. He describes his emotions with vivid recollection of how he avoided “full-on sex” until he “was no longer fat”, to meeting the woman of his dreams, Constance, and the passionate love they share.
Their desire for children began with beautiful green nursery bedding from Pottery Barn, which they ordered before becoming pregnant (after crawling out of $18,000 in credit card debt — due to their love of the stylish, and shopaholic tendencies).
As I read about the excitement Matthew and Constance shared when opening the box of green frill and softness, I remembered my own excitement when I bought that first baby sleeper after discovering I was indeed having a baby.
But years before, whenever I shopped for gifts for friends’ baby showers, my anticipation of my own pregnancies caused waves of excitement and to wash over me. But I have never experienced the pain of knowing that a $300 dollar nursery set is tucked in a closet, unused, because of infertility.
I must confess: reading Matthew’s book was difficult for me. Tears stained every other page as I read about the four moments he knew he wanted to be a father, to his anxiety over “masturbating in public” at the clinic.
Reading about Matthew and Constance’s struggles with Clomid refreshed my memory of my own use of the fertility drug. His anticipation over the results of a home pregnancy test and the let down he and Constance felt upon seeing that Big Fat Negative made me recall my own disappointment with every stick I’ve ever peed on.
And then I read chapter sixteen, and all of page 188 is now soaked with my salty tears:
“Joe’s funeral was a wholly Catholic affair. Polish Catholic to be exact, which led to an hour and a a half of standing, kneeling, sitting, praying, and sobbing. All of which was closely followed by countless rounds of food and beverages served up by and white-and-black clad waiters in a Polish banquet hall. Sausages, sauerkraut, pierogies, liver and dumplings, chicken and beef were all served as a gut-busting tribute to our dear friend’s brother.”
Oh, how true this is! Polish Catholic funerals are grand affairs; celebrations of the lives of our loved ones who have passed.
And then I read page 189:
“Two pews in front of us, a young woman was struggling to contain the pacifier and slightly jarring coos of a less-than-two-year-old toddler as Gina’s mom stoically revealed the irreparable heartbreak of her daughter, who had purchased her wedding dress the day before the accident. teh toddler was a perfect, dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty with a mat of curls secured on the top of her head by a small pink bow.”
Church is my private hell. Catholic women are raised to make babies. Every Sunday at Mass, I cry just a little as I watch the family with seven beautiful children make their way to the front pew. A few rows over, another family with five children, gets situated in their seats.
Meanwhile, I sit in the far back row, with my husband and son, so that no one can see me cry over the children I wish I had. It isn’t that my son isn’t enough, I love him dearly — more than words can describe. I cry because the house of God is a safe place, but for me it represents pain. Pain I can’t seem to let go.
Instead of celebrating the vows my husband and I took in that very church, or celebrating the baptism of the child we have, the sacred sacraments professed in praise to God, I cry silent tears in the last row.
Matthew writes so openly about his struggles and about the hope he and Constance felt when choosing to do IVF. While IVF isn’t something I’m able to do (for religious reasons), I pray that this method works for Constance and Matthew.
This book is brilliant; honest and compassionate. Matthew shares his raw emotions with the reader. He reaches out to those who have walked in his shoes, as well as to those who may not understand what the infertile world goes through.
This book isn’t just about the pain he and Constance have endured, it’s also a love story. A story of two people who stand by each other through good times and bad, through life and loss, and for all the days of their lives.
Thank you, Matthew Miller, for sharing your story with us. Thank you PBN, for allowing me the privilege of reading this amazing book.
For more information about Maybe Baby, please visit Matthew’s website.
August 8, 2008
Fifteen Pounds Gone…
…and look what fits:
I hadn’t been able to wear my wedding ring in almost a year. It fits comfortably again, and this makes me very happy.
I know that 15 pounds in less than three weeks is sort of drastic, but I’m not using drastic measures to lose the weight. I mean, I’ve made big changes….but I’m not starving myself or killing myself.
I’ve cut out soda (the caffeine withdrawals are finally over), no fried foods (this one was easy, I just pictured grease traveling through my veins where blood should be, and the thought grossed me out), lean meats, fresh vegetables whenever possible (although steamed veggies are so damn good) and lots of fruits instead of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream (my weakness).
The workout regime is pretty awesome. On Mondays and Fridays I do 45 minutes of cardio (broken down as 15 minutes on the stair stepper and 30 minutes on the elliptical). Tuesdays and Thursdays I do 30 minutes of the elliptical, followed by 30 minutes of weights (that I do at home because the big scary, steroid-user-type guys at the gym scare me). Wednesday is my day off from working out at the gym. On Saturday and Sunday I do 30 minutes of cardio, followed by swimming with Dawson. I can squeeze about five laps in before he freaks out in the shallow end of the pool (thank God for lifeguards who don’t mind watching him when I do this). Add to that a daily walking of Murphy and I’m golden in the fitness department.
I know it sounds like I’m working my ass off (which is the goal), and Doug thinks I might be overdoing it a bit, but the thing is, I feel 1000% better after doing this. If I miss a day I’m a crabby freakin’ bitch and it’s not good. I think I’m addicted to the endorphins, the adrenaline, the sweat. I’ve never felt so good as I do when I’m sweating. Gross, yes, but it makes me feel so damn awesome. And I think this is why the weight is coming off faster in the beginning.
In just a few short weeks, I’ll be working with a personal trainer at the gym. She’s going to hook me up with the weight machines to begin toning. First, I have to get my doctor’s approval because I currently take blood pressure medications. My goal is to get the weight off and lower the flippin’ BP so that I no longer have to take those pills, but my hunch tells me I will always need them. Both my mother and father have chronic hypertension and they were diagnosed in their 30s. It’s just the way the dice roll I suppose.
In other news, my period is now a week late, probably due to the rapid weight loss and exercising. I know what you’re thinking, but this confirms I’m not pregnant (as much as I wish these were positive, I’m thinking I have 40 pounds to lose before I can conceive):
Disappointing, yes, but I vow not to let this control me, or define me. It’ll happen. I have faith.
Fifteen pounds lost and a new outlook gained. And suddenly, I’m sleeping again.
August 4, 2008
Part II, The Wound Is Healing
If you haven’t yet read the first part of this series, please click here to do so.
I remember the feeling as though it is surfacing right now at this very moment. The thrill of knowing that I was pregnant, if only because a 5-inch plastic stick said so, was so surreal and yet so exciting. Even after calling Doug and sharing the news with a few people, staring at those two pink lines brought joy to my heart.
Several moments later a fit of panic filled my body. What if this test was wrong? What if I jumped the gun and told too many people? What if I jinxed myself? What if I wake up tomorrow and this is all a terrible dream? A nightmare?
It was nearly impossible to finish my shift at my job (Note to self: never take a pregnancy test at work), the combination of happiness and terror was making me anxious as well as sick to my stomach. When I got home that night, my husband wasn’t as happy for us as I wished him to be. Looking back on that night, I understand he was being cautious. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. He had to be strong for both of us, just in case “something bad happened”. He was afraid to breathe and I was afraid to admit I felt the same way.
Why can’t I fucking enjoy this? I’ve waited so long and here I sit, sleepless and full of anxiety? Why can’t I be a normal pregnant woman?
The next morning I made an appointment with my ob/gyn, or his nurse actually. She scheduled me that morning to come in for a blood test, as well as another urine test. The procedure itself was quick, but waiting for the results was torture. I returned home at 10 a.m., had breakfast, threw it up (it had to have been the nerves) and waited. And waited some more. At 2:30 that afternoon the lab called with my results on behalf of my doctor’s office.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Tuszke. Your test results are positive for pregnancy. Please hold the line for Dr. J’s office. He’ll need to see you in four weeks.”
The feelings of disbelief returned and my face drained of color. Doug was sitting on the couch and he asked, “Is everything okay? Are you alright?”
“I’m pregnant. I’m truly, really pregnant!”
“Are you sure? Maybe your urine is fucked up. Are they sure you’re really pregnant?”
“It would be a cruel, sick joke to play on a someone who wasn’t, don’t you think?”
I believe my husband was just as astonished as I was. That was the day he bacame a father. That was the day he had another person to love and care about. Another person to provide for. He was happy, but afraid of the unknown. Before our baby was born he had never held another child. Not even his niece. Doug was just trying to navigate his own emotions, as well as be supportive for me.
The next four weeks were filled with sore breasts and morning sickness. There was one week that I was so ill I thought I was going to do harm to the baby because I couldn’t stop vomiting. I cried for days about the fear of having a miscarriage. I couldn’t bear to think about such atrocities, and yet the thoughts consumed my mind for months.
I had an early ultrasound and was ecstatic to see the baby’s beating heart on the fetal monitor, but my axiety was high and I wasn’t able to calm down until I heard my little one’s heartbeat on the doppler at 11 weeks.
Every doctor’s appointment was filled with anxiety of the possible bad news I might be told. Nothing was ever wrong (thanks be to God), yet I felt as though I was swimming near a dam and constantly pulled under the current of emotions. I remember Dr. J ordering me to relax because high stress levels wasn’t good for my health or the health of my child. I desperately tried to relax, even forced myself to take it easy, but it seemed to make matters worse.
At seven months pregnant I was diagnosed with pregnancy induced hypertension, or pre-eclampsia and was sentenced to bedrest. It wasn’t because I was eating terribly or not exercising, hell I ate so well and walked Murphy (our dog) everyday. Sometimes we’d walk one or two miles. The combination of work related stress and pregnancy anxiety caused my blood pressure to sky rocket.
Hearing the doctor’s words tossed me over the edge in a barrell of despair. Financially, we coldn’t afford bedrest for as long as my doctor suggested. After a week of it, I tried to go back to work only to be sent home because I passed out at my desk. I spent the last 11 weeks of my pregnancy at home trying to grow my baby to full term. At 38 weeks I was induced because the protein count in my urine was too high.
Dawson Douglas Tuszke was born on September 16, 2004, nineteen days early. He weighed 7 lbs., 8 oz., and as the doctor placed him in my arms the feelings of relief washed over me. My baby was here. He was healthy, and beautiful and mine.
To this day, I struggle with the emotional impact this child has on my life. He’s my world. He’s the air that I breathe and I love him more than I can ever describe in a blog post. So much of motherhood is about the way I feel when I look at my little boy. If I close my eyes and think hard enough I can still feel the joy and pain of his birth, and I wouldn’t trade that in for anything on this Earth.
My post-partum days were a blur. The reality of what motherhood entailed controlled me. Nursing, diaper changing, crying over anything and nothing all the same time; it was a sky dive without a parachute at times. I put on that happy face to hide the insanity boiling over inside me. It wasn’t PPD, it was anxiety. The fear of the “something bad” was enough to make me want to hide under the covers.
And then the image of what my body looked like, post childbirth, haunted me. I wasn’t angry, more shocked. I was navigating the stormy seas of first time motherhood. I was the captain of my own destiny and that of my son’s, at least until he was eighteen. I was blissfully happy and emotionally bankrupt. I didn’t understand how this was possible.
After six months of doctor’s supervision and “outdoor therapy” (also known as three mile walks and serotonin supplements) my life was getting back to normal. Not pre-baby normal, but I was able to control my emotions better and able to raise my child in a healthy, happy environment.
As Dawson grew older, I learned to enjoy the stages and milestones of his development and I couldn’t wait to have another baby. Financially, we weren’t ready due to the long months of bedrest, but then in August of 2005, when Dawson was 11 months old, I suffered what the doctors think was a miscarriage.
I didn’t know I was pregnant until I started bleeding. The clotting, the cramps, the emotional chaos were frightening. I didn’t understand any of what was happening. My period wasn’t technically late, because I hadn’t gotten one since Dawson was born.
I went to the doctor who ordered bloodwork. The results came several days later.
“Based on the test results, we think you had a miscarriage. There were low hGg levels indicating pregnancy, and the spontaneous bleeding and clotting support that diagnosis.”
I didn’t cry at first. I didn’t feel anything. No emotion. I was numb. And then four days later the floodgates opened. I mourned for a child I didn’t even know. I couldn’t fathom what was happening and it spiraled into a depression. I couldn’t look at my son without crying. I couldn’t let my husband touch me without the fear of shattering into tiny little pieces in his arms. I didn’t understand the volume of my emotions and I couldn’t believe how badly it hurt. How could one person feel this horrible?
Several months later the questions began. Friends and family were constantly asking, “When are you going to have another baby?” It was infuriating. I felt like I was constantly on the defensive, justifying why we weren’t pregnant again. I made excuses, rather than admit my fertility trouble. Instead of facing the fact I had a miscarriage, I buried myself in a hole of denial.
I was spitting out the stock answers, all the time. We’re not ready yet. We’re happy with just Dawson right now. We can’t afford a second child. The timing isn’t right. Someday we’ll try again.
Then one day I had heard enough and hit my breaking point. I finally admitted my difficulty in getting pregnant. I used the word infertility out loud. And the person I told gave me a look of disbelief. This person was so uncomfortable with my confession that she laughed and said, “That can’t be true. You’ve got Dawson. It’s not impossible for you to get pregnant.”
I was heartbroken. I confided in someone and she didn’t take me seriously. Instead she made feel inadequate in a way that even now, more than two years later, I can’t describe. It was hard enough to say that I have fertility problems, but take away that reason and what would my excuse be? It was a mindfuck. I couldn’t wrap my head around what I was thinking or feeling so I continued to deny it. I remember actually repeating the words to myself, “Maybe nothing is wrong with me. Maybe it’s just mind over matter. Delusional, yes, but easier to deal with than the issue at hand.
I remember having a conversation with my mother and she kept nagging me about having a second child. I was so angry I yelled, “What do you want me to fucking do? Write a letter to my ovaries?” She replied, “No…I want you to write a letter to God.” As if it was that easy. And maybe it is that easy. But for me, it was the most difficult thing to cope with. It still is.
For the past year, Doug and I have been really trying to have another baby. Every late period, every negative pregnancy test, spins me into an emotional tornado of anger and grief and self-pity. Thankfully, I have found a doctor who listens to my concerns and things are looking up, but it’s not an easy road this time around either.
Naturally, when I heard that BlogHer was offering a panel on Infertility at the conference, I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t prepared emotionally and I didn’t know how I would react to the discussion. I had never revealed my story to anyone after my first attempt with a friend. Her reaction made me think that everyone would react the same way.
Naively, I didn’t even realize there were so many infertility bloggers out there until I began working with the BlogHer Ads Network. I knew there was the possiblity they existed, but I could never bring myself to Google them. I was scared. I was terrified. I didn’t want to be labeled as an IF blogger. I didn’t want to admit that I belonged in that group. Denial is more than a river in Egypt, as they say.
The truth is, I didn’t feel like I had the right to join that group because against all odds, I conceived a child and gave birth. I didn’t feel entitled to share my experience because so many women still yearn to have children of their own. On the contrary I didn’t feel like I fit in with the mothers who conceived easily because I was still struggling with my own infertility issues. It was a catch-22 and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
For so long I read those Infertility blogs and nodded silently from behind the safety of my computer screen. I felt comforted by the fact that I wasn’t alone, and I was perfectly okay with not joining the discussion. I wasn’t ready to jump from that airplane.
The stigma that our society places on infertile couples is absolutely horrible. We’re made to feel like second class citizens, simply because we have difficulty producing children. It’s shameful and unfair and it makes me angry. Often I feel as though the “mommy wars” are nothing compared to the war between fertile and infertile women. It shouldn’t have to be that way. We should be able to support each other. Because of that stigma, that the lives of infertile women are not relevant to motherhood issues, I was afraid to ever blog the struggles I experienced.
As the BlogHer conference grew nearer, I realized I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I would have to rip off the band-aid eventually, and when I did, I wanted to be with people like myself. I wanted to know that I was safe to feel the emotions without judgement.
I didn’t realize how quickly those floodgates would open. I was a sobbing mess; hysterical, angry, frustrated, sad and emotionally worn out. It took several long moments of quiet sobs before I could bring myself to open my mouth. But when I did, it all spilled forth and these women (and men) understood.
They understood. They got me and they didn’t judge me. They wrapped their arms around me and welcomed me into the safety of their hearts and I am forever grateful. I will never forget that feeling of relief. The “wow…this is what I was missing…” feeling, was such an epiphany for me. The heaviness rolled off my shoulders and I was finally able to stand up straight. I was finally able to say, “I suffer from infertility.”
I can finally say I’m Dana, and I belong here.
I no longer feel empty because I found support from those who have walked in my shoes.
For the first time, I feel whole. For the first time, I am able to blog this and share my story with all of you. I’ve made many attempts, but never in great detail.
My struggle is nowhere near being over, but I finally have the courage to move forward and continue fighting this battle for the good.
This post (and this one) wasn’t easy for me to write, but I did it. I put it out there, and I must send my sincerest thanks to Pamela (Coming2Terms), Lori (Weebles Wobblog), Monica (Rantings of a Creole Princess), Melissa (Stirrup Queens), Cecily (Uppercase Woman), Rachel (Fertility Stories), and several other amazing men and women who approached me (and regretfully I have forgotten their names, but never their sentiments). From the bottom of my heart, I thank you kindly for your support and your compassion. Your words mean so much to me and I shall hold them in my heart for the rest of my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
And to Jenny, who came over to hug me after the panel, I must thank you (and the rest of the amazing BlogHers) for giving me the opportunity to work with you — for if I hadn’t, I may never have gotten up the courage to meet the wonderful men and women who struggle with infertility as well.
You are all my people, and I puffy heart you. Every one of you.
