November 8, 2008

PCOS: I’m Dealing With It

Last month, I tried to do a low-carb diet.  Not necessarily Atkins or South Beach, but I eliminated all starches (potato, pasta, bread), I nixed the sugary goodness of chocolate (and it nearly killed me) and I tried sticking to a diet of lean meats, cheeses and leafy green vegetables (and cucumbers) for two weeks.

Can I just tell you how awful my cravings were?  I cannot even describe the ridiculous dependency my body had has on carbohydrates.  Seriously, it got to the point where I had dreams of baked potatoes loaded with all the fixings.

You’re probably wondering what possessed me to begin such a diet and I’m more than happy to tell you why.

Almost ten years ago I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), a metabolic (and endocrine) disorder that affects ovulation, weight loss/gain, hormonal fluctuations and causes my body to be desensitized to insulin.  When I first received this diagnosis, I thought it was some bullshit syndrome that doctors made up because they weren’t sure what was wrong with the women who experienced the symptoms now classified as part of this disease.

The fact that PCOS is a disease scared me, partly because if left untreated the condition can become life threatening.  Women with untreated PCOS can develop diabetes, heart disease, stroke, cervical and uterine cancers and other scary things.  Sadly, this disease is genetic and typically runs in families.  My mother and sister most likely suffer from PCOS, as they’ve experienced most, if not all, of the same symptoms I do.  They haven’t been diagnosed just yet, but I’m urging them to get to their doctors to have testing done.

I went to the library and got some books on this condition, along with books on nutrition and fertility because I wanted to be completely in-the-know about what was happening with my body.

I won’t lie.  My reasons were selfish at first.  I’ve made it known that I want to have another baby (Soon, damn it!  Soon!) but that I’m not having any luck in the getting pregnant department.  Part of the blame is because of PCOS.

My very amazing new doctor (whom I began seeing this past June) prescribed a medication typically given to patients diagnosed with Type II diabetes.  The medicine is called Metformin (known as the brand Glucophage).  Metformin is given to sensitize the body to insulin (which is what helps the diabetic patient), and this can help regulate hormones and cure some of the endocrine disorder.

I’ve been taking this stuff for a little over five months and while it’s regulating insulin production, it isn’t really doing all of it’s job.  Such as trigger ovulation.  I know this because I’ve been charting my basal body temperature for months.

Two weeks ago, I went in for a re-check and Dr. F upped the dose of my Rx to four pills a day instead of two.  It’s sort of wrecking havoc with my stomach (a symptom of taking the meds), but I’ve noticed some changes since the increase.

For one, my acne is slowly disappearing.  I am one of the unlucky women post-puberty that still gets the occasional zit (or twelve) around the chin area.  Acne is a symptom of PCOS.  So is hirsutism (excess hair growth on the face and other unwanted areas of the body — I know, that’s so general).  I noticed that I had some facial hair problems (mostly on the chin and neck), but now that I’ve been taking the Metformin, it seems to be fading away.

But the biggest change is that my menstrual cycles are shortening.  Pre-metformin, my cycles were 47 days plus.  Probably why it’s been so difficult to coneive.  Each month I’d lose a day or two.  I’m down to about 35-39 days depending on other stress factors.

Okay, I take that back.  The biggest change isn’t just that my periods are getting more “regular.”  I’ve lost 17 pounds, too.  Seventeen.  Dr. F was so elated when I weighed in.  My goal was to lose 10% of my weight in order to trigger ovulation again.  I have 10 more pounds to go.

People, this is progress.  And while, it’s still frustrating to know that I’m not getting pregnant yet, it’s comforting to know that by sticking to the plan and making small, subtle changes to my lifestyle, perhaps I’ll be pregnant by Christmas.  Or maybe Valentine’s Day.

I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but I’m also trying not to give up.  It’s like I’m in a holding pattern.  Being sick with a cold the last twelve days hasn’t helped either.  When I’m sick, I have no ambition to eat healthy or exercise. Sad, but true.

The low-carb diet was much more difficult this time around. (I did it four years ago which is how I conceived Dawson.)  Instead, I’m counting calories, making healthier food choices and exercising 4-6 times a week.  I feel good about myself and I noticed I’m not as depressed as I used to be.

So, anyway…I’m just really happy with how things are going and I wanted to blog about it so that I can look back and see how far I’ve come.  There were devastating days, I know.  I lost my shit a time or two.  But like Scarlet O’Hara once said, “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

I’m looking forward to my tomorrows.

————

P.S.

I don’t know many people who also struggle with PCOS, but I’m hoping that if you are dealing with this condition or know someone who is dealing with it, you’ll leave a comment on this post (please?).  I’d love to hear about your experiences.

If you think you may have PCOS and have not yet been diagnosed, please make an appointment with your doctor.  It’s very important for you to get treatment.  There is help for your condition.  And no, you’re not crazy.  No, these symptoms are not “in your head.”

I’m happy to talk more about PCOS, and to blog about it, too.  The more informed we are, the better we can manage our conditions.

October 16, 2008

It Happens Every Time (But This Day Is Different)

Before I continue with my planned post, I wanted to remind you that I’m over at The Imperfect Parent today. If you have a few moments, will you please visit me there, too?  Thank you, kindly!

The last few months have been miserable.  I’ve said it all before.  I don’t want to rehash all the emotions, but it’s constantly on my mind, this baby business.

Yesterday I stopped to count the months, the many long months, that my husband and I have been trying to conceive a second child.  Today marks the end of the eighteenth month of trying.  The end, because my period started this morning.

A few days ago, I thought for sure that I was pregnant.  I had all the “symptoms.”  Sore breasts, bloating, exhaustion, frequent urination, night sweats, nausea, headaches, stuffy nose, moodiness and irritability, heightened sense of smell, increased appetite.

However, I knew in my heart that it was just another phantom pregnancy, that I was just obsessing about it all and therefore my body was playing tricks on me.  Or it was all the beginning of monster PMS.

And still, I drove to the store and bought a pregnancy test.  I went so far as to say a prayer before peeing on the fucking thing, thinking a miracle could impact the results.  Even though I thought I was pregnant, I knew that yesterday’s HPT would turn out the way the last seventeen did.

Just like every month before, the negative line appears and 24 hours later my period begins.  It happens every time.

Then the devastation and disappointment set in.  The crying ensues.  The frustration and anger sweep in and take over.  The bitter jealousy follows closely behind.  The vicious cycle continues and I’m helpless to stop it.

I want more children so badly that it’s all I can think about, dream about, hope for.

I’ve been in a funk and it’s beginning to evolve into a depression.  I accused my husband of jinxing us because maybe he doesn’t want this as much as I do.  I’ve blamed myself for being reproductively broken.  I’ve even looked in the mirror and berated myself for being a failure.

I didn’t go to church last Sunday because I didn’t want to stare at all the adorable pregnant women and wonder why God has granted their wishes and not mine.

Instead, I read passages in the Bible and tried to swallow this jagged little pill.  I’ve tried to put these thoughts out of my head.  I’ve avoided speaking about it with my friends and family because I don’t think they understand, nor do I think they want to hear about my “problem” anymore.

Then today, something wonderful happened.  I attended my bimonthly MOPS meeting.

I must confess that I didn’t want to go.  At my first meeting two weeks ago, I struggled.  There were many mothers in the group who were expecting, and others who were nursing their babies during the focus groups.  It was hard to think happy thoughts and not be overcome by grief and jealousy, but I managed.

Knowing the wound would be opened again, I told myself last night that I wasn’t going.  I didn’t have faith that I could deal with my issues.  Then I dropped Dawson off at preschool this morning and one of the other MOPS moms has a child in Dawson’s class.

“On your way to the meeting?” she asked.

“Ummm…I dunno.  I’ve got a lot of work to do at home…”

“Come on,” she cut me off.  “You don’t want to miss today’s speaker.  She’s inspirational.”

Even though I told myself it would take more than some inspirational woman sharing her life story to shake me out of my depression, I agreed to attend.  I prayed silently in the car for God to grant me the strength to stifle whatever emotions decided to flow out of me upon seeing all the babies.

The meeting started and our speaker, Jessica, was introduced to our group.  Jessica told us she had been a featured speaker at many women’s groups and her message that day was about how to find hope when things don’t go our way.

I admit, I was skeptical.  It was oh so coincidental that things in my life were definitely not going my way.  How did Jessica think she was going to help me, I wondered.  Does she even know anything about me?  Does she know that I’m struggling?  Does she know about my history with PCOS?  Does she know it took three years to conceive Dawson, or that I had a miscarriage when Dawson was 11 months old?  Does she know that I’m losing faith that I’ll ever get pregnant again?

My bitterness was swallowing me whole, but no sooner than these thoughts flowed from my consciousness did I realize how wrong I was about Jessica.

She told us about her marriage to her husband, Gary, and how they celebrated their 27th wedding anniversary.  She told us that after she and Gary were married they had a honeymoon baby, a boy, and a daughter 18 months after that.  She always knew she wanted more than two children, but after her daughter was born she had many miscarriages.

One day she was driving home from picking her children up from school on a terrible winter’s day.  It had rained and the rain froze, then it snowed on top of that.  She hit a patch of ice and her car swerved into oncoming traffic.  She hit a semi head on.  Her son, her oldest child, was killed instantly.  She and her daughter suffered several injuries.  Her son was 7 years old.  Her daughter was 5 1/2.

Hearing Jessica’s words, I began to cry.  As tears streamed down my cheeks, Jessica continued.   She talked about how painful it was to lose her son, but she also told us she was 10 weeks pregnant during the accident but no one else knew but her husband.  After all the miscarriages she was afraid to tell anyone about the pregnancy because she figured she’d lose that baby, too.  Especially after the tragic accident resulting in her son’s death.

Jessica talked about how her daughter went from being the youngest child, to an only child and then to the oldest child all in a year’s time.  She never expected to have a seven year age gap between her daughter and the baby boy she had seven months after the car accident.  She went on to have three more children after that.

I began sobbing.   Sobbing because I realized I was meant to be at this meeting.  God wanted me to hear Jessica speak.  He enlisted the help of my friend to make sure I heard what Jessica had to say.

Jessica told us that she learned to rearrange her priorities after the accident.  She began renewing her faith in God and putting Him first in her life, before her husband and children.  She realized that while she loved Gary and their children so very much, without God she may never have been able to have more children.

In that moment, alarms went off in my head.  I realized that I’ve been dwelling on this baby thing for too long.  I’ve lost my faith in God and His plans for me.  I’ve been putting my husband and son and everything else in my life before God.

Even though I attend church and teach CCD and pray, I really wasn’t listening to God.  I wasn’t hearing His words and understanding His plan.  And He does have a plan.  He had a plan for Jessica, and she was smart enough to trust and follow Him.

After Jessica’s talk was over, I felt at peace.  All my harried thoughts disappeared.  Instead of worrying about my biological clock ticking, instead of thinking I have to get pregnant right now because I don’t want my children to be too far apart, my mind was quiet.  And my heart was open.

I realize this might sound crazy, but I honestly believe that God has intervened.  He’s trying to tell me that He’s listening.  He’s watching.  He has given me respite from all the worry and disappointment.

For the first time in so long, I feel at peace, and I’m so grateful.

October 7, 2008

I Give Up

Can’t do it.  Anymore.  Too painful.

Every month, I pee on ovulation predictor kits (OPKs).  I get the signal that ovulation is near.  Every month we “plan” baby making around those days.  Every month, period is not on time, I get that hopeful feeling.  Every month I pee on a home pregnancy test (HPT) and get that big fat negative (BFN).  Every month, I cry.

Every day I feel angry.  Angry because I know every acronym and abbreviation and all the vocabulary used in the world of infertility.

Every day I do what the doctor tells me.  I take the Metformin.  I eat healthy foods.  I don’t smoke.  I don’t drink.  I exercise.

Every week, I listen to someone tell me to “just relax.”  Every week I hear someone say, “It will happen, don’t fret.”

Every day I read a blog or twenty, about pregnancy and babies.  Every other day I read a new announcement of another blogger’s pregnancy or delivery of another blogger’s sweet baby.

Every day I try not to let it affect me, because it’s not about me, it’s not personal.

Every day, I feel resentment and jealousy.  Every day, I feel guilty for feeling the way I do.

Every night, I dream of babies and pregnancy and holding another child in my arms.

Every night, I cry just a little.

And every day and night, I pray.

But I can’t do it anymore.  Won’t do it anymore.  It hurts too much.

Every month I say that I’ll give up and I never do.  It’s a vicious cycle.

I won’t do this to myself any longer.  It hurts too much.

August 2, 2008

Ripping Off the Band-Aid, Part I

Alternate title:  Confessions of the Queen of Denial.

When I attended last year’s BlogHer Conference, I was a newbie; a virgin so-to-speak.  I didn’t quite know what to expect and I was rather overwhelmed with all the sessions and blogger meet-ups and overall conference what-to-do.

This year, I considered myself a veteran and I found it easier to meet new bloggers as well as re-connect with my pals, and when it came down to choosing which sessions to attend, I chose the Mommyblogging track.  And it was the Infertility panel that struck a chord that still resonates within me,  weeks later.

I’m in a point in my life where motherhood consumes me.  I’ve been at this Mommy thing for almost four years now; longer if you count pregnancy and all the worrying I did about my son’s impending birth.  The fear of breaking my vagina as Dawson’s head pushed through was always teetering at the back of mind.  Perhaps because it took so long for me to conceive, I was nervous and worrisome for the entire nine months.

Looking back on those years before I became a mother, I remember quite vividly the feelings of frustration, sadness and anger I felt over my conception woes.  It was an emotional roller coaster, and I felt like I was held captive on this ride and never let off. To completely understand what I went through, I’ll have to give you a little back story.

I was raised in a Polish, Catholic family where it was commonplace for women to get married, have lots of babies and constantly feed everybody.  My parents were born into large families; my mother the oldest of seven and my father the youngest of nine children.

Family gatherings were big as well as blithe, laughter was never hard to find, and our extended family grew every year.  I remember Christmas holidays when year after year at least one of my aunts was pregnant.  I never had a shortage of cousins to play with when I was a kid.

I can still remember how easy, and somewhat glamorous, the women in my family made motherhood appear.  No one ever complained about the lack of sleep or trouble with breastfeeding they experienced.  There was never any talk about the hundreds of diapers that needed changing.  No one ever discussed the fact that their husbands became useless and clueless after the birth of a baby. Instead, it was all happy babies and loving mamas sharing peek-a-boo moments.  Boy, what a delusion.

Naturally, I grew up believing that motherhood was the grand poobah of aspirations.  This was what little girls dreamed of becoming.  At the age of 13, wifedom and motherhood was the end all, be all in my book.  In all honesty, if the fear of God and my father weren’t as strong as they were when I was 17, I’m pretty positive I would have gotten pregnant in high school.  I know that’s an almost insane thing to admit, but I couldn’t wait to be a mother.

I remember when a schoolmate told me she was expecting during our senior year.  I was shocked at first and then later I was somewhat jealous.  Of course those feelings dissipated when I watched her struggle with pregnancy and later childbirth and the day the baby’s father abandoned her.  That was my first glimpse of the reality that is motherhood.  That was the day I realized that there is no glitz and glamor to becoming a mother.  And yet, I desperately yearned for the day I would have my own child. I didn’t realize the difficult journey to motherhood that was ahead of me.

My first brush with the infertile world (although I didn’t know it at the time) happened a year after I graduated high school.  It was May of 1998, and my period was late.  I remember the fear that something was wrong with my body.  I was still a virgin, so pregnancy was not possible, unless of course I was chosen by God to give birth to the next Savior of the world.

It turns out my periods would cease for 19 months.  After a year and a half of this craziness, I decided it was time to see a doctor.  I didn’t have health insurance, so I didn’t go to the clinic, but instead I scheduled an appointment with the local Ruth Gilfry office.  They referred me to a physician who prescribed progesterone/progestin to start my periods again, but no explanation was given as to why they stopped to begin with.

There were speculations, such as my rapid weight loss (at age 20, when I got down to 130 pounds, my lowest weight ever.  I graduated high school at 150.) or the fact that I was exercising too much and eating too little, as well as my family history of ovarian cysts and fibroids (I had a cyst burst during math class once, causing me to double over in pain), and the possibility I had endometriosis (an ultrasound and laproscopy ruled that out, thank God).

At age 21, I got a job that offered health insurance and I decided to finally have a full physical examination to see what was happening with my ovaries and uterus.  My periods had finally started again a few months before, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right, reproductively.  I had gained back all of the weight I lost and then some, causing my menstrual cycles to last 40 days or longer and I wanted an explanation.  My doctor told me I had polycystic ovarian syndrome.  WTF is that, I thought.

I honestly thought it was some made up “disease”, a diagnosis created to group a whole bunch of symptoms and unexplained conditions together.  I was told I was overweight and suffering from a metabolic disorder, yet my thyroid checks came back normal every time.  My doctor prescribed Glucophage (metformin) to keep my insulin levels in check.  Several months later, I was told I was a “borderline diabetic”.  My world felt like it was crumbling, especially when the doctor explained, “this condition will make it difficult for you to have children.” I was crushed.  I felt as though my dream of motherhood was being pulled away from me.  Stolen.  I felt robbed.

I was advised to lose weight, but not too much and told not to continue the excessive exercise regime.  It was thought that if I lost twenty pounds, having a baby may not be so difficult.

After my husband and I were married, we decided to begin trying to conceive immediately.  After 12 months of no luck, I went back to my doctor who referred me to a specialist.  The doctor ordered me to continue taking the Glucophage as well as Clomid, a fertility drug.

I began charting my cycles, and taking my temperature every morning and still, I wasn’t pregnant.  Every time my period was late, I’d pee on a stick and become angry and frustrated when a big, fat negative result turned up in the test window.  After another year of this, I lost hope.  I told Doug that I didn’t want children anymore.  Not if it meant going through that, month after horrible month.

I confided in my mother about my frustration and she was supportive, yet she told me she didn’t believe anything was wrong with me — that maybe Doug and i weren’t having sex at the right time of the month.  Other friends told me to relax, that it would happen when I least expected it.  I know they meant well, but these words pissed me off.  I wanted so badly to tell them all to shut up.  I wanted to say, “You don’t know what I’m going through…you don’t understand how difficult this is!”

Every time I saw a pregnant woman, I wanted to run away.  I wanted to cry and yell and throw things.  I wasn’t mad at the person, I was mad at my situation.  And maybe I was jealous.  I didn’t understand why that couldn’t be me.

When these feelings surfaced, I stopped taking the drugs and decided to concentrate on other things.  It was November of 2003 and my co-worker Melissa and I decided to try the Atkins diet.  It was all the rage back then and we both thought we could stand to lose a few pounds.  It was the dumbest thing I did, I realize that now, but the rigidity of that “diet” gave me something else to focus on.  Counting carbs and peeing on Keto sticks took my mind of taking Clomid and peeing on ovulation sticks. I lost 37 pounds in 3 months.

In January of 2004, Doug and I decided to get a dog.  Murphy became our baby.  And then one day I stepped on the scale and discovered I had gained 9 pounds in a week.  My fear consumed me, because I was following the Atkins diet religiously.  Later, I noticed my period was five days late.  I took a pregnancy test.  Negative.  The old feelings of anger began to rise in my throat like bile.  It was devastating.  I felt like the universe was jerking my chain and taking great pleasure in it.

Ten more days go by and still no period.  My breasts were sore.  I was tired all the time.  Something didn’t feel right.  Never did I think I was pregnant, and I pushed the thought out of my mind.  The fear of that negative stick haunted me.

On January 26th, I threw up at work.  What the hell is wrong with me?  Do I have the flu? It didn’t feel like the flu.  On my lunch break I walked to Shopko and bought an E.P.T., but when I returned to work, I couldn’t take the test.  I was scared.  I confided in Melissa (we both worked the 2nd shift so she was my sound board for many things) and she and another friend, Shannon, urged me to take the test.  I went to the bathroom and bit the bullet.  And then suddenly, through my tears, I saw two pink lines appear.  Then I dropped the stick in the toilet.

The utter disbelief paralyzed me.  I fished the stick from the bowl and hurried to the sink.  As I was rinsing it off, I noticed the line getting somewhat darker.  I wrapped the test in paper towel and ran to my desk.

“Is this a line?” I shrieked at my friends.

“Is what alive?” asked Shannon.

“Oh my gosh! You’re pregnant!” Melissa said.

My boss, Angela, who was also pregnant at the time, rushed over to confirm the results.

“Congratulations!” she said, as she hugged me.

I took another 15 minute break to regain my composure, and then called my husband, my mother and my friend Kelly.  I couldn’t hold back the news.  It finally happened.  I was pregnant.  Those two pink lines were so exciting and thrilling.

Little did I know they would spring me into a state of panic and fear that consumed me for the duration of my pregnancy…