Try

Now that I’ve had a little time to compose myself and really take in all of what we saw Sunday, I can fill you in on all the details. And of that, there are a’plenty.

The appointment itself went really well. Dr.3 was running behind, but it’s not like we had better things to do. Actually we did give up Sharks playoff tickets to keep the appointment.  Obviously worth it, just saying. As Dr. 3 got to work with the probe and the nurse dimmed the lights, I closed my eyes until I heard him settle. “Okay, there’s the sac and a tiny heart beat – can you see it?” I opened my eyes to see him pointing at the monitor and underlining the spot where the flickering shadow could be easily seen.  Brian squeezed my hand tightly, and my tears began to fall. I have never been so in awe of something so tiny. Dr. 3 continued the exam, taking measurements and giving notes for the nurse to write down. As he moved the probe over a little further to one side he noted it a tiny dark circle about an eighth of the size of the sac our little one floated in. The other embryo had implanted, but didn’t take. To be honest I wasn’t entirely surprised, and I’m not sure I can explain why. I feel a connection to the little one who wasn’t, but I also hold a great understanding that it wasn’t their time. And I’m at peace with that. The rest of the measurements went fine, my ovaries were nice and quiet - just what he hoped to see.  He closed things up and went over the rest of my protocol, asked if we had any questions then congratulated us with very sincere handshakes. As he walked out of the room, he let out a comically dramatic “Whew!”.  We laughed pretty hard about it then, but I realize now that it was kind of cool to see how much doing the first u/s weighed on him. If he doesn’t do that out loud every time, I’m sure he does it internally.

They asked us to go back to the waiting room so that we could wait to speak with one of the nurses about some other formalities. There were two other couples there and we did our best to keep our composure so as not to flaunt our amazing news in front of them. They seemed like newbies. The nurse, one of our favorites, let us know that we’d need to set up our next u/s with our OB, and she gave us a copy of our records to provide to them. We haven’t been released by Dr. 3 but we’ve chosen not to do any more Out of Pocket appointments with him. She also gave me another prescription for the last round of meds. I have 20 more days of PIO shots. 34 more days of Heparin and Metformin.

In addition to the u/s milestone we had yesterday, I experienced one more. My last Resolve meeting, for now.  In the group that I attend, they invite you back for one last meeting after a confirmed pregnancy. I didn’t realize it was going to be so difficult. Each member sits in the circle and tells you their name and as much about their situation as they are feeling up to.  I began to explain my situation; Trying for four years - as of next month, six failed donor IUI’s,  a yearlong break before IVF. As I wrapped up the details of our cycle, I heard the words “it worked” come out of my mouth and I promptly fell apart. I apologized to everyone and explained how grateful we were, but that acknowledging it – especially there, was overwhelming. The ladies in attendance were nothing short of gracious and congratulatory. But I had a hard time chiming in with information or personal experiences after outing myself.  I always thought that asking the pregnant people/couples to come back for one last meeting was mostly in consideration for those still in the battle, but I can see now that it’s inappropriate for both sides. Listening to heartbreaking story, after heartbreaking story wouldn’t be beneficial. They weren’t comforting anymore. And I’ve heard too many as it is. It’s time for me to accept that, and move on.

Taking the time to step back and analyze my reaction to everything, and just how I’ve processed the existence of this pregnancy so far has truly cemented the fact that I am damaged goods. I’ve had every reason to believe that things were going fine, decent symptoms, decent numbers, no history (thankyougod) of loss. But yet, I couldn’t even acknowledge the simple fact to myself without throwing some caveat up in front of anything that would resemble a statement about our immediate future. It was too scary. 

It still is.

But I'm going to try.