Prayers for pregnancy

Hey all! I'm going to keep this post short and sweet, as it is late and I am probably gonna head to bed soon, but I felt in my heart like I wanted to share briefly the news we've received about IVF.

My husband and I have worked up a schedule for IVF and we're starting treatment THIS MONTH.

Schedule of "events"

Shots: May 24th-June 4th
Egg aspiration: June 5th
Egg transfer: June 10th

Dates are tentative, as my cycle will determine the true course of events, but this is a pretty good estimate.

I suppose what really compelled me to write this is because I am scared. And excited. And nervous. All three to an overwhelming degree. I am fighting my fear of surgery again, as well as trying to avoid the nagging concern that this treatment won't be successful. I don't know what all the risks are. I am worried about more babies resulting than I can carry safely for everyone involved.

What I would love is prayers, that I stay safe and healthy during the process, that we may be blessed at last with a baby, and that the pregnancy is full-term and successful.

I will keep you guys posted on things as they happen!

It's official...

I got a long-awaited call from my RE herself yesterday. 7-10 business days is sure a long time to wait, especially on Day 9.

Drumroll please ..................... come April-May, we will be starting our first IVF treatment.

Much to our surprise, my husband's test results were not as good as the first ones back when we first got started with our RE. She found it would be most successful if we did IVF, as the quantity, quality and mobility of the sperm was lower from last time.

It was hard to hear. I felt awful for my husband, as he said he would have a hard time dealing with an inability to give me children naturally. We held each other, and I said to him, over and over, that it didn't matter if we had assistance getting pregnant. It didn't matter if we adopted children to grow our family. It didn't matter if it ended up being just him and I (and our fuzzy labradoodle baby). I loved him, he was no less a man for this, he was no less of a wonderful, beautiful spouse to me.

We're both nervous about treatment. About how it will affect our marriage, our day-to-day. There was so much to talk about. How to work our schedule around frequent visits to the doctor's office (he works nights, and sleeps during the day, so this might be tricky), who would keep an eye on me for the 24 hours after egg retrieval surgery, how much it would cost and what to do about the expenses (what would insurance cover? what were our options with treatment? how many times were we willing to do this before calling it quits?) And for sure the biggest question of all, how many eggs would we decide to have implanted?

My RE had told me that my husband and I should discuss reduction, should the procedure result in more children than planned. I knew what my thoughts were. I was relieved to hear my husband thought the same thing.

Reduction wasn't an option.

The idea of traveling to the nearest big city, to have a needle inserted into my pregnant belly, and randomly pierce the heart of one (or more) of our children with medication that would stop the beating, how could we do that? We realized and understood why some people had to, but to just pick which of our children would die was unfathomable to us.

So we had to REALLY think hard about how many eggs we wanted implanted.

It's a difficult, almost impossible gamble with fate and money. Paying so much for a procedure, and knowing that eggs implanted didn't always successfully grow, we wanted a least a few to increase our chances that we would have even one child. If we chose to pick the quantity of 3 or 4 eggs, maybe only one would make it. Twins would be completely fine. Triplets, even quadruplets, we would handle, if my small uterus (which still had an invading septum taking up some space) would allow it. But any of those eggs, maybe even all of them (rare, but who knows?) could split in two or even (VERY rare) into thirds. Then the well being of all involved would be at a serious risk. Then there would be no choice but to reduce, or experience the heartache of children within me struggling, and maybe losing, their chance to live.

I trusted and fully believed that my very skilled doctor was not going to allow this to happen. Through her expertise, she knew how to balance everything, from amount of sperm to fertility medication to eggs implanted, to prevent too many babies from developing.

I only say too many babies because I know that there would be a high risk that some of them would not make it. Lord, if my body could safely accommodate 10, I would still be the happiest (and largest) pregnant woman, and the most thrilled (even if sleep deprived) mother around (and round for that matter.) They would be my children, blessed little boys and girls created with God's grace and between myself and the man I loved, our greatest accomplishments. We would find a way.

So now, more waiting. When you undergo fertility treatment, there is a lot of this thing called waiting. For the menstrual cycle to start, to begin the one month of birth control to prime the body, to start injections, to harvest the eggs, to let them mature, to implant, and to take that test to see if there is another round of waiting in store, or if you'll simply be waiting those 9 months to have that baby placed into your arms for the first time, at long last.

Waiting was fine with us. Though no amount of it fully prepares you for the rigorous obstacles of fertility treatment, we needed time to absorb all that was going to happen. To focus on loving each other and enjoying each others company while it was still just the two of us. You never know what you're getting into with this. We did know that it was worthwhile. It was worth the wait.

Oh goody

*Note: REALLY long post, sorry for the novel!*

Last week, I took my injections class.

Entering the building that housed my RE's office, I felt the lingering unpleasant memories of the uncomfortable procedures I had had done there. 

Not once, but twice, I had had my uterus filled with dyed water to check for abnormalities, turning it into a reproductive water balloon. I had felt what must be like a child growing inside of me, if it had done so at warp speed. Cramps? YES. It was very unpleasant. The first one had determined I had a uterine septum, a growth hanging from the top of the uterus, that had to go via surgery to make room for munchkins. Simply explained (and a bit of a tongue twister) there was not enough "room in my womb".

Thankfully, the 2nd water test (I call it this because I don't recall the name, I only recall that when I did, I didn't like the sound of it, so it's for the best) after an equally difficult-for-me-emotionally but entirely successful surgery, showed I wouldn't have to do either surgery nor water test again. Whew! Relief, right? But I sensed that that was not the end of my wonderful experiences at the RE. Oh no, the real fun was just starting.

I pressed the elevator button, and despite having, in only a few minutes, mentally relived those painful experiences, I felt a surge of determination upon me, synchronized with the buzzing of an approaching elevator. I was, after so much hesitation, fear, and discomfort, actually prepping for my race to motherhood (corny? yes, but I'll make my point!) 

The diagnosis of my PCOS, the altering and addition of medications to stabilize my body, my surgery, testing both hubby and myself, these were the equivalent acts of a runner loading up on carbs, (ironically, my diet was the opposite, darn pre-diabetic PCOS) the conditioning practice runs, the good night sleep before the big race, the stretching of the body prior to taking off. Just like a runner who had checked off all her pre-race essentials, I was ready to run through the extremes of testing, IUI/IVF procedures, scans, but first and intermittently throughout my race, there would be injections. 

Yeah! Remember when I said the real fun was just starting? Injections is that wonderful, fun, can-you-tell-I'm-desperately-sarcastic? part of this race. 

I arrive at the appropriate floor, and state to the secretary my name and purpose of standing before her. I immediately see beyond her on the counter, a cluster of white paper bags. Was one of those for me? 

Sure enough, she searches through the little sea of white to locate one, which she hands to me. I felt like  a little kid again, given a goody bag of treats at a party. Interesting party, as I knew none of the guests, there were no decorations or cake, and I'm pretty sure the nurse wasn't going to dress up like a clown for our amusement. 

Looking into the bag, I thought "if this were seen as an actual party, it would sure be a questionable one". Inside, there was a bright red sharps container, a syringe, a tiny bottle of fluid with a silver cap, a disposable cup, and a stapled-shut brown paper bag, which I later learned was full of extra syringes. If handed such a assortment arriving at any other gathering, I would have dropped it and made a mad dash for the car. But no, the reality of my situation came flooding back, washing over my silly amusing party analogy, with the discovery of a pamphlet on self-administering fertility injections, explaining IUI/IVF, and the lovely menu of drugs to choose from, with accompanying costs. Oh yeah. THAT'S why I was here. 

Further digging into the bag after settling down in the waiting room, I found one last thing, a slip of paper with my "plan"on it. I felt a chill of anxiety reading it "One vial a day, could change after semen analysis." Was I starting this right away? At the moment, I didn't know what that brown paper bag contained, and in horror, my mind raced agonizing whether or not it contained my prescription shots. My doctor, while the best in town, and a person I trusted with my life more than anyone else for coping with infertility, wasn't exactly the one to take things slow. Quite the perfectionist and competitor, it had felt like she had grabbed my hand and pulled me into taking the fertility treatment plunge, down the dark, scary, syringe-filled abyss we go. It was only because of my cowardliness and God's timing that she hadn't had the opportunity to knock me up. Starting me on meds as soon (and sooner than I was comfortable with) as possible was not unlike her. 

Was I really ready for this? What did it entail? As other women, some with spouses, some with friends, some alone, trickled into the waiting room, with white bags matching mine, I wished my husband was with me. He was at home, awaiting our first pieces of furniture we had not bought used, nor been given for free, but had purchased brand new. Our house was going to look so grown up, and much less like a bachelor pad (most of our furnishings were from his pre-marriage days). We were becoming adults more than ever, and as I sat here, I realized more and more that I was taking a giant leap into the next phase of our adult lives; becoming parents.

A short woman with glasses and sleek brown hair came into the waiting room "If you're here for the injections class, follow me, please."

We followed into a small conference room, a projection screen displaying a large picture of what I assumed was the VERY beginning of a baby, a microscopic cluster of multiplying cells. Ever the eager student, I took a seat in the front row. Another young woman who had also come by herself sat beside me. I wondered what her story was? Or for that matter, what was the story of any of the women here? It was none of my business, of course, but I had to ponder if any of them were in the same position my husband and I were in. It would be wonderful to not feel so alone in our particular situation (more likely than not though, infertility situations can be like snowflakes, each one unique from the others).

 I contemplated starting off a conversation with the woman beside me, beginning with a compliment on her cute, oversized green purse, but the short woman who had ushered us here took her place and began to talk about what was to be covered in class. The embryologist would begin with a brief explanation of what went on in the lab, "behind the scenes". Heavy, and bespectacled like the short lady, she seemed nervous and always out of breath, speaking of each little step in the quest we were about to embark on; down to when we'd visit the office for test and screenings, the processes made to either insert washed sperm into the uterus after controlled ovulation (IUI) or of harvesting, fertilizing, and administering eggs back into the uterus (IVF), and even the fact that we'd repeat our information to insure the sperm being injected into us or our eggs was, in fact, that of our significant other's or the correct donor (can't stress the importance of that!) She showed us a series of slides depicting healthy versus unhealthy eggs after fertilization for IVF, assuring us that only the best quality eggs would be used for implantation. Seeing how at any time, an egg could be dismissed as being unfit for implantation made me realize what a miracle pregnancy was; an error could happen at any time in these early stages, a pregnancy discontinued, often without the woman knowing it, and yet there were babies everywhere; especially and painfully true in my perspective, having ached for a baby of my own for so long.

The embryologist finished her speech, then handed it off to the short woman, a nurse as it turned out, who explained in detail the variety of shots. The syringe in our white goody bags was for practice, the little vial of fluid was saline, and we would be practicing the delicate art of preparing the syringe with medication. The syringe given to us was a terrifying 2 inches in length, and my heart felt like it sank to the building's basement when she said this was the needle we'd be sticking into our own tushes.

I stared at the sharp silver instrument, glistening menacingly in the dim light of the classroom. NO! Surely there was another option? I was a classic case of butterfingers, frequently stabbing myself with a smaller, less menacing needle when I sewed together crochet projects, or with head and eye pins when making jewelry, my fingers and hands dotted with red pock marks. Hell no was I going to shove a needle into my ass.

Still, I followed along, helplessly a few steps behind, as the nurse swiftly instructed us to sanitize our instruments, now uncap the little vial, and in a smooth motion and with syringe at an angle in vial, suction up the liquid. Turn the syringe upside-down, and tap gently to remove bubbles, pushing on plunger slightly to remove air. Now move it over to hover above the little disposable cup, and again, with a smooth-but-quick push of the plunger, inject the medication.

I was still trying to get a large, stubborn bubble, lazily sitting on the bottom of my upturned syringe, to float to the top, discretely tapping it with an anxious index finger. People were starting to stare, in amusement or pity, I didn't know which. The nurse smiled at me sympathetically, and I felt my face flush. "Come on you stupid bubble", I coaxed, and as if persuaded by insult, it begrudgingly rose to the top. I pushed on the plunger just a little to attempt to release it from it's tiny prison, surely serving it a favor to return to its fellow air brethren, but a fountain of fluid spluttered out, the bubble remaining in the syringe. This was NOT working out.

In an attempt to keep up, I deposited the fluid into the little cup then DAMNIT! In the movement of inspecting it for leftover fluid, I nicked myself square in the palm of the hand, a tiny blossom of blood quickly surfacing. No, this was DEFINITELY not working out.

Then the nurse interrupted our practice to show us our other option of injectable medication. I watched with increasing interest as she modeled the highly preferable injection pen; pre-mixed, just turn the dial for the currect dose, SMALL needle, and into the thigh, easy as pie. Wow! I prayed for this option, otherwise, I was going to be 10x more in a world of hurt and awkward discomfort. Was it pricier? Of course, easier things were often more expensive, but would it be worth it. TOTALLY.

The nurse passed out all the medication options that we might by fate use to conceive our children, and I examined the boxes, with their long list of directions and risks in tiny print. Cautions stating that my ovaries may become overstimulated from this medication, a rare but dangerous condition, that that medication would burn upon application, the importance of application at the exact same time every day, maybe more than once a day, based on the severity of our infertility issues, the percentage of success of conception in my hands.

The class closed so pupils could inquire about private questions. If there had been a contest on who could ask the most questions, I definitely won. With much disapointment, I learned that since I had had two long, but consistent menstrual cycles, we might not get started until late next month (if I continued to have cycles on my own), as treatment had to begin at the start of a cycle.

Yes, I understand that is a very short time to wait, and even a total of just over a year that I've waited seems like a blink to some women who have waited 3, 5 or 7 plus years for a child. I felt guilty for complaining that it's only taken this long, knowing these women have been suffering in child-less silence for much longer. Thanks to my awesome, persistent doctors, I have covered so much ground over a year, progress that can take years and years for others to achieve.  I am chomping at the bit to be a mother, despite the little, faithful voice in my head that says that God's plan and timing are the very best for me, keeping in store something more wonderful than my wildest dreams.

As I write this, I am (im)patiently waiting for a call from the doctor's office, which will reveal the results of my husband's test results, which will in turn determine my fertility treatment fate. Will I be using those syringe in my goodie bag, or the much less scary injectable pen? Would I undergo IUI or IVF? And a LONG way down the road: would it be successful? Would I be posting the good news with an accompanying ultrasound or positive pregnancy test on FB, announcing our pregnancy to thrilled family members, ring in 2014 with our own baby New Year? Who knows. I pray for the patience to have faith, keep calm, and wait.

Taking the plunge

A plunge of a ovulation drug -filled needle .... into my thigh (hopefully the thigh and not my rear) that is. Yay?

After much waiting, praying and hesitation (and frustration I'm sure on my doctor's end of things) my husband and I are taking the plunge to try out fertility treatments.

The hesitation wasn't just due to the heebie jeebies of self-administering a very scary needle into my flesh (although that was a BIG hesitation). My doctor's clinic, a very dedicated one with an above average success rate, was asking for a tall order of me should I choose the assisted fertility route; involving coming into the office every few days to scan and see if I was laying any eggs yet, as well as checking hormone levels and such. Being employed at a school in which I was heavily relied upon for one-on-one supervision with a severely behavior-disordered student, I didn't have the luxury of missing work for that. Though I was itching like a toddler with chicken pox to have a baby and be a mom, I settled with the fact that I would have to simply wait till summer vacation for all that.

Then the student I worked with pulled a pair of scissors and attempted to stab me. This, on a day that was already heavily dark and depressing, December 14th, the day 26 precious lives in Newtown, Connecticut were sent to heaven too soon. In a constant state of sobbing, runny-nosed misery over the combination of the magnitude of school violence on others, and, to a much lesser degree, myself, I resigned from my job on the spot, and went home to mourn alongside my country.

It wasn't long before the guilty feeling of staying home while others were working began eating away at me, and I applied for several jobs. I wasn't very optimistic, feeling like I had burned a few bridges already with the two districts closest to me. I was rejected a few times, and even had a last minute interview with the district I had resigned from the month before. Applying blush to my flushed from excitement face for the interview that day, I thought aloud about whether it would be such a bad thing if I didn't get the job. Perhaps this was the moment that God was saving for me to really delve into this fertility matter. I decided the results of the interview process would be a win-win; either I got a job I would love finally working in an elementary school setting, or I would receive the chance and blessing to be aggressive with this pregnancy business.

Well, as you have gathered from what I wrote to this point, the interview, while pleasant and successful to a point, did not earn me a position at the school. While the disappointment weighed on me heavily, I took it as a sign to dial up my doctor's office.

Yes, February 5th at 2:00. Injections class. I'll be there. Sounds great, see you then.

Yes, hubby will come in the next day for another semen analysis. 12:30 p.m. is perfect, thanks.


Maybe I'm delusional about how painful and awkward it will be driving my own hand to stab myself with a needle (the pictures I've seen online, a delicately manicured hand grabbing a roll of skin to plunge a needle into, for some strange reason doesn't seem so terrifying) but I am not so fearful about giving myself shots. Of course, I'm sure the class will scare me to no end with it's probable listing of side-effects and risks associated with such a practice, especially if I don't do it exactly right. Being a hypochondriac and having a husband who works overnight (I have a fear of becoming sick while alone at night) I have briefly considered staying with my folks an hour away so they will be people around if I fuck up one of my pointy applications, or need to be sent to the hospital for life-threatening symptoms I have been good not to research in a panic on WebMD, so I'm not yet aware of them, but there's no guarantees that I won't break down and do it eventually.

The fact is this; actually having a baby, as I can only imagine having never been pregnant, is no walk in the park. It is messy, excruciatingly painful, profoundly personal, and often terrifying. For too many people, like me, those wonderful descriptions start from the very beginning of the making of baby; injections and tests and scans and creepy instruments driven up one's hoo-hah, surgery-like procedures, pain, discomfort, and you might not even get a baby out of it all. At least with labor, you have a sweet chubby newborn to look forward to. Some women hop on this ride hoping it takes them where they need to go, and it drops them off, not in the beautifully oasis-like land of babies, diapers and late night feedings, but in the Barren desert; lonely, depressing, fruitless, and you have to navigate your way back to civilization and try again, hoping not to get lost this time. You're not the one driving though, but on a Grey Hound bus driven by fate or God Himself, pick your belief, and you have no control beyond stepping onboard and hoping for the best.

The reality of my situation: in two weeks time, I could be boarding that bus. My shaky hands anxiously shoving ovulation drugs into my body are the bumps on the road, with periods of smooth driving under the confident, reassuring hand of my cold-but-brilliant doctor gliding an ultrasound probe around in search of eggs. I fall asleep, dwelled into a state of twilight as she preforms the surgical tasks of either IUI or IVF, and what seems like weeks later (and is). the bus stops, and that pregnancy test states what my next destination will be; motherhood, or another round of this game. Thanks for playing, try again.

Much like a rookie, I am, despite being a very pessimistic person, overly confident that this process will be successful. It makes me feel ridiculous, the ladies I have bumped into on fertility support sites who claim they've been "ttc" (trying to conceive) for 3, 5, 7 years all experiencing what I'm about to, snickering "Boy is this kid naive! Don't hold your breath, girlfriend". Maybe it's because my doctor is so insanely self-confident in her ability to get me pregnant that she only says "When we get you pregnant", with no "if" in sight. Maybe I just have renewed faith in my own body's ability to preform womanly duties, as I write this, I just finished my 2nd unassisted menstrual cycle.

Maybe I am determined as ever to get to my desired destination of pregnancy. A force almost of a supernatural and unnatural to a cowardly me has risen up, and I am brave all of a sudden, prepared to fight this war against infertility with guns blazing, shrieking a battle cry, not fully knowing what I'm getting myself into, but willing to capture the flag of the enemy, or in this case, my child withheld from me for too long. He or she is waiting.

I'm ready.

Celebrate!

Well it took over a year, but I finally received something I have been praying for since I went off birth control. 

I wish I could say "A baby!" but nope, not the case, at least not yet. 

I think that on December 4th, I was the happiest woman ever to get her first natural menstrual cycle! Yay cramps! This happening means that A. it is the first cycle since I went off birth control over a year ago, and B. the first NATURAL cycle I have had since I stopped getting them at age 15 and was required to take bc to stay regular. 

10 years is a LONG time for my reproductive system to sleep, since you don't ovulate with the pill. And one year is enough to lose all faith in your body's ability to ovulate when you really truly believe there is no reason it shouldn't. They say you are your own worst enemy and BOOOOY, was I the biggest bully to myself! Not being able to perform a function my body, as a young female, should be able to do, terrified me and made me feel dysfunctional and less womanly. An expectant woman is to me one of the most beautiful things on this earth, so fruitful and natural, that I felt barren and stuck, unable to move forward to my goal of being one. 

I don't want to say that you have to ovulate or have a baby to feel womanly or be seen as womanly by me or anyone else (and if that were the case, you shouldn't care what I think anyway, because we all feel oriented to our sex in different ways, all perfectly good if they make us comfortable in our gender). Doing what the female body was most perfectly equipped to do, and failing to do so though? It's been a hard blow for me. 

Since moving to Omaha, I have been seeing a different psychiatrist in O-town's branch of doctor's that is associated with the ones I saw in my hometown. My new doctor listened to my woes of managing anxiety and depression, some of which was triggered by my strong desire to become pregnant. 

"Wait ... you're trying to get pregnant?" he asked. He looked over my chart, then said "You know, one of your meds may increase your prolactin hormone and trick your body into thinking your pregnant, and that might explain you having no cycle to speak of."

Eureka?

At this point, I had had a period with my Clomid, but had been told I could not continue since it thinned my lining, not something a gal who had a surgery like I did should have happen. I was in a tight spot: I didn't want to have to induce my cycle every month with hormones, but I didn't have the time to go in to several doctor's visits a month under other scary, more painful fertility options. What was I to do?

Warily, I accepted my doctor's suggestion to test my prolactin, and see if the hormone was high and if so, if the medication I was taking was responsible. 

A call the next day confirmed my prolactin was much higher than it should be, considering I wasn't pregnant or nursing, and my doctor started me on a plan that Halloween to decrease that medication slowly out of the picture, as there was no way the medication was not influencing the prolactin to increase. 

Over a month went by, and strangely, gradually, I experienced the same symptoms I felt before getting my period with Clomid. Hesitantly, I began to have faith that the gears in my body were starting to turn again, on their own terms. 

Lo and behold, I headed into the bathroom to find that I had, indeed, gotten my cycle, and the cramps/bloating confirmed it. I felt the same way I did when I got my very first period, like I had re-joined the female human race. 

What faith I had in myself at that very moment overwhelmed me, and the pessimistic, agonizing worry and fear that I would never get on track to get pregnant, or feel completely womanly again were washed away by a powerful tide of hope. I laid an egg! I could dust off that package of maxis from under the sink and USE them! I had cramps because my body was performing a womanly duty! I COULD do that womanly duty! And better yet, I had faith it would happen again. 

I honestly don't care when my next period comes (I have renewed faith it will come again though). What I rejoice is that I had one, that no, my body isn't dysfunctional, I should believe in it! Treat it with respect, take deep breaths, relax, and let nature do it's thing. All I can say is 

I LAID AN EGG! And it feels good. 

Furbabies and Clomid

It's been quite a while since I wrote last, I apologize. There has been a lot that has happened since my last post, allow me to catch you up on these last few months.

We found there were issues with both my husband and I fertility-wise. Hubby has been working to holistically improve his side of things, and I'm proud of him for it. We even went to a holistic treatment session, where we visited with a doctor about possible internal energies that might be messed up or running poorly or too strongly, which was very helpful and insightful.

In July, I underwent surgery to remove a uterine septum in my uterus, a large growth descending from the roof of the uterus, taking up space, and giving me a high probability of a miscarriage if I fell pregnant. This had me feeling a newfound luckiness that I hadn't fallen pregnant, only to experience the tragedy of a miscarriage, even if not being pregnant yet was discouraging.

 The surgery was a complete success, and I recovered quickly. I was told upon a post-op check-up that I wouldn't have to have it redone, thank goodness! Being my first surgery, you can imagine how nervous I was! Prior to the surgery, I debated whether or not I was brave enough to undergo treatment in the pre-op room, and went a little crazy, terrified about what might happen. I even thought for a second that perhaps this was a sign I was meant to adopt, and refused to go any further. But the shrill and beautiful cry of a brand new baby down the hall ( and a prayer session in the hospital bathroom with my mother) was the push I needed to go ahead, and I'm glad I did, because here's what happened on Monday:

I started fertility treatments. Yes, the dreaded treatments, but at least I got my OBGYN on my side. My RE really pushed the envelope to have me do all sorts of medically invasive procedures and shots, including IVF and IUI. Feeling in my heart that it might not yet be necessary, that I believed my husband's side of things had improved greatly, and learning that it is best to go with least invasive first, I requested we start with oral medication as opposed to shots. She, wanting to keep her perfect rating of successful pregnancies, refused. So I called my OB, and he agreed to three months of Clomid treatment, which would hopefully jump-start my ovaries into finally ovulating, giving us a fair chance at pregnancy.

Upon reading the side effects, I dearly wished I didn't have to take it. Not only could the drug work against our efforts (it can thin the lining in the uterus, making it less fertile, and diminish the cervical fluid, needed to transport sperm) but the side effects included ovarian cysts (when tissue surrounding an egg fills up with fluid into a painful blister of sorts that can be dangerous) and blurred vision, were scary and not anything I really wanted to even risk getting.

So far, the medication appears to be affecting me, with mild cramping in the ovaries, but thankfully, not much more than that. The real test will start from this Saturday through the end of next week, as the cysts only occur during that ovulation period. Prayers would be appreciated!

At least my motherly yearning have been satisfied momentarily. Last month, we adopted an adorable apricot-colored labradoodle named Rayne. She is our fuzzy baby, and I love her so much. She is my little shadow, and we love to snuggle, play fetch and be outside together. That little face brings me so much joy, and knowing how much she unconditionally loves me is beautiful to the point that it brings me to tears. As if I don't have enough mood swings!

This month is the first of three opportunities for us to, in the most comfortable way, bring a child into our world. Our fingers, toes, arms and legs are crossed, and we pray for a little miracle to join our family of three. Here's hoping!

A little one sleeps

There is a little one sleeping in our nursery room right now.

She isn't our little one, but our goddaughter, over for a visit while her parents and siblings go to a movie. Even though she isn't ours, it makes my heart happy to have a child in that room.

I wasn't thrilled with the idea of having our "future nursery" as we call it turned into a temporary storage room. As the boxes piled up, and the room became crowded, it became more difficult envisioning a crib, a changing table, and a rocking chair by the window overseeing the cornfield, the view from that window being a strong reason why I choose it to house our future munchkin.

It has been almost 7 months, and no luck on falling pregnant. Lots of doctors appointments, stressing over missing work to schedule bloodwork, popping medication meant to adjust my body to prepare it for pregnancy, and miserable side effects of those medications have made things especially difficult.

Plus side? I've lost almost 25 pounds from that nausea/stomach upset due to the Metformin. And I am alert for work since I set my alarm an hour before I have to get up to take my thyroid medication (which must be taken 30-60 minutes before I eat breakfast).

Tomorrow, I'm seeing a reproductive endocrinologist. B/c my body insists on being lazy and refuses to give me a monthly cycle (which I haven't unassisted by medication since I was 15). B/c my endocrinologist was baffled that the cocktail of medication she gave me didn't restore my cycle, at the very least. B/c I'm about to lose my mind with no results.

I picked up a book called "A few good eggs" about infertility, and they said one of the last steps a person takes to get pregnant is seeing a RE. I remember reading that book all those months ago, and dreading, worrying, agonizing over the idea that I would ever have to resort to an RE for help, . I am terrified of injecting myself with hormones. I don't want to undergo the expense and pain of IVF and IUI. If it's necessary, I will, and I hate to sound snobby, but I don't want it to come to that.

One thing that has possibly affected my progress is that my anxiety disorder came back with a vengeance after being off the medication for 6 months. Now that I'm back on it, and feeling like my old self again, perhaps things will go back to normal?

I can only hope.