Gone, but Not Forgotten!

Hi, all. Forgive me; I know I haven't posted here in ages. In the interest of full disclosure, I have another blog that is aimed at the infertility/loss community more than at family and friends, and I've been posting there, but have been downright lazypants about transferring over here the parts that would be of interest to you all. So I'm going to do some copying and pasting now, which will all go back into the past, because I think what I've written will make the most sense if I link it to the date when I wrote it. Stay tuned!

Lyrical Friday

My commute this morning took me a record 98 minutes in rainy, messy weather. With plenty of time at my disposal, I explored several listening options: NPR, audio book (Knives at Dawn, about the 2009 Bocuse d’Or cooking competition), and then music. I busted out the Indigo Girls’ Nomads Indians Saints, an awesome album and an underrated one, in my opinion. These lyrics jumped out at me from the end of the song “Hand Me Downs” and I wanted to share:

Give me hope, give me hope

That emptiness brings fullness

And loss of love brings wholeness

To us all

I am hoping precisely that. Sending all of you weekend love.

Good, but Not *That* Good

When I was two-and-a-half, I complained repeatedly that I had something in my eye. My folks, seeing nothing there, took me to the eye doctor, and it turned out that I needed glasses. Actually, at first they patched my stronger right eye in order to strengthen the weaker left one, *plus* gave me glasses. Yes, I was a child pirate.

When I was seventeen, I found a book on my psychology-major brother’s bookshelf, and within its pages read descriptions that reminded me of me. I took it in to my therapist (therapy was a required component of my training to be an adult New Yorker), and with her help, determined that some ways I had been feeling for years could be helped by anti-depressants.

Now I’m thirty-two, and I thought that maybe I had once again triumphed in self-diagnosis. Because, hey, if I got pregnant with Clomid (third cycle) and progesterone (first cycle), and Clomid can thin your lining, and I miscarried, and thin lining can lead to miscarriage, then maybe progesterone alone was the key to sustaining a pregnancy! Not so much. Or, at least, not the first time around. And in my impatient world, one cycle is decisive. Which is ridiculous, because if one cycle were enough to know anything about anything, then we would have stopped trying sometime early last winter. And that would have been utterly unreasonable.

So, while I may have been a toddler ophthalmologist and a teenage psychiatrist, I am not a thirty-something RE. Go figure. And, in fact, I’m thinking about going back to Clomid, in part because, well, I’m sort of afraid. Afraid that even everyone else who is struggling is going to get pregnant and leave me behind, snarky and barren, spending entire school years conjugating irregular verbs with middle-schoolers because I haven’t earned any maternity leave. Wow, that sounds bleak. I know it’s not a race, I know it, and yet…who wants to be last?

Saying Goodbye

This is a poor-quality photo I took of a photo of my grandparents. I’m guessing it’s from their 60th wedding anniversary party, in 2003. They were quite a pair. We lost my grandmother, Granbea, in 2007, after a two-year bout with lung cancer, and now, depending on what you believe, they’re together again. At the very least, they’re buried next to each other. I don’t know what I believe, other than that I’m honored to have known them.

A lot has happened, and so, if you can forgive it, the bullet points:

- Papa’s memorial service was really lovely. My mom, aunt, dad, brother, and cousin gave variously touching and funny speeches about him.

- I said a few impromptu words about how there was a lot of lucky associated with my grandfather for me–that I felt lucky to have known him, that he gave me my mother and aunt, that he and my grandmother had each other, the way he would always pull us aside when we visited them or they us, to let us know how lucky we all were to be able to spend time together. And then I said it: how sad I was that N’s and my children would never meet Papa. Totally broke down on that one. A lot of it was the sadness and disappointment of not having gotten on that kid-bound road yet for keeps. My close family knew the whole of where my sorrow came from, while those not familiar with our story took the words more at face value–I hope that’s not wrong.

- There was some military fanfare at the burial, because Papa was in the Marines. They played taps, folded up the flag and presented it to my mom and aunt, and did a however-many gun salute. We’re not a big military family, and so this was really impressive to all of us! Papa would have been so proud.

- I got to meet a bunch of old friends of my grandparents’, and hear some great stories about my grandfather that I’d never heard before. Neat.

- Already-planned pre-Yom Kippur meal and post-Yom Kippur break-fast + what family friends brought over while we were sitting shiva = soooo much food. Jews know how to comfort, that’s for sure.

- I went to Yizkor, the Yom Kippur afternoon memorial service, with my mom. Another blogger helped remind me that this is a time to remember all those we have lost, and so I was glad to have the opportunity to give some special thoughts to the baby who was within me all too briefly.

- I went on an outlet-shopping extravaganza today, in hopes of stocking up on clothes for work, which I was sorely lacking. Those of you in my metropolitan area may be familiar with Woodbury Common, a behemoth of a…what do you even call it? A microuniverse? I did a decent job–and definitely got some good deals–but the battle is not yet over. Beautiful day, though; I caught some rays as I strolled from one store to another.

And now, bedtime, and the start of my first five-day work week at New Job. I’ll leave you with a sideways photo of some of Granbea and Papa’s silver, with which we set the table for Friday-night dinner (posting from my phone means I’m not sure how to rotate the photo).

Sorry for the delay...

Written yesterday, editing and posting this morning:

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. I meant to write yesterday, and then this morning, but I just never got around to it. We lost my grandfather yesterday afternoon. I’m so very glad that N, my brother, and I were able to go up and see him last weekend. My mother was also able to make it up on Sunday night, so it seems as though everyone got to say their goodbyes. Or, maybe more accurately, everyone got to say what they wanted Papa to be in the presence of their saying. I’m going up to Papatown tomorrow, the funeral is in the afternoon, and the family will be sitting shiva Friday and Sunday, Saturday being Yom Kippur. Silver lining? Well, I suppose there are a few. My grandfather was a great guy who loved and was loved by his family a lot, and lived a long life: he was 90 when he passed away. So what we’re looking at, while sad because it’s the end of an era, is really just an example of the cycle of life. I’m sad that he’ll never get to meet any great-grandchildren N and I would have provided. But it was his time. Really, though, the silver lining I was thinking of (yes, this is petty) is the fact that I will be missing Back to School Night tomorrow night, when parents come and sit in the teachers’ classrooms and we make presentations on our curriculum and expectations. Looking forward to not having to be at work until 8:30 PM, and therefore home at 9:30, and I always get nervous before meeting parents at a new school. So there’s that.

It’s Thursday now, and we’re on our way north. I send you all hugs and will have time to be in a little closer touch over the next few days.

Before my 4th-graders arrive...

…I only have a few minutes to write, but I’ll try and make this a quickie.

The weekend was really hard, as you may have gathered from my Saturday-morning post. Felt low, numb, overwhelmed, sad, had little appetite…the light had just kind of gone out. I was afraid that N was going to tire of me, because I was tired of being that way myself, and on the whole, so very tired. This is what happens when you don’t eat much. I told Doc Chinatown how I was feeling and started taking the little black balls of herbality he gave me as a result, and e-mailed Brit-therapist a couple times Saturday to let her know how I was feeling. I perked up somewhat on Friday and Saturday evenings (I decided this was because at night, it’s finally socially acceptable to feel as tired as I had been all day, and so I could stop fighting so hard to feel and seem right), but last night not so much. (4th-graders have come and gone; I continue writing, because I am required to be here until 4:20, even though I only teach until 3. Planning, shmanning; let’s blog!)

Yesterday, N and I went up north to have brunch with my brother and his family. I continued to feel mostly like a shell of myself. My brother knew I had been feeling crappy, and so he was understanding, but still. After we arrived, he told us that my grandfather, Papa, who lives farther north still, had taken another turn for the worse (this after a recent turn that meant he was staying mostly in the upstairs of his house with his caretakers and hospice nurses) and that our mom was on her way up to be with him. Initially, we had all planned to head up to Papatown, where my mom’s sister and her brood also live, for Yom Kippur, but suddenly it wasn’t even clear that Papa would last that long. And so after brunch yesterday, my brother, N, and I drove up to Papatown to see him. Papa was in bed, on a lot of drugs after the five seizures he’d had earlier in the day (five!), somewhere between knocked-out and asleep. We talked to him, told him we loved him and how lucky we were to have him as our grandfather, gave him a footrub as he was always cajoling us to when we were younger, and were sad to see him like that. A shorter version of the longer story is that Papa has a growth on his pancreas, but my mom and aunt decided not to put him through all that treatment would entail. He’s 90, and it just didn’t seem like a kind thing to do. So the focus now is on keeping him comfortable.

Anyway…I woke up this morning, and immediately knew that I felt better. Interestingly, my temperature had also finally gone back down lower than it’s been since I last ovulated. Prometrium, were you really fucking with me for a whole week after we parted ways? You sly bitch. I’m praying that I continue feeling like myself forevermore, because for most of these last few days, I’ve barely recognized myself, and that makes me so sad.

What melts my heart is the way N dealt with me and how I was feeling. I told him that I was afraid I would drive him away, which felt to shriveled-up version of me like a very real possibility. That my sorrow and un-funness would break that camel’s back and he would move on to greener pastures. Last night, after we left Papatown, as we were driving home from my brother's house, N said to me: “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about worrying that I would leave you. People get sick, and their spouses take care of them. They don’t do it alone, but they pick up the slack. You’re sick right now; something’s wrong with Pumpkin, and we’re going to get it figured out.” Tears are welling up in my eyes as I type this. I finally got that I didn’t have to do this alone. I feel blessed beyond blessed. Did I mention that N has a master’s in social work? That doesn’t hurt either. Anyway, as we were talking, he suggested that maybe we should stop trying to conceive for now, stop stressing and measuring and timing and graphing and estimating and pill-popping. I said out loud for the first time that I’m not sure that a route to parenthood that involves pumping myself full of hormones is going to work for me. I just don’t know if I can handle it. If that makes me weak, then I’m weak. I think it just makes me me. It may be that other hormones will have different effects. It may be that going back to micronized progesterone, 100mg twice a day, will be better for my body and mind than Prometrium, 200mg once a day. Or it may be that it’s either going to be au naturel, a surrogate, or adoption. We have a lot to talk about and think about. And N seems on board to consider all options. Love that guy.

Okay, I’ll be let out of my pen soon. I’ll post this for now and maybe add something on that I dictate in the car. Thanks for reading; it’s good to be back.

Saturday morning

I had a major baby dream last night. I guess I had been just a little pregnant–-not very far along-–and right after someone else had had a baby (maybe my cousin?), I suddenly popped out twins. It was somehow a relevant part of the dream that I had a fairly flat tummy just after giving birth, because it had been such a short pregnancy and my belly had never gotten big.

I started to dictate a post on the way home from school yesterday, but the text got erased. Grr, guess I need some practice. But here’s what I was going to say: teaching-wise, yesterday went pretty well. It was an effort to keep my eyes open during my drive to school, which was terrifying. My commute feels like this great big empty, and I don’t know what to do with it. And mornings on the whole are really tough: I just feel really lonely. From the time I wake up at 6:15 until homeroom at 8:25, I’m by myself. I’m sure this is true for lots of you, and maybe it doesn’t bother you, or you even like it, but I’m a sensitive one where loneliness is concerned.

So on the whole, mornings are feeling tougher than evenings. Yesterday afternoon and evening, I felt pretty fully functional, we had dinner chez some friends (how do you punctuate this? some friends’ house?) and I made dessert. This morning, I feel much lower, and there’s no commute ahead of me. More dread. More stirred-up digestive processes (is that euphemistic enough?). I might go back to sleep (around 9:20am here), but then I might just have to deal with the waking-up angst again later. Sigh.

So Much for That

Oh, I am so not out of the woods yet. Feeling hopeless, can’t eat much, and sad sad sad. Shit. Could this be symptomatic of coming off progesterone, even if I stopped it several days ago? I need hugs.

Beginning Again

Got my period this morning, after a marathon 38-day, no-baby cycle. And while my commute went on sucking (by way of taking 20 minutes longer this morning than yesterday morning), school itself is getting better. I’m starting to love my [8th-grade] homeroom. Had some great conversation at lunch with a couple of 8th-graders. I saw my 6th-graders for the first time today, and at the end of the class, a couple of the kids said: “You’re such a nice teacher!” Melted my heart. This was before another kid, who has some learning difficulties, said: “I probably missed a lot of that because you kept speaking French.” I love 6th grade. And I talked to a couple of colleagues in the afternoon, and they were really lovely. So yay.

I ended up changing yesterday’s acupuncture appointment to today, because I didn’t have time to make it there and to therapy, which isn’t movable. Therapy was good, in that it was an opportunity for me use a bajillion tissues and let out how crappy I was feeling, but it didn’t feel as though it changed a whole lot. I was still freaked-out about my new, faraway job to which I didn’t yet feel any connection (what’s that? no connection after one day??). Brit-therapist suggested that I was really feeling upset about the baby situation, and that that was coloring everything else. She’s not wrong. Heck, she’s pretty much never wrong. But nonetheless, I had little appetite last night or this morning. (I’m happy to say that Little Appy has made a comeback this evening, thank goodness.) N had also committed to be out last night, which sucked. I got home around 8 and didn’t have the time or inclination to go with him.

So acupuncture was today. I told Dr. Chinatown that I was pretty stressed about my new job, and he added a couple needles and took one away. And, for whatever reason, I had ideas while I was on the table about ways to improve my commute. And I left feeling good. And I still feel good. Doesn’t hurt that we have the day off tomorrow and the next day is Friday. And that N and I have spent tonight lying in bed with the pups, eating takeout and watching TV. What are the amelioration ideas, you ask? Is amelioration even an English word? Well, the first one won’t work: I was hoping to find a way to take the train out toward work every day, and then just commute from the train station to school. But even trying to search for different train stations in all directions from where I work–nothing gets in at the right time.

The second idea, though, might really be something. I have all this time in the car, when I can’t really do anything, and very little time to blog. Then I remembered the Dragon dictation app for the iPhone, which has a voice recognition doohickey, and which would allow me, I think, to compose blog posts while I drive! What comes out won’t be perfect, but it does a pretty good job. So...prepare for some wacky commuting prose!

L’Shana Tova to all the Jews, and a sweet, happy, healthy New Year for everyone who could use a new beginning.

Flight Risk

I don’t even know where to start. It’s the first day of teaching at my new school, and I really want to go home at the end of today and never come back. On Tuesday mornings, I have five classes back-to-back, two of which mercifully didn’t meet today, because of the opening assembly and other such activities. At my last school, I had two back-to-back classes twice a week, and it was trying, because I had to prepare for both at once. But five?! And when I think about the fact that I was supposed to be having a baby at the end of February, so that I would only have to deal with this insanity for part of the year, it’s really difficult to keep the tears from rolling. Let’s be honest: it’s difficult regardless.

On top of that, it’s day 38 of this cycle, I haven’t taken progesterone for the past three nights, and I still don’t have my period. What’s going on, insides?

I want to go home, snuggle up with N, and have it be summer again. To not have any responsibilities or any stupid commute, and to just be able to breathe.

Tonight’s therapy. And acupuncture. Blessed be.

Wherein I Burst into Flames

Okay, I think this pretty much decides it. On CD35, at 16dpo, there's no one in there, and so it's time to move on. No reason I can think of to be essentially rolling up four one-dollar bills and suppositorizing them every night, since it's only, if anything, holding off the period that will allow us to get going again. And while keeping up the Prometrium might stave off my period over this weekend, I don't have much attachment to that. I'd rather get the starting out of the way than suddenly begin bleeding unexpectedly in the middle of school next week.

Weird detail about today: one of my highest temps ever, 98.75°. Wackadoo.

So, for this next cycle, Clomid or no Clomid? I have such mixed feelings, as it featured in the cycle when I finally did get pregnant, but may also have led to a thinned lining that may have led to my miscarriage. All theoretical, all things I've said before. Dr. Chinatown said Clomid was fine by him, for what that's worth. Mostly, I'm excited to start my first full cycle of acupuncture and herbs; I can hardly expect TCM to have worked its magic on a cycle that was partly out of its hands. Hoping there's something to all that...The tea's not so bad anymore, by the way; it's amazing what you can get used to.

Before I take off, wanted to share a pic with you of a painting I saw at a gallery last week. N and I have been looking for art, and this one was part of a big ol' sale and seemed as though it would be perfect for a baby's room:

Cracks me up.

Known-ing Is Half the Battle

This was one of the signs planted along the security line at the airport this afternoon, and as it just about made my day, I thought I'd share it with you all. I'm going to resist the temptation to make snarky comments, so as to avoid being perceived as a security threat (because clearly the FAA is reading my blog in real time), but I think this is hilarious.

Anyway...as I've mentioned previously, I started a new job this week, teaching French to grades 4-9 at a school in a less-urban area about an hour's drive away. It seems like a good, solid school, and everyone's been nicer than nice, but I'm anxious about getting started and being back in the classroom after our year abroad and early wake-ups and long, unpredictable drives and and and and. I'm a champion anticipatrix, and while I know intellectually that the worry is always worse than the real thing, it still inevitably rattles me.

Being the new girl again is one of the major bummers. I started teaching full-time in 2005, and this is the fourth school I've taught in. Numbers one and three were maternity-leave replacement positions, and at number two, they decided to replace French with Mandarin at the end of my year there, due to low enrollment and a desire to impress parents (that last part being my interpretation). So I know from being new. I'm good at playing that game, but it's lonely not being known. It's been a rough last few days, and I've wished there were someone at school who knew what was going on. Although my department head, who is dearness itself, does actually know (I felt I should tell her I was dropping one of my summer classes, and since she had been such an unequivocal love since the first time we met, I also told her why I'd dropped it. Turns out she's miscarried twice herself...), and it was all I could do to contain my emotions during our first department meeting on Wednesday, the day of my 13dpo BFN. Sometimes it's easier to maintain the illusion of normalcy when no one knows what's going on, but on the whole, I'd prefer to have my story out there. Is that weird? Not in the weekly e-mail bulletin to parents or anything (if there even is such a thing), but as I get to know people a little, our current endeavors and frustrations seem an important piece of the puzzle. There was a cocktail party at the headmaster's house yesterday evening, and in the course of my conversations with some of my lovely colleagues, I opened the window to that [large] section of my heart a couple times, and that felt like a relief. It's just a process, making my way in this new environment. Oh, transition, you are a wily, prickly mistress. Or, as some great women once said (name that high-quality television programming), a prostitution whore.

So what I wanted to say is that, as I'm going through all this adjustment and commuting and BFSuckyNs, I'm really grateful for you all, folks who do know this very important part of me that really needs knowing right now. Many thanks and hugs for that.

I tested again on Thursday, at 14dpo, and it was again negative, of course. Temps still up, still no period. I feel as though I should maybe stop the Prometrium (at $4 a pill), but then again, maybe I should wait for the bleed to begin? I e-mailed my RE to ask him, forgetting to include which CD it was and how many dpo, and he responded saying I should wait until at least CD30 (already past) to discontinue it, and then asked if maybe we could e-mail less, now that I'm back in the country and could call and speak to his nurses instead. Cue me blushing.

Oh, and by the way, one of my bridesmaids is getting married this weekend (hence the airportiness) and one of my people of honor (the other being my brother) told me yesterday that she and her longtime beau are eloping over New Year's. Will they both have babies before I do?

Happy holiday weekend, Americans, and happy weekend to everyone else. Wear your white shoes while you still can!

"There does not appear to be a baby in these tests."

I woke up at 5:45 this morning, 45 minutes before my alarm, and decided to just take my temperature and get up and pee. Temp was a cycle-high 98.34°, and once I jotted the number down, I woke N up, as he said he wanted me to when it was pee time. I love this man. And so I peed, a little bit in a cup for my cheap-but-sensitive dipstick, and then the rest on an e.p.t. And both tests...were negative. Nothing. Sigh.

I still have not yet gotten my period (I cannot get myself to refer to it as Aunt Flo, or even her initials, unless commenting on someone's blog who calls it that, so do forgive the uneuphemistic nomenclature). A dear friend who miscarried last year before conceiving her beautiful daughter told me recently that her first cycle back was extremely long, and that she wished her doctor had told her ahead of time that that might happen, so that she could have stopped wondering if she were pregnant. Seems as though that's where I am. As you all have told me, 13dpo is a good time for testing, and so it looks like no baby this month.

N sent me a text after he got up later in the morning, saying: "I had a dream that one of the pregnancy tests changed to positive after you left. Actually it notified me by email. Very high tech." And that made me sad. He really wants this, too. Which I knew, but this made it more concrete; his dreams were creeping into his dreams.

So...don't know where that leaves me. Waiting again, I guess. I was really hopeful this month. No particular reason, but it felt good for a little while. Thank you all for your kindness and positivity. I think I'm going to go drive home and cry.

Every couple hours, another moment of truth.

This was the joke in mid-June when I was visiting friends in London. I was with them from CD30-CD33, and when we went to the movies one afternoon, on CD31 or so, I commented that every trip to the bathroom, every wipe, was another moment of truth. What would I see this time? I had promised N not to test until we were back in Paris together, and so while Londonfriends tried to cajole me into buying a test, I held out. And I was glad I did, because N and I got to share our own BFP (big fat positive) moment that belonged only to us.

So here I am again, CD31, wiping and wondering, wishing and wanting, visiting the ladies' room regularly, both out of curiosity and because I genuinely have to pee. Nothing yet...

Forty-Eight Hours

So, first thing's first: the Fickle Fertilibitch moved my O-day back to CD19, which means I was 9dpo both Friday and Saturday, and re-dotted my coverline, for whatever reason. This means a few things: that my recommended test date isn't until Wednesday, rather than tomorrow, and, most importantly, that my estimated due date, if I were, magically, to be pregnant right now, is no longer 20 year to the day after my bat mitzvah. And that, my friends, is a travesty.

I also peed on a stick last night. At 10dpo, it was probably too early, but only one line appeared. I shouldn't have done it so soon, but curiosity got the best of me. I need to not do that if I can help myself.

But I guess the good news is that I have not yet begun to bleed. And so, this being CD30, I know that this is not a 29-day cycle. But the Prometrium keeps me from having much of an idea as to when I might have a period if I'm going to, and so the wait continues.

We went to the theatre on Friday night, and saw a show in which there was an unplanned young-people's pregnancy early on. As the couple snuggled on the couch, having decided to be excited about the adventure headed their way, tears began to fall down my cheeks. This was not intended to be a sad moment. And yet, I was so damn envious of them, of that dreamy, cuddled-up time together, that I couldn't hold it in. N and I had just under 48 hours of this bliss, from the Monday night, June 21, after I came back from choir rehearsal, when we got our BFP, until late Wednesday afternoon, June 23, when I started spotting in the port-a-potty at the FIFA Fanfest, where we were watching the World Cup. The spotting wasn't itself a death sentence for the pregnancy, or at least we didn't know that it was when it started, and my betas doubled a couple times the following week, but that Wednesday was when the worry began. I'm so sad for the brevity of our unadulterated delight--my eyes brim with tears to think about it now.

I'm reminded of the spring of 2007, when Paddington, our first dog, age two-and-a-half, devoured a bag of chocolate chips without our knowledge. He was a little guy--only about 15 lbs--and this was 12 oz of semisweet chocolate. As soon as we realized what had happened, we rushed him to the emergency vet. We went to sleep that night having been told that he was on the upswing, that it seemed everything was going to be all right. And then my cellphone rang in the middle of the night, and the vet techs told us that Paddington had taken a turn for the worse. For those few hours, we had been able to sleep, secure in his improvement, and then it all came crashing down. The next day, his organs successively stopped functioning, and we had to put our little boy to sleep. Loss is tragic in any form, but thinking you're out of the woods, whether due to rising betas or a vet's reassurance, and then discovering that your optimism was misguided...that's really rough.

Tea Zone

Here are some things that are true/I know today that weren't/I didn't yesterday:

1. Unless something changes in the next 12 hours, I am not in the midst of a 26-day cycle. Not particularly conclusive as far as what I *am* in the midst of, but it's a start. Non-pregnant cycles since I stopped bcp last October have been 25-31 days.

2. What once was broken is now whole. Yeah, I'm just talking about my coverline. But it does make things feel a little more definite. 9dpo--are we there yet?

And now, about the tea. If you/I thought I was going overboard with the coupla cupsa double-bag raspberry leaf per day, we simply lacked perspective. As I mentioned yesterday, I went to an acupuncturist last afternoon. This guy, whom we'll call Dr. Chinatown, as he is, in fact, an M.D., has been written up as a pretty significant baby-conjurer. N saw him several years back for a sports injury, and so called to get me an appointment. Dr. C was super cute and very nice, and prescribed some pills, tea, and twice- to thrice-weekly needlings through week 16 of an eventual pregnancy. He's open until 7 during the week and during the day on the weekends, and so this ought to be doable. That tea, on the other hand. Yowsa. It looks fairly innocuous, right? Twice a day, one packet of herbs with 3-4 oz hot water. Add honey if desired. Stir, wait for it to cool enough, and drink everything. Sounds reasonable, but that stuff tastes like ARSE! Soooo bitter. Especially the tar at the bottom. I'm going back for more poking tomorrow and am going to see whether I'm allowed to add more water so it's a little less powerful. Dr. C also said I should drink one glass of whole milk a day until I get pregnant. That's pretty antithetical too all my usual liquid dairy choices, but I'm going to seek out a Lactaid version and get to it. And also ask whether it's okay to add the milk to my coffee and put it on my cereal, rather than just downing it straight. I hadn't initially thought that we would pursue acupuncture and Traditional Chinese Medicine as our next step, rather than IUI or injectables, but I'm very comfortable with the idea. I like that we're taking action, without its falling under the heading of Things for Which We Are Not Yet Ready.

And now, to send you off into the weekend, two more reconstructed post-Yogi teabag tab-isms:

• You never have to prove your strength. Saweet!
• Speak if you want your wish fulfilled. Oh yeah? Will do.

Twofer

Well, fancy that. All I have to do is keep waking up at 8ish a.m. to take my temp and recording the results, and the Frenemy does all the dirty work on the space-time continuum. I dutifully entered this morning's data a few minutes ago, and just like that (snap), my ovulation day moved one earlier and I was *two* more dpo than I foolishly thought I was yesterday, before

FF set me straight. It's giving me a test date of the 31st, which is to say next Tuesday, my second day at my new job. Unlike many ladies-in-waiting, I do not automatically test every month, but I guess that if it becomes CD31 and I have not begun to bleed, I will find me a stick to pee on. I waited until CD34 last time, knowing that the progesterone suppositories could have lengthened my cycle, as my doc had told me, 0-3 days, and also because N and I were traveling separately from CD30-34 or so. Anyway...it's only CD26 today, and so this is all premature. Trying to be hopeful and protect my heart all at once; it's a tricky tightrope to walk.

Yesterday's visit with Dr. L. I am pleased to report that he is infinitely chattier in person than he is over e-mail (as any speaking human would really have to be). As we suspected, 6dpo is way too early to test for pregnancy...but what if he had known that it was truly *7*dpo?...He offered us several options of how to proceed, as well as his estimate of our chances of success with each. They look something like this:

1. Continue doing what we're doing (screwing + Prometrium): 3%

2. Clomid + screwing + Prometrium: 5%

3. Clomid + IUI: 13%

4. Injectables + screwing: 18%

5. Injectables + IUI: 20%

N was trying to get a handle on the basis for these numbers: do they apply to couples who have been trying the amount of time that we have? Women who, like me, have a short luteal phase without outside intervention, but a normally shaped uterus and plenty of eggs? Women who got pregnant once already? Who scour the internet for cute/funny t-shirts, but don't shave their legs as often as they might? It just seems as though there are so many variables; how could everything be so cut-and-dried?

I don't know what we were expecting--that Dr. L would take out his pompoms and cheer us on, tell us we're doing great and not to change a thing? I know intellectually the things that we struggling conceivers might potentially need to do if we want to be parents. And yet...N and I have not really opened ourselves to the possibility that that may be us (I know, grammarkids, that it's technically "that may be we," but I don't know if there's a parking spot available outside this nail salon for the Dorkmobile to come and pick me up). Maybe this shouldn't be surprising. I did believe, after all, when I was very young, that my family was too good for chicken pox. The day the Lower School principal came into my art class to tell me my older brother had gone home with it was a big-time disillusioning wakeup call. I was six. So medical denial and I are acquainted. N and I both aren't quite ready for IUI or injectables yet, but on the other hand, what are we waiting for? I felt like maybe Dr. L thought we weren't serious about wanting a baby when we balked at immediately pressing forward with more invasive treatment options, but N didn't see it that way at all. Guess I'm a little sensitive. Along those same lines, I left with the sense that the likelihood of there currently being a pre-baby inside me had decreased as a direct result of this consult, and I'm not sure that's scientifically possible.

So...yeah. Turns out that Dr. L's office can do genetic testing in-house, and we were about to get that party started yesterday, until we found out that, without insurance, the "Ashkenazi panel" (go, Jews!) would cost $1000-2000. So it may not come as a surprise that we're going to wait on all that until after our insurance kicks in. N is also going to go in for a(n) SA in the near future.

And now, for a change...we wait.

Oh, and now that I'm out of the aforementioned nail salon (and also just went and got acupuncture and scads of pills and herbs to brew), I give you...my toes!

I was excited at finally being able to get a light, froufrou color, which I haven't in over a year, because I dropped half a pingpong table on my left foot in May of 2009 (about two weeks

before competing in a triathlon) and had ugly toenail bruises to cover up. There was actually a color on offer called "It's a Girl!" and I was tempted, but figured I'll go for that one after I'm actually confirmably pregso. Which will be...

...when, exactly?

D(octor)-Day: complete with baffling changes in font size!

La la la, still waiting. My temp wasn’t as high this morning as it has been the last couple days, but it was still high enough for Fertility Frenemy to draw a dotted coverline (dotted lest the rise in temperature turn out to be due only to the Prometrium, as studies have shown that fewer lawsuits result from broken than from solid lines) and declare me 6dpo today. I found last night that I was catching whiffs of things that N wasn’t, and entertained myself with a reminder that pregnant ladies have more sensitive noses.

This afternoon is our appointment with Dr. L, the fancypants RE whom we last saw in March, when we were visiting from Paree, and with whom I have been exchanging generally helpful, but dry-as-dust (on his part) e-mails since then. I have no idea what today will hold, nor even what to want from the meeting. I guess a SA would be nice, as our home test measured only motility, I think, and not numbers or morphology. As I’ve mentioned before, the timing is a little odd, it being CD25 and all, but I figured that if there were an opportunity to see him before I start work on Monday, all the better. Is it possible he would do a beta test? Is there any chance of a positive at 6dpo? Seems pretty early to me, but I’m not the one with the M.D.

So now that I’m quite sure I’ve exhausted the entire repertoire of Yogi tea words-to-live-by, I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. And so I took all the Yogigems I have read thus far, and from those words, am creating my own: the affirmations I wish were on the tabs of my teabags. A couple to send you forth into your day:

• Your intuition is simply never wrong. Why thank you.
• Swim unconsciously through the impossible. Don’t mind if I do.

And, to balance out that light, airy feeling, a ridiculous sandwich that N ordered the other night (the photo of which came out a little yellower than I’d like):

What we were assuming was a (fried mozzarella) sandwich was, in fact, a fried (mozzarella sandwich)--using the distributive property. Regardless, damn tasty--I had a bite.

And, from the annals of my own consumption, a drink I had last night, called the Sloe & Low. Yum, and oh, so purdy (sorry the pic is a little blurry):

Gin, Maraschino, sloe gin, lemon juice, fresh raspberries and blackberries

Paging Dr. Freud...

I've noticed in the last year or so--although I suppose it's always been true--that my verbal autopilot is crap. If I begin a sentence and my mind wanders partway through, it may not end the way I intended. And so it happened, when I started out attempting to let Nick know that our littler pup wasn't interested in the Flagyl we were giving her to clear up some diarrhea, I heard myself saying: "Winnie really was not up for taking her Clomid." After the last word left my mouth, I just laughed and laughed. I am, as it happens, the most fertile female in my household, as both Winnie and Kitten have been fixed, and so Clomid wouldn't do Queen Floppyears much good. But oy, where my mind goes! Got a kick out of that.

This weekend was fabulous. We spent it with three of my cousins, their two husbands and one boyfriend (one of the above per cousin), their two sons and one daughter, plus their one dog and our two. Plus an aunt and two uncles who arrived in town on Sunday. Cute kids, great conversations with people I adore whom I hadn't seen in over a year, and just plain old ease, love, and support. Sigh. I'm a lucky girl.

A photo to share:

No joke, one of the listed possible side effects for Prometrium is "worry." Not anxiety, not mood swings, just *worry*. Seems almost quaint, doesn't it?

Oh, and my temp this morning was up 0.59° from yesterday's. Guess I'll have to find something else to *worry* about (dammit, Prometrium liner-notes-writer, you caught me!).

Let the Wait Begin

For your viewing pleasure, yesterday morning's opk. I think I more or less caught the surge. Hooray! I took a second test in the afternoon, and the second line (on the left) wasn’t as dark. So…there we have it. Yesterday was CD18 already, and my cycles aren’t generally all that long–between 25 and 31 days since we started ttc–so hopefully the Prometrium Dr. L’s office prescribed will add a couple more days on the end of my luteal phase and give this a chance. We shall see...

CD15

Today's opk: not too impressive. Maybe a little trace of a second line?

Last night and this afternoon's pearls of wisdom from the tabs of my Yogi raspberry leaf teabags:

- If you unconsciously live a conscious life, you can never be poor. What?

- If your word does not reflect your spirit and honor, do not speak. I'm down with that.

- Let your manners speak, your deeds prove and your delivery impress. [shrug]

- You must know that you can swim through every change of tide. Word.

Really, though, who needs a baby when you have this?

And, in closing, my mom's best friend's daughter is pregnant. Due nine days before I would have been. But, you know, who's counting? Sigh.

Still hungry?

Okay, here's one more, a chocolate raspberry clafoutis I made Tuesday night to bring in to my French Gastronomy and Table Customs class yesterday. Because I needed something to do instead of preparing the presentation I was supposed to give yesterday afternoon for 30% of my grade:

The classic dessert is really no place for chocolate, but this recipe combined a lot of ingredients we had at home and an encouraging rating on Epicurious.

Oh, so I dropped my progesterone suppository script off at the pharmacy last night, and they called a little while ago to let me know it was going to cost $200 without insurance, and did I still want it? Seriously, I think it may have cost 20€ in Paris for a month's worth; if I could work it out, it would probably still be cheaper to have someone fill it for me there and mail it. Also wildly illegal, and who knows when it would arrive. The pharmacist said Prometrium would only cost around $120 ("only"), and so I sent Dr. L an e-mail to see whether there's any difference between that and the stuff he prescribed. What a sweet bargain that would be! Ugh. The insurance situation in this country makes me crazy.

In other news, our pups had their teeth cleaned yesterday, and the little one had to have something like 11 teeth pulled. 11! The poor little pumpkin. Apparently problem teeth are just in her genes, but I was so sad to hear she'd had to go through that. And also that she's going to be a Jack-o-lantern from now on. She was adorably groggy last night, which they said she would be for a couple days, but she still hasn't wanted to eat yet [soft food!], which means she hasn't taken any of the pain meds that accompanied her home. I just hope she's not suffering. Sweet little love.

And while we're waiting...

Not much to report today on the ttc front, and so I thought I'd share some photosof my culinary undertakings this weekend on the occasion of our welcome-home party. Which we hosted ourselves, because, hey, we're back! And we throw a good party.

First we have my favorite summer salad, watermelon with feta, mint, and red pepper flakes:

Looove those colors. Next up, fresh figs with rosemary goat cheese. I got me a piping bag to be all fancy-like, and because the last time I made these, they were tasty, but all kindsa ugly.

And, finally, one of two blueberry-rhubarb crisps with pistachio topping. This was my first time cooking with rhubarb, and likely not the last. Also gorgeous colors once we busted it open.

N was in charge of the protein, as he generally is. He made pulled pork (plus cole slaw) and ribs, which combined for tremendous porky deliciousness. We make a pretty good pair, he and I.

Actually, I do have something to report. We got an appointment with Dr. L, our RE, for the 25th. It's a little bit odd, timing-wise, because we won't know at that point (unless my cycle cruelly shortens itself to 24 days) whether or not we've conceived this month. Also, my insurance for my new job doesn't kick in until September 1. So why on earth, you ask, are we going to see him, uninsured, before we know where the "here" is from which we're trying to figure out where to go? Followed by the obvious corollary: what kind of extraterrestrial non-English-speaker constructed the end of that last sentence? The problem is that, once I start my new job (and am therefore insured), it's going to be tricky to find time to see him. He works when I work, except I work an hourish away. Oy. Bridge crossed when we come to it, but the point is, yes, something to report after all. Or a pre-something.

Wild Saturday Night

Not much to report on CD7; no pills to take this cycle, nothing to pee on yet. It's been over 15 hours since I last took my temp and it'll be more than 8 before I take it again...but I did find one type-A attempt-to-control behavior I can engage in. Look what I got from Amazon yesterday:

Wahoo! Build, lining, build!

That's the thing about Amazon Prime; you often have to get a whole buncha something in order to get the free shipping. So, as I type this, I'm having a cuppa, made with not one, but two tea bags (shown here mid-brew).

Man, that stuff is strong. But the box says: "for a stronger effect, use 2 tea bags." And so I shall. Yes, our welcome-home party is still going on downstairs; I'm heading back down there now. Just wanted to wish you all a delightful evening, wherever it may find you.

If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.

Thank you, Rush, for the lyrics that may well represent the only time I will quote you, ever.

Today is CD6, which means that it is officially too late for Clomid this cycle. My eggs are going it on their own this month, and maybe I'll get a window into whether there was any reason or need for that particular drug in the first place. And maybe I won't. But as someone whose issue was less ovutruancy and more ovutardiness (I'll check my Physician's Desk Reference when I get home, but I'm fairly certain these are the technical terms), I'm hoping that progesterone alone will do the trick. Either way, you can be sure that you'll hear about it.

Take Me to Your Bleeder

CD1. Finally. What could be more perfect? The first morning we wake up back in our own bed, and a new cycle has begun. It has, indeed. I was a little taken aback by how red this blood was. My last few periods on Clomid were kind of low-quality looking, so this feels healthier to my medically untrained eye.

Next up, I have to decide what to do with this cycle. Clomid or no? When I mentioned to Dr. L my idea of doing only progesterone this time around, and that I wondered whether the Clomid had messed with my lining, he said that I could do whatever I want, but that the fact that I had gotten pregnant probably meant that my lining had been adequate. But is that true? I know he's the super-expert, but I don't know if I totally buy that.

We spent Friday night at my parents' house, and they were great. They asked lots of questions about the miscarriage and what next steps were, and I felt surrounded and embraced by how much they love me. Bless them.

So here we are. Raise your blackberry mojito--virgin for the preggies--'cause I'm back in the game, bitches.

Popover

This, at left, is the Saturday-afternoon cheese plate at the home of our friend-with-baby whom we visited over the weekend. Yum.

In four days, I'll be at my parents' house in Maryland, where we're making an overnight pit stop to say hi and get the boxes we've had shipped there, before picking up our cats at the friend's house where they've been living and heading back north on Saturday. I suppose the reality of our miscarriage will be more concrete when we're in the company of more family and friends who know about it, rather than here, where most people don't. At the moment--and this is probably in keeping with what I've been writing over the last couple days--it all feels kind of far away. I know we lost a baby, I know I bled and it hurt our hearts and dashed our hopes, but at the moment, I'm a little numb about it. It could be because, still, I'm in the midst (or maybe the end?) of a non-cycle alternate reality, where it's cd √-43, and so I'm not engaging in any of the ttc behaviors that have given a sort of order (if a disappointing one) to this school year. I'm just floating, waiting. Is it a 2ww, a 4ww? There's no telling. No drugs, no peeing on anything, no blood, just a lot of empty, as the 11 months during which we assumed we'd get me knocked up draw to a close.

What I'm Really Feelin': This One's Not Entertaining Either

Upon further reflection...
I think that my ambivalence after our visit this weekend is, in large part, a product of self-doubt. Do I have what it takes to do this, motherhood, well and "right"? Am I sufficiently self-sacrificing? Can I put down my insecurity-quenching, connection-maintaining iPhone and fully engage in the sometimes terrifying, periodically boring, generally exhausting life transformation that is parenting? I know this paints me in a pretty unflattering light, but if I can't air my ugly laundry here, then where? "Be here now" has always been a challenge for me, and I know that it is an essential component of parenthood. I also expect that the experience will change me in ways I cannot foresee, so that some of the worries that come up as I look in from the outside will be irrelevant. Right here, right now, as a year abroad draws to a close, I guess I am mourning how easy such a year will never be again--at least for the next many years--as, once children are part of the equation, such adventures would involve uprooting and destabilizing people who have not made that choice for themselves. Things won't be about me, or about us-two-and-we'll-find-someone-to-watch-the-dogs anymore, but rather about all of us, and most especially about them, our children-to-be. Can I surrender my selfishness? As is always the case for me, anticipation is likely much more agonizing than the real thing. What looks like an impossible leap from my current seat on the couch will probably be absolutely natural when the time comes. Because, really, I've always felt that I was meant to be a mom. And this whole protracted rant is pretty much academic for the time being. Sure, it might feel like a defensively easier move if I choose childlessness than if childlessness chooses me, but it's not ultimately the course I want my life to take.

Not Feelin' It

We spent part of this weekend hanging out with a friend and her 6-month-old little boy, one of the coolest babies I've ever met. Mild-mannered, good-humored, adorable. But I came out of there this afternoon feeling: you know, I don't really want a kid. Seems like so much constant work and there's always something to take care of or worry about or deal with. I don't expect that this feeling will last forever, and I suspect it's symptomatic of a general sense of overwhelm at our return to the U.S. on Friday. But nonetheless, it took me by surprise. Right at the moment, it all--getting pregnant, having kids--seems like more trouble than it's worth. Though I'll tell ya: after the disappointment of the last 9+ months, I can't say that today's desire to keep the whole process at arm's length is unwelcome. Anyone else ever feel this way?

Topless at the Louvre

I'm assuming the text of my t-shirt means something to at least some of you. At 32, I'm pretty sure I'm the youngest participant in the class I'm taking at the Louvre. But given that I turned 10 the summer Dirty Dancing came out, I also thought that among the only-slightly-older of my classmates, someone might have seen the movie as many times as I have. So just for fun, I asked around whether my tee rang any bells for anyone. More than one person looked at it blankly and said: "'I carried a watermelon?!'? You were pregnant?" Mental jaw-drop. Really? Is that what the not-in-the-know are thinking when they read it?? Dammit, people. I'm reminded when I wore the tee I have with the design on the right at my parents' house in '07 or '08 and my dad thought it was an anti-Hillary Clinton shirt, which it totally wasn't. That was the last time I wore it until after the election. And so after my classmates said this today, I ripped the shirt from my body, placed it under the I.M. Pei pyramid in just the right spot so that when the sun shone in, it burst into flames, and then I walked away to spend the day at the museum in a bra and a pair of jeans. Thank you and goodnight.

Positively Negative

This is a picture of the little lab where everyone has been so nice to me as I've gotten blood test after blood test (and the pee test I nearly failed because I just couldn't get much out, even after downing the rest of my bottle of water mid-attempt) over the last month or so. Today might have been the last time I see them, as I just called for the results of my noontime beta test and...it's negative! Good stuff. So...what next? I wonder what our RE, Dr. L, who has been my e-penpal since we saw him in March during our trip back to the States, will prescribe for this next cycle. More Clomid? More progesterone? I'm not sure about the C-factor. During my last two cycles pre-Clomid, I got a positive opk on cd 22 and cd 20. Both cycles were fewer than 30 days long. First cycle on Clomid, my positive opk was on cd 18--not exactly a huge improvement--and during the next two (the third being when we conceived), I never got a fully positive test. So was Clomid really doing much of anything for me? Progesterone, on the other hand, seems like a good bet, as the first cycle I took it, I got pregnant. Part of me wonders whether my endometrium, which I've read can be thinned by taking Clomid, would have been thick enough to hold onto our baby if I hadn't been taking it. I also wonder whether the suppositories gave me enough progesterone, or whether more would have been helpful. I hope to get more answers once we're back in the same time zone as Dr. L, although I think even talking to him will be pretty expensive until the insurance for my new job kicks in on September 1. For now, a wait of indeterminate length before I'm back in the saddle and cycling anew.

It's interesting, I haven't been that sad the last few days. I see babies and little children and know I want one, but they're not bringing tears to my eyes at the moment. And I sort of wonder why. I need to not judge my healing, to let it be what it is and appreciate perspective when it finds me.

The Circle of Life, Take 2

I realize I should have told you this sooner, lest it eat up your weekend with worry, but I got another chain for my ch'ai. In order to acquire it, I bought a green mushroom pendant (think the 1up guys from Super Mario Brothers) and de-shroomed the chain. And now, I'm back in the ch'ai life again (merci, Steve Winwood). It doesn't always slide that easily--this chain isn't as fine as the last one was--but hey, neither does my reproductive system. Now I'm considering a different ch'ai as well; this one has, as we Jews like to say, some schmutz on it, some of which has proved difficult to remove. Will, of course, keep you posted.

On a less decorative note, now that I've finished bleeding and I'm sure my betas are down in the negative range (although I'll find out for sure in a couple days), I wonder when I'll be back to cycling as per normal. Should I start taking my temps again now, with no idea what cd it is? It's something to do. Should I restart the peeing on ovulation tests? Or might it be months before I'm back in working order?

Douchedom Revisited

I used to firmly believe that anyone who wore sunglasses inside was, if not hiding bloodshot eyes after a debaucherous night (and maybe then too), a pretentious douche. But then, yesterday evening, I became one of those someones, for the rather un-douchey reason that I didn't want my entire line 9 métro car to see me crying. And I think, by the way, that that was a colossal failure, because, as I look at my sunglasses right now, they're not actually mirrored, plus I had tears rolling out from beneath the frames and down my cheeks.

The shorter version of a longer story is that I ended up dropping the Contemporary French Novel class that was going to allow me (along with two other classes I'm not dropping) to finish this [second] MA this summer. CFN wasn't the class I signed up for--that one was cancelled--but it was the only one that fit my schedule. And, although I feel like a loser for saying this, I couldn't deal with the reading. It was depressing, some of it existential-type stuff that I have a hard time swallowing when I'm not going through emotional turmoil, and sitting through class (2 1/2 hours at a time), I had a hard time not crying on more than one occasion. Okay, maybe it's because I was reading things on my phone, in an attempt to make it through class, that made me emotional, but regardless...I was getting nowhere fast with the reading, and the whole situation was just too much. Why should a woman who can't stay pregnant have to read a book called La nausée? Why should anyone have to read Sartre, ever?

So I'm not going to finish the degree this summer. It's not a big deal--I have time--but I feel like a quitter, as though I should be able to just power through the class and compartmentalize and get through it. I kept wondering today whether I should show up for class as regularly scheduled and just suck it up; it was easier once 4:40 came and went and the decision was made. But doesn't there have to come a time when I look out for myself as I would tell a friend to do for herself? Is it possible that there is strength in acknowledging my weakness?

Everybody Has One

What is this ridiculous lady-protective freak of nature on the left, you may ask? That's what I'm asking, at least. This, my friends, is a

thong-shaped panty liner. This may be totally commonplace to many of you, but I bought a box of them by accident (being a never-wearer of thongs myself) and think it looks like a bizarro snow angel. I was just about to go off on the silliness of French packaging, until I had another look and saw

that...right, it's in English. And if I had paid extra-special attention to the tiny, uncomfortable pair of underwear on the box's end (pictured at left, zoomed-in for visibility), I would have determined that "tanga" is secret code for "thong." Anyone with sexier underwear habits than mine want 28 minuscule panty liners? Just give me a shout.

On a side note, the fact that I've downgraded from pads to panty liners deserves its own little celebration. The bleeding seems to have pretty much subsided (knock on hardwood floor).

So, beta news. Today's level is down to 19 mIU/ml. Dr. S wants me to test again next week, and hopefully by then I'll be down under 5, in the negative range. It's such a strange feeling to be wanting something to grow, and then to shrink a couple weeks later. According to Dr. L in New York, now that my beta is down under 50, I will probably ovulate in 2-3 weeks, but really, who knows. Also odd is that if I peed on one of my ultra-sensitive pregnancy tests today, it would probably still come out positive. Still. I wouldn't, of course; no reason to waste a test and mess further with my emotions, but it is unsettling to think about.

I was reminded today of the quote I've heard before (which, oddly, I couldn't find in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations online, but a little googling pointed me to Dirty Harry): "Opinions are like assholes...everybody has one." This is, as anyone who has been there knows, just as true in the infertility and loss arena as anywhere else. People who are well meaning and love you, and whom you love, want to tell you how to feel, how to handle it, what to do, and when. I hear it's the same with pregnancy and babies; I'll let you know when I get there. One of my favorite human IF resources brought this back to my attention, and even though N and I are not on the IVF path at this time, it rang pretty true. I've gotten such varied reactions from people, some unexpectedly heartwarming, and others surprisingly unsupportive. The teacher (and the snarky brat) in me wants to give each person we've told a grade on their response, just to catalogue. I wouldn't necessarily post them on the wall like French universities do, for all to see...but maybe I would.

American Medicine, Take Note!

So, as promised, the lady from the lab s'est déplacée à domicile (made a house call) this morning for my beta test. I wanted to take a picture of all the accoutrements of blood-letting on our dining table, but it seemed a little weird to be pulling out my phone to document while she was sitting there. Yes, I've done it before, but last time it was when she (a different she) was out of the room. And so I offer you my post-withdrawal arm as evidence. Not the most flattering shot--hey, everybody, I have a mole!--but I do like me some photographic illustration.

On a lexical note, it makes me chuckle that the French word for the drawing of blood, prélèvement, is the same as the word for money that is taken directly out of your bank account every month (to pay your cell phone bill, for example). So it's actually sort of related. Except it's every few days. Stay tuned for results late this afternoon or tonight my time (depending on whether I decide to blog while I'm in class), and let's hope my beta has decreased significantly.

Unchained

The chain on my new ch'ai broke last night. Okay, really, I saw it was on its way out and finished the job myself, rather than have it come apart at an inopportune moment, probably unannounced, resulting in my losing the whole thing. Can't decide what to make this mean, but it was clearly a crappy chain to begin with (why is most of it black?) and I am ready for Chain 2.0. Also for Baby 2.0. There, made it mean something.

Ch'ai Hopes

We did an audio guide in the Marais today with a friend who's visiting from Brooklyn. N and I are semi-obsessed with audio guides, and so do our best to foist them on friends and family alike pretty much wherever we go. More than one of you can vouch for this. The Marais, as you may well know, is Paris's historic Jewish quarter, and as I walked by one eye-catchingly colorful shop, called Art 25, I realized that the time had come for a new ch'ai necklace. Ch'ai, which is the word represented by the Hebrew letters on the left, means "life." And this is a moment when I could use a little life-affirming jewelry. I got a ch'ai after visiting Israel senior year in college, when I was feeling particularly strongly about keeping Judaism and the Jewish community alive. Right now, it's more a question of melding faith in the universe with a belief that we can, and will, bring new life into it. After examining the dozens of ch'ai options on offer, I decided on the circular shape, which felt like it evoked the completeness of a family. Who knows--I get caught up in symbolism when I'm searching for answers. I also like the idea that, if not a baby inside me, I'm bringing something home from France that represents the time we've spent here, trying to make this dream a reality. I also purchased a bunch of summer dresses on Tuesday, taking advantage of both the summer sales in Paris and the fact that I'm likely to stay the same size-ish for the next little while, and a big stripey sun hat near Place des Vosges yesterday afternoon. Retail therapy is alive and well at 27 rue Mauconseil.

In nittier, grittier news, my beta-hCG levels (the number that we were looking to have double a couple weeks back) are going down. This is good, all things considered, and important. For starters, it's my understanding that I won't return to having normal(ish) cycles again until my beta level has gone down. Also, its descent is a good sign that everything that needs to make its way out of me in order for my body to be ready to support another pregnancy is either out or on its way. How was that for un-graphic? I did my best to leave out evocative details. A lot of women have to have a surgical procedure done (known as a d&c--dilation and curettage) in order to clear out leftover tissue, and it doesn't look as though I'm going to need that. Beta levels frequently won't go down if some of the "products of conception" remain in the womb, and they also won't if a woman has had a tubal, or ectopic, pregnancy, in which the embryo implants in one of the Fallopian tubes, rather than in the uterus. Ectopic pregnancies are not sustainable, because there isn't enough room for the baby to grow, and can endanger the mother's health. My beta level on Tuesday was down to 243 mIU/ml, and on Thursday had dipped to 150 mIU/ml, and so it seems that I'm in the clear ectopically speaking, and hopefully the numbers will continue to go down to less than 5, which would be in the normal range for women who aren't pregnant. Like me. I'm also still bleeding. I've read that it can last anywhere from 1-2 weeks, and as I'm finishing this entry, on Saturday, a week since the real bleeding began, it seems as though it might be starting to let up. I guess that when the radiologist who did my ultrasound said this would be "like a period," she wasn't inserting additional, American-style punctuation in French. This isn't, like, a period. I guess that it is, however, sort of like a period. Just longer. Although, honestly, I'd prefer it just be a comma, or a semicolon at most.

So next up is another beta test early next week. My local lab is closed for the week for remodeling/construction work, and so--get this--if you need a blood test, they'll come to your house and do it! No additional charge! Go, France. I'll report back with the results. And probably beforehand.

Lest it go unsaid, the support you all have shown me has been tremendously heartening, and I can't thank you enough for being there for me. I feel very lucky to have you all in my life.