Posted on October 6th, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
There is no easy way to put this so I will just come out and say it. There is a 7 centimeter cyst on my right ovary.
I got this news in the same room that I found out my baby’s heart was no longer beating and from the same person who told me that I had a missed miscarriage. God. I hate that room.
I sat in the waiting room for about 35 minutes between getting the ultrasound and speaking with the doctor. I watched the ObGyn coordinator call newly pregnant couples to the back for their first appointments. There was one couple in particular – a husband and wife by the looks of it. The woman was just glowing with happiness. God. I hated her; I hated them.
I overheard another woman scheduling her next appointment. The receptionist said, “Oh! Your 20-week appointment! That’s an exciting one!” God. Get me out of here.
By the time I finally got to speak to the doctor, I was nearly in tears. She came in with nine images of my ovaries and said, “It’s pretty big.”
I have a couple of options to deal with this thing. I can do the old ‘wait and see’ and hope it shrinks on its own. I highly doubt it. This cyst is big enough to have its own passport. I can take birth control pills to shrink it. Something about that option sounds counterintuitive to getting pregnant. Or, I can have surgery.
The surgery is laparoscopic, outpatient, and fairly straightforward. I watched a video of it on You Tube. I almost vomited but I think that’s because I’m a bit squeamish. It didn’t really look that bad at all and apparently, there is no real recovery time. Aside from the risk of completely losing the ovary if the doctor makes a wrong move, and of course, death…I don’t really have a reason not to get ‘er out.
Posted on September 27th, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
My ovaries are holding my eggs hostage. That’s what the doctor called to tell me last week. She didn’t say those exact words – that’s just my spin. What she actually said was, “Based on your blood work, it doesn’t look as if you are ovulating. I’d like for you to come in to talk about taking Clomid.”
I said, “Yeah. I figured as much. Twenty dollars, twenty ovulation predictors sticks, and lots of squatting over a cup with no positive result led me to the same conclusion.” OK, OK, I didn’t say those exact words, but that’s what I was thinking.
I have a routine down for dealing with bad news. It’s just happened so often during the past few months that I realized it’s an established protocol.
First, I call my mom. This is usually because I want to be dramatic and download. I spill a crescendo of conclusions, she (as a nurse) points out all the flaws in my logic and my misinterpretations of clinical possibilities (or impossibilities). I cry and ask her why she can’t just listen and validate my feelings. And then I hang up and call a girlfriend.
The girlfriend is great for validating the emotion. She will eventually get to logic and talk me off the ledge, but first, she wholeheartedly encourages the drama because she knows that to try to talk logic to a woman who is hormonal and unpredictable will do no good. She offers to come over and break dishes with me and knows that when I say, “No, don’t worry about it,” she can tread lightly on to the terrain of sense and sensibility. By the time I hang up, I’m ready to call my husband.
These are usually very short conversations because to try to explain how my ovaries and other girly bits are not functioning without a diagram and hand motions is pointless. We agree to talk at home later and hang up to return to our normally scheduled work programming as if nothing has happened.
All up, this takes about 26 minutes of phone time and is entirely necessary for me to go on functioning. From connecting with people who have experienced what I have, I can confidently say that behind every woman coping with and healing from a pregnancy loss is a strong cast of characters. They are the people who answer the phone, endure verbal abuse, sympathize and empathize, and simply show up when it matters.
I am so grateful to my supporting cast because they have carried me. To them, I say: Thank You for dancing in my ballet of grief and hope. You are the best in my worst of times.
Posted on September 22nd, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
It’s September and I should be 35 weeks pregnant. We should be putting the finishing touches on the nursery. I should be waddling like a penguin. My husband should be figuring out how to put a car seat in our vehicle.
If I was still going to a counselor, she’d probably say something about living for the future and moving on from the past. She’d probably tell me it’s time to let go of the “should have.” I know this. My head knows this. But wherever it is that rage, and anger, and anxiety live – that part of me doesn’t know it. That part of me sees October 29 speeding toward me. I am about to be in a head on collision with my due date and there is no way around it.
I wish Hallmark made cards for times like this. I should write them and tell them to nestle a section in near the sympathy cards. The marker could say something like, “Remembering Estimated Due Dates.” The cards would have stars and moons and say things like “Today probably hurts more than childbirth. I’m sorry.”
Posted on September 15th, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
My husband and I went out for dinner the other night. We sat at a table for two overlooking the kitchen at one of our favorite restaurants. I sipped on a Cosmo and looked around, spying on the other diners. A few tables over, there was a young couple with a baby. The woman was giving the kid a bottle as her food sat off to the side. I swirled my martini around the glass, watching, wondering if she wished she was at a table for two sipping a cocktail and eating while the food was still hot. I asked my husband, “Is the grass really greener on the parenting side of fence?”
It occurred to me that as jealous as I am of couples with babies, maybe, just maybe there are a few out there who are a teensy bit jealous of us. Maybe that couple was looking at us thinking, “I remember when we used to go out to dinner and drink martinis and didn’t have to worry about where we were going to put the stroller, or if the baby would cry through the whole meal.”
Or maybe that mom who was standing next to me as I was buying my Size 0 pants the other day was thinking, “I remember when my butt used to fit into smaller clothes.”
Or maybe our friends who get up in the night to change diapers or feed a crying infant think about us sleeping in until 9:00 on the weekends and say, “I’d give anything to sleep past 4:00 in the morning.”
My girlfriend, a working mom of two, reminds me all the time that though the joys of parenting are great, there’s something to be said about being a youngish couple without children. I love it when she says things like “See what you have to look forward to,” as she tries to wrestle her toddler into a highchair.
The other day we were out at a coffee shop with her two and half year old. We were talking about ovulation predictor kits when she stopped mid-sentence, looked at her son and said, “Are you pooping?” We put our conversation on hold as she checked his diaper and carted him off to the bathroom. I stayed at the table, kept my eye on the plastic dinosaurs and the Buzz Lightyear doll, and started thinking, maybe life without children isn’t so bad.
I mean, we do have a pretty sweet life. I took a two hour nap a few days ago and when I got up, I poured myself a glass of wine. I sat on my couch and read Cooking Light and listened to the sound of silence. Not once did I think, “I really wish there was a baby crying for me to feed it this very second.” I also didn’t think, “It sure would be nice to change a diaper right now.”
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not changing my tune. I still want to start a family, and seeing pregnant women still makes my heart hurt. But I’ve decided, a baby isn’t going to make my life perfect and it’s probably not going to make me happy, especially in the short term. I don’t know how many people smile through a diaper blow out, a 2:00 AM feeding, or a colicky wail.
The whole subject of whether being a parent makes a person happy is hotly contested these days. A recent, controversial article in New York magazine cites numerous studies that show, statistically speaking, parents are less happy than non-parents. If I was a parent, this article would irritate the heck out of me. But as a non-parent, as a woman who has recently been through the trauma of a miscarriage, and as someone now on the verge of diagnosed anovulation, the article gives me strength to get out of bed, put on my size 0 pants, drink a Bourbon and gingerale at a table for two, and do it all with a smile on my face.
Posted on September 8th, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
We have an empty room upstairs. It’s supposed to be the nursery but I’m seriously thinking about converting it to war room and calling it Operation Conceive. I’ll hang wall-sized basal body temperature charts and dry erase boards to track the changes in my cervical mucus. I’ll set up a computer and several monitors that will show my most fertile times of the month based on complex algorithms that take into account the date of my last menstrual cycle plus the variables of progesterone pills, consumption of conception friendly foods, and my desire to conceive. Think about the Mission Control Center at NASA. That’s what I have in mind.
I’ll arrange to have a police escort on standby so that the moment the stars align, I can whisk my husband into the bedroom and we can get down to business.
I shared this plan with a girlfriend who doesn’t have children and has no desire to do so. She said, “Gee Em. Conceiving doesn’t sound very romantic.” Uhh. No. This is a science. In fact, I can’t imagine anything less romantic than calling my husband and saying “My cervical mucus looks like egg-whites. Get home now!” Sex is definitely not recreational anymore.
After having success with the progesterone pills, I decided to buy my first ovulation predictor kit (OPK). I actually have no clue IF I’m ovulating. My body is giving me mixed signals. My cervical mucus is all over the place. So is my basal body temperature. I’ve had random pain around my ovaries for the past five months so I can’t rely on that as an indicator of anything. Sigh.
The good news is, I will go back to my doctor on Cycle Day 21. She’ll blood draw that will tell me if I’m actually ovulating. In the meantime, I don’t want to miss my fertile window so I thought an OPK would be a good idea. I didn’t however, take into account how depressing a negative result would result would be.
Every afternoon I sneak away around 2:00 to pee on a stick and wait an agonizing five minutes to see if a line will appear giving me the green light to shave my legs and pretend I really want to have sex. So far, it hasn’t. I’m depressed and my legs are hairy. How long can a girl live like this?
Posted on August 20th, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
I’ve been taking my progesterone pills for a week now. My face looks like a war zone, my bowels are in distress, and I’m pretty sure that a nitroglycerin plant could explode just outside my bedroom and I wouldn’t notice. I have a window of about 45 minutes between taking the pill and entering into a coma. On the plus side, I’m getting some great sleep.
Waking up the next day is a bit of a challenge and I think the extra hormones are eating brain cells because I left the pill bottle in my gym bag and left the gym bag in my car. If you want to know what I found when I opened the bottle that night, put a few jellybeans in the microwave for thirty seconds.
The next day, I sheepishly showed the pharmacist my ‘whoops.’ Her eyes popped out of her head and she said, “Wow. Oh. Hmmm.” Thanks lady. Yeah. I know I’m supposed to keep the pills in a cool dark place.
I watched her put the melted, rubbery yellow hunk in the palm of her hand and take it to the back to find out if they could replace the prescription with the ‘damaged’ feature of my insurance plan. You would have though she was carrying a tiny rhinoceros in the palm of her hand by the reactions of the staff in the back. Through the glass, I saw raised eyebrows and confused faces. Seriously guys. I can’t be the first person to have done this. I’ve been really careful with my replacement pills, especially since I had to pay full price for half the pills.
I have three more days with this round. Then we wait for the magic to happen. Supposedly, my body will recognize the rapid decline in the hormone and Aunt Flo will show up. From there, we wait until cycle day 21. On that day, I run to the doctor without passing go and get my blood drawn. The results will tell us whether I am ovulating.
If I am, then I’ll continue taking the progesterone and hope that our routine — I mean our every-other -day romantic rendezvous’, result in a pregnancy. If I’m not ovulating, then we have to make a decision about whether to start a course of egg-releasing pills.
Thanks a lot body. This is so much fun.
Posted on July 18th, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
Some how, some way, Target found out I was pregnant. And so did Gerber Life, and American Baby Magazine, and Similac. Unfortunately, none of them got the memo that I’m not longer pregnant. My trip to the mailbox has become a daily reminder of that I should be getting ready to have a baby, not going to wine tastings and participating in adventure sports (I went whitewater kayaking a few weeks ago).
I got a huge ‘Celebrate Baby’ Target catalog today with a coupon that says “Free $20 gift card.” All I have to do is take the coupon and a printout of my registry to Guest Service at any Target store and they will give me a $20 gift card. Amazing! Oh what to do, what to do. Am I really going to pass up a $20 gift card when all I have to do is register for baby stuff?
This makes me wonder about registries. Could I start a baby registry and register for things that aren’t baby-related? What are the registry restrictions? I think at this point, I would register for the box of wine and a 500-count bottle of ibuprofen to get me through picking up the mail for the next several months. Then again, I could use the $20 gift card to buy a couple cheapie home pregnancy tests for future use.
What I really want to know is how do I get more of these catalogs with gift card offers on the back? I could create several registries under pseudonyms and rack up well over $100 in gift cards. This would take a little more work though. I’d probably have to monitor the customer service counter at Target for a few weeks to make sure I wasn’t always hitting the same guest services employee. More than one registry when I am so obviously not pregnant would probably raise a few eyebrows.
The Gerber Life Insurance Company offer isn’t nearly as much fun. The only thing I would actually get from participating in this offer is a Certificate of Welcome. I actually have to fill out an application for my child though I don’t actually have to send any money now. There are big bold letters telling me “Send No Money!” My conscious won’t allow me to make up a name and date of birth, though it would be fun to write a prankster name like Carrie Oekey (karaoke).
Now American Baby magazine is actually very informative. I just read an article titled, “What No One Will Tell You About Being a Mom (But We Will!)” (June 2010) It scared the crap out of me. Heck, it actually made me a little happy I’m not pregnant. The article featured topics that start with “Why didn’t anyone tell me…” and end with “deafening howls can come out of such a tiny creature?” And “that no one mothers the mommy?” Or my personal favorite, “that discomfort does not end with childbirth?” Now this is the type of thing I don’t mind getting in the mail.
Hopefully you all understand that I’ve developed quite a snarky sense of humor from this experience. Oh wait. I had that before this experience. Anyway…I suppose it’s a real sign of healing that rather than crying when I see the Target Baby catalog, my first thought is how to go about sticking it to Target and getting that $20 gift card!
Posted on July 12th, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
It’s day 3 without caffeine. I’m getting a head start on cutting out the two cups of coffee. I’d rather have withdrawal symptoms now than when I’m pregnant.
I’ve been thinking about what I’ll do differently next time. Cutting out all caffeine is one thing. There are too many conflicting studies out there. Some say that less than 200 milligrams of caffeine is fine. Others say that any caffeine at all causes in increased risk for miscarriage. I’d rather not take any chances.
I’ve also started to take my prenatal vitamins like I was taking my birth control: religiously, not at the same time every day, and with a swig of beer occasionally.
Next time I’m pregnant, I won’t take any baths. Maybe the bath water was too hot. And I won’t go to spinning class. Maybe my heart rate was too high at one point.
Looking at this list, I should probably just start on bed rest the second I test positive. I can’t be too careful can I?
I’ll probably always wonder if I did something to cause the miscarriage. How could I not? Sure, I’ve read all the literature and I’ve heard my doctor say it too: “Most miscarriages that occur before 12 weeks are the result of a chromosomal abnormality and cannot be prevented.” Blah. Blah. Blah.
It would be so much easier to deal with if I could just pinpoint the cause. I’d know not to do “it” again and I’d feel so much better about my sense of control. It would be so much better to hear the doctor say: “Yeah. It was the coffee. Don’t do that again.” Then I would know! And I could control it. But how the heck can I control a chromosomal abnormality?
This pregnancy thing is such a crap shoot. And frankly, with what I know now, I can’t believe there are so many people in the world.
Posted on July 5th, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
It’s here! It’s here! It’s here! After a whopping 9.5 weeks, my period finally arrived. I haven’t been this thrilled about getting a period since I was 20 and forgot to use a back up method while I was on antibiotics (some antibiotics interfere with birth control pills).
Despite my best efforts to induce it weeks ago with parsley tea, red raspberry leaf tea, pomegranate juice, and a stint of wearing nothing but thongs, it took nine and half weeks.
I don’t think nine and a half weeks is average. From everything I read, and even from what my doctor said, four to six weeks is about average. Does that mean that I’m above average? Well, I’ve always tried to be a cut above the rest.
The minute Aunt Flo arrived, I texted my husband. “You might want to bring home a bottle of champagne. I finally got my period!” He was just as excited as I was though I think for different reasons. Getting my period meant that he didn’t have to make room in the refrigerator for the parsley bunches (parsley can supposedly bring on menstruation), or receive daily e-mail updates on possible signs of its impending arrival.
I think we both knew it was coming when I asked if it would be wrong to dip a spicy chicken wing in chocolate. Other than strange cravings and the worst breakout since I was about sixteen, I had no other warnings though and that’s what made the wait so frustrating.
Of course, now that it’s here there’s the little question of when we start trying again. One doctor told me to wait for three cycles and another told me to go for gold after one cycle. I guess the upside of waiting so long for a period was that we didn’t have to make any decisions about what we were going to do.
There’s a tremendous amount of energy that goes into thinking about these things. There’s logic on both sides of the coin. If we wait and I don’t conceive again right away, or worse, we have another miscarriage, I’m going to be angry that we waited. If we don’t wait, and I conceive, and we have another miscarriage, I’m going to be angry that we didn’t wait.
You’re probably thinking “Uh…isn’t it possible that you’ll conceive right away AND have a healthy full-term pregnancy?” Yes. It’s possible but so are the other scenarios.
Posted on June 22nd, 2010 by Emily Wilkins
I’ve been feeling much better lately. Really, I have.
I’ve been thinking about what I learned from this whole experience and I’ve come up with a few things:
Grief is like a tsunami. It comes suddenly and in huge waves. It completely drowns the heart and mind and then it recedes, slowly. Eventually, things get back to normal but it takes time and you can’t rush it. And that takes me to my next learn.
Time really does heal. Yeah. It’s cliché and I wouldn’t have believed you two months ago if you would have said I would feel like myself in just eight short weeks. But I do. I think the catch here is that you have to be willing to heal and, for me that meant finding out that you have to…
Trust the process. I’m still working on this one. Pregnancy is a forty-week process. Miscarriage is a process. The monthly menstrual cycle is a process. Grief is a process. Healing is a process. I’ve learned I can’t rush any of it. I’ve tried and it just leads to more anxiety. Anxiety leads to suffering and here’s what I’ve learned about suffering…
Suffering is a choice. After this experience, I can distinguish between grief and suffering. Grief is what you feel when you lose something that meant a lot. Suffering is becoming a prisoner to grief. I can grieve my loss but I will not suffer from it or because of it because I deserve more.
If a woman in my life ever experiences a miscarriage, these are the things I would tell her. She wouldn’t believe me, of course, because it’s not something you can believe until you go through the process yourself. But I would tell her anyway because when you go through a miscarriage, you want to know that it will get better even when you simply can’t imagine anything but the pain of the loss.
While I’m sad I had to learn these lessons in this way, I’m grateful that I’ve been able to come away with something and I’m proud to say that I survived.
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