Oh hell, oh help. Hello. I think my body is trying to miscarry. Again.
I'm sitting in a goddamn Taco Cabana enjoying the free wireless to write about what may or may not be happening inside me.
Let's rewind. It'll keep my mind off this. No it won't. It'll keep my hands busy until my shrimp tacos arrive, which is really the most I can hope for under the circumstances.
Two days ago, on Monday, I had my doctor's appointment. I was terrified that she'd refuse my request for a prescription for progesterone cream. Progesterone is critical to sustaining a pregnancy, and for lengthening my luteal cycle to allow time for a successful implantation.
The night before my appointment, I was an unholy mess. Mr. Fish was leaving in the morning for work, flying out to Arizona. That made Sunday night not only their date night, but the last night Socks and Fish would spend together before he left. (We divyyed up Sock's nights for a sleep schedule, with Friday as Family Date Night. It works pretty well, because Socks gets plenty of snuggling and I get to sprawl in my princess bed). That night I went out for a drawing class and really managed to enjoy it. When I came back, I played Rock Band for a couple of hours, until Socks emerged and announced that Fish was asleep and asked if I wanted to snuggle and connect.
We'd had a hard go of it lately. Out interactions had been loving, but stressed, trying to figure out this living-together-while-poly thing, as well as generally trying to figure out our new-found places of friction. (Living together will do that. I've avoided cohabitation for more than 5 years out of fear). We made significant progress, but it cost a lot of emotional energy and kind of drained our reserves of tenderness. Each of us wanted to cross the gulf, but we were both tired and needy.
Socks folded me in his arms on the couch, trying to draw me out and connect, but I just couldn't. I was so sad, so godawfully sad. Was I pregnant? Could I keep it? Would the doctor believe me and help me? And in the end, how could I get close to someone who wasn't feeling what I was? I just felt...twisted. Heart wrung, irrationally angry that Socks couldn't fix it for me. Also raging because I knew I couldn't ask him to stay with me on the night before Mr. Fish left town, but just wanting him to promise it anyway. Stay with me stay with me stay with me I hate you I need you Stay with me Stay with me Stay with me. I bit my tongue, but probably didn't need to bother. Socks and I are both hella empathic. He always knows what I'm feeling, even when I don't want him to.
He tucked me in. I balled up on my side and told him goodnight, tersely, feeling like a jerk but still unable to stop. I slept fitfully, woke up at 2:30am, and stayed up for hours googling luteal phase defects, abstracts on treatments and trials, TTC websites. I was angry. I was sad. I was desperately lonely. Finally I crept into the Submarine (the room Socks and Mr. Fish share), and prodded Socks to move over. I stared at the ceiling and recited:
"In trials where 200mg progresterone suppositiories were administered to women with infertility related to luteal phease defects, women receiving the treatment conceived at rates of 50-70%. Progesterone suppositories or creams are most common, and a far more potent method of distribution than oral tablets. An early miscarriage is called a chemical pregnancy, which most TTC websites describe as basically fucked up, delegitimizing language. Synthetic progesterone has been linked, somewhat controversially, to hypospadias in boy children. No such link exists for natural progesterone."
Socks wrapped his arms around me. "Have you been up all night googling?"
(Sullenly). "Yes."
"My baby. You're so scared. You're miserable."
(Resentfully). "Yes."
I lay there silently for minutes, and then grunted, "How. Do. You. Feel."
Socks tightened his arms around me. "I feel worried and sad for you..."
"NO. How do you feel?"
"Oh." And he unloaded. Sad, scared, disappointed, feeling weirdly responsible, feeling like he shouldn't have expressed these feelings because it's happening to him but not in him.
And I was finally able to melt. We both do this thing. There's distance, and we feel it, but when we're hurt it's just oh-so-hard to come out of our protective stances. But when the other one is hurting, we find the strength. When the other one needs something, our own needs become manageable, able to be put on hold, and our hearts become available to wrap around each other and love again.
Socks met me at the doctor's office. She's quite the naturalist, and clearly wanted to make sure I was addressing my cholesterol and vitamin D. But she heard us, really heard us, and reviewed my charting with me. Socks handled the nutritional questions--his wheelhouse--and I handled the charting and symptom questions--mine. In the end she embraced us both and put a hand on my belly, which made me so hopeful and affirmed that I nearly burst into tears in the office. I went home with the progesterone cream, albeit at a lower level than I wanted.
That day was followed by many more hurts and disappointments. I said unconscionably stupid and hurtful things to Socks, and we cried and struggled and forgave and got through it. I kept up the progesterone for two days after my temps dropped, which had the effect of making me feel like a penned animal, pumped through with drugs, struggling on without reason or hope. I took my broken heart home for the weekend, where my mother and sister and grandmother were waiting with open hearts and too-soon jokes (of the best kind). There were so many slow minutes, superficial conversations that felt so difficult to execute. When no one was looking or when it was convenient, I balled up in bed and cried, or crumpled up on the floor, knees tucked under my tender belly.
We went to the ballet and I started bleeding right before the curtain went up. Fabulous. I started the matinee slumped against my mom, dead-eyed and wishing myself home under the covers. But as the spectacular lunacy of the show started--(two words, live snakes)--I found myself furioiusly signing to my sister and cracking jokes during the applause. My sister and I are one being in two bodies. Or rather, maybe two huge servers that have to synchronize periodically, in order to back each other up. We communicate in an incomprehensible gibberish, half-way between twin language and telepathy. At its best--and we're always in high form where there is pain--it's hysterical in all senses of the word.
I drove back to Austin lighter. Yes, I'm still worried. I'm still disappointed. I don't know what to expect or believe. But I returned to my beloved husbands, all filled up with family love, and made them an extravegant Indian meal served with crystal, silver, and candles.
Sometimes taking care of the people you love is the best way to care for your own broken heart.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Sunday, February 24, 2013
No news is...just no news.
I have trouble temping at a regular time because I wake up early and can't go back to sleep easily. And while you're supposed to take your BBT at the same time every morning, it's particularly important to take it before you move around and after at least 3 hours of interrupted sleep.
Well, if you have two partners whose alarms go off at 5 or so, sometimes you temp at 5, sometimes at 6 when the theme from Firefly plays, and sometimes--like this morning--at 4:30am because you're awake for no reason at all.
96.82
That's below my coverline, which is probably something like 97.1. Which sounds like a smooth jazz station.
Anyway.
So, that's kind of not good because to cook up a baby you need sustained high heat. (What, that isn't how baby science works?) Maybe it would be more accurate to say, you need progesterone, which among other useful baby-making hormonal activities, raises your temperature. I could have predicted the end of my first early-early pregnancy when I saw the drop in my temperature. Once I started to bleed, this was followed by an even more precipitous drop. It reminds me of the Simpsons episode where Bart keeps replaying video of Lisa telling Ralph Wiggum she's not his girlfriend: "Look. You can actually pinpoint the second when his heart rips in half." Only, you know. On a fertility graph.
But here's the confusing part. If my temp is dropping like this, menstruation should come next. But it's too early for me to bleed. And I have no pms symptoms at all. (Of course, the progesterone cream I'm taking can ease pms symptoms, so maybe they're just masked). So it could be (1) just a weird temp (it's cold this morning), (2) a herald of an early period, or (3) an implantation dip.
Remember that one? It's this little temp drop that happens about a week after ovulation for some people, but about twice as frequently among people who are pregnant. So no implantation dip doesn't mean you're not pregnant, and having a dip doesn't mean you are, but it could.
This is just a teensy weensy bit frustrating.
I lay awake for probably an hour after temping. Socks lay next to me. He is beautiful. And I mean empirically, incomparably, startlingly beautiful, and never more so than in sleep. He and Mr. Fish sleep the sleep of the innocent: lips slightly puckered like little children, eyelashes fluttering every few heartbeats, chests rising slowly and evenly. I flop and sprawl throughout the night. Sometimes when the three of us sleep together, I'll get up partway through the night so as not to disturb them with my midnight swim routine. Mr. Fish and I wake up all at once, but Socks goes through the seven ages of man every morning. And while I prefer to let him wake slowly, only gaining language after an hour of waking and falling under again, I know I that if I need him, he wakes to full responsiveness.
So when I felt mild, but unmistakable, cramping this morning, I could have waked him. But it's different now than the first time. We each had our hearts broken so, the last time. There was such giddy hope, even as we tried to stay grounded. Mr. Fish is trying not to think about it much, until there's something clear to focus on. I don't know about Socks. Probably the same.
I feel lonely, though not alone. I know they're both full of love and attention, as much as I need. But it's something that inside of me only. So instead of waking Socks and saying, I think maybe I've experiencing implantation, I just lay awake. I can choose not to get them involved in the uncertainty and minutia, but I can't keep myself from being here, deep inside myself. Right now I feel so still, so quiet. Lonely, but not sad. Just quiet. I'm drifting, and I don't feel like I can connect with anyone, unless maybe I found someone else waiting to find out if their future was about to change or if the next weeks would be full of disappointment and waiting or if hope would be followed by loss, again.
I want to lie curled inside of another person who is waiting. We would lie in bed all day and maybe not talk at all. Just spoon each other and wait for news.
This morning is fine and cool. My fingers are a little numb, typing clumsily. Two of our three cats are curled into their tightest configurations, triangle heads tucked under fluffy tails. My bed is something of a fantasy--lofted by multiple mattresses probably four feet above the ground, a canopy swathed on all four sides in sheer white fabric, shot through with sunlight. And in the time I've been drawing and writing, I've felt cramps two more times.
Either I'm bleeding early, or we are starting this hope-and-fear process again. I will go to the doctor tomorrow and explain what I need. I don't know what she'll say or do. I'm afraid of not being understood. I want to put her hand right here on my belly, above that place where the deep inside feelings originate. I am doing something right now. Help me hold on this time.
I'll let you know.
Well, if you have two partners whose alarms go off at 5 or so, sometimes you temp at 5, sometimes at 6 when the theme from Firefly plays, and sometimes--like this morning--at 4:30am because you're awake for no reason at all.
96.82
That's below my coverline, which is probably something like 97.1. Which sounds like a smooth jazz station.
Anyway.
So, that's kind of not good because to cook up a baby you need sustained high heat. (What, that isn't how baby science works?) Maybe it would be more accurate to say, you need progesterone, which among other useful baby-making hormonal activities, raises your temperature. I could have predicted the end of my first early-early pregnancy when I saw the drop in my temperature. Once I started to bleed, this was followed by an even more precipitous drop. It reminds me of the Simpsons episode where Bart keeps replaying video of Lisa telling Ralph Wiggum she's not his girlfriend: "Look. You can actually pinpoint the second when his heart rips in half." Only, you know. On a fertility graph.
But here's the confusing part. If my temp is dropping like this, menstruation should come next. But it's too early for me to bleed. And I have no pms symptoms at all. (Of course, the progesterone cream I'm taking can ease pms symptoms, so maybe they're just masked). So it could be (1) just a weird temp (it's cold this morning), (2) a herald of an early period, or (3) an implantation dip.
Remember that one? It's this little temp drop that happens about a week after ovulation for some people, but about twice as frequently among people who are pregnant. So no implantation dip doesn't mean you're not pregnant, and having a dip doesn't mean you are, but it could.
This is just a teensy weensy bit frustrating.
I lay awake for probably an hour after temping. Socks lay next to me. He is beautiful. And I mean empirically, incomparably, startlingly beautiful, and never more so than in sleep. He and Mr. Fish sleep the sleep of the innocent: lips slightly puckered like little children, eyelashes fluttering every few heartbeats, chests rising slowly and evenly. I flop and sprawl throughout the night. Sometimes when the three of us sleep together, I'll get up partway through the night so as not to disturb them with my midnight swim routine. Mr. Fish and I wake up all at once, but Socks goes through the seven ages of man every morning. And while I prefer to let him wake slowly, only gaining language after an hour of waking and falling under again, I know I that if I need him, he wakes to full responsiveness.
So when I felt mild, but unmistakable, cramping this morning, I could have waked him. But it's different now than the first time. We each had our hearts broken so, the last time. There was such giddy hope, even as we tried to stay grounded. Mr. Fish is trying not to think about it much, until there's something clear to focus on. I don't know about Socks. Probably the same.
I feel lonely, though not alone. I know they're both full of love and attention, as much as I need. But it's something that inside of me only. So instead of waking Socks and saying, I think maybe I've experiencing implantation, I just lay awake. I can choose not to get them involved in the uncertainty and minutia, but I can't keep myself from being here, deep inside myself. Right now I feel so still, so quiet. Lonely, but not sad. Just quiet. I'm drifting, and I don't feel like I can connect with anyone, unless maybe I found someone else waiting to find out if their future was about to change or if the next weeks would be full of disappointment and waiting or if hope would be followed by loss, again.
I want to lie curled inside of another person who is waiting. We would lie in bed all day and maybe not talk at all. Just spoon each other and wait for news.
This morning is fine and cool. My fingers are a little numb, typing clumsily. Two of our three cats are curled into their tightest configurations, triangle heads tucked under fluffy tails. My bed is something of a fantasy--lofted by multiple mattresses probably four feet above the ground, a canopy swathed on all four sides in sheer white fabric, shot through with sunlight. And in the time I've been drawing and writing, I've felt cramps two more times.
Either I'm bleeding early, or we are starting this hope-and-fear process again. I will go to the doctor tomorrow and explain what I need. I don't know what she'll say or do. I'm afraid of not being understood. I want to put her hand right here on my belly, above that place where the deep inside feelings originate. I am doing something right now. Help me hold on this time.
I'll let you know.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
In the words of the great philosopher Thomas of Petty...
The anticipation is the most challenging aspect.
Chance conspired to give us only one try at conception this month. We had two last time, and three is the goal. This is our second cycle, and it's both harder and easier than the first time. There are new fears: my luteal phase is too short, this pregnancy will fail like the last one, since we only got one try, it's not going to work, etc.
There are hopes, too. My body started a pregnancy the first time we tried. That makes it likely that I am fertile and reproductively capable, and that swim team Iron Will is going for the gold. (We threatened to get Will a swim trophy, because his little dudes clearly have what it takes). As for the short luteal phase, I'm lucky that it's fairly minor. Mine is 9-11 days, but I've seen people online allude to 4-6 day phases. That means that the body starts flushing the uterine lining before a fertilized egg even gets to the uterus! I'm trying everything I can to lengthen my luteal phase and raise my progesterone. I'm taking 100mg of B6, 120 mg of Chasteberry, and a bioidentical progesterone cream.
I'm also trying to get in to see my doctor. This experience had led me to appreciate the little things that make such a difference when your heart is on the line. I called my doctor's office. Her smile is dazzlingly beautiful, and her bedside manner is gracious and warm. Everyone is "gorgeous" and "honey." I'd give her a B+ on gay stuff, a C on queerness, and probably a D- on trans. That's not unusual. It will be interesting to see if she takes the opportunity to learn, as I've had several friends of the queer/trans variety ask for her information and become her patients. She is African American and her staff is entirely people of color of whom several seem to be gay/queer and her clinic shares office space and patients with a Chinese medicine and acupuncture outfit, and she takes many, many kinds of insurance. If she brushes up on care for queer folk, she'll be running about the best, most diverse, most welcoming local clinic in town. Her staff is professional, friendly, attentive, and I've never had a bad stick there. She's great about giving you the clearest information in a way you can understand. She wants my cholesterol down, which I know is responsible, but it kind of annoys me because I don't want to take statins, my diet is healthy and very low cholesterol, and the pattern for women in my family is (a) until 30s, low blood pressure and low cholesterol, (b) 30s through middle age, low blood pressure and highish cholesterol, (c) after menopause, high blood pressure and highish cholesterol. This seems to hold true depite many variations in lifestyle, climate, diet, and medication. I know it's unusual for a person to have an army of clones for medical reference, but that's how we do in my family. A bevvy of females. A matriarchy with my grandmother at the head (and my mom next in line of succession). We're all slight variations on a template, so you only have to look around the family tree to see your future.
Anyway, a week before I was due to ovulate, I realized that while I'd seen (and taken) over the counter progesterone, the medicine people were talking about on all the TTC websites is available by prescription only.
Boo.
So I call my doctor and (unsurprisingly) she is booked for the whole week. One of her staff, a beautiful young man named Alfonso, took my call. It would have been easy to just schedule me and note "would like advice on a prescription," but he paused and, hearing the urgency in my voice, asked if I would be willing to tell him more about it. I poured out the facts as quickly as I could: I am a queer person starting a family and trying to get pregnant through assisted insemination, I've been charting for months, my luteal phase is on the short side, last month I lost an early pregnancy, I need medical support to sustain a pregnancy, and the sooner the better because I was about to try again. Alfonso repeated everything back to me and said, "I'm going to talk to the doctor as soon as she gets out of her next appointment. I'll call you back before 4." I hung up on the verge of tears, just because someone seemed to take my needs seriously. I felt like I had support.
When he called back, he said that my doctor was willing to prescribe the cream, but wanted a hormone panel first. I came in the next morning, got a perfect stick (as usual--seriously, I can't tell you what a big deal it is to have someone competent draw your blood!) and--you guessed it--waited.
Our one insemination happened over the weekend. I figure that if I ovulate on Sunday, the (potentially) fertilized egg has a week to travel before it implants. That meant I had about a week to get my progesterone up and/or extend my luteal phase if I wanted to support implantation. On Monday they got my hormone panel back, but the conversation was really, really frustrating. Again, I still haven't seen the doctor, so I haven't gotten to communicate clearly about what's happening and why I'm asking for help. The message I got was that (1) based on the panel, she doesn't think my hormones need support, (2) she'd like to put me on birth control to regulate my cycle, (3) which means 6-12 months before I can get pregnant. Also (4) my vitamin D is a little low and my cholesterol is a little high and she'd like to straighten that out first.
...
Fun fact! Often ellipses imply a trailing off into silence. In this case, they indicate simmering rage.
I'm trying to chill because I know I still haven't talked to her, so my doctor probably doesn't understand that I'm a healthy person without severe fertility challenges who needs support because we have to borrow sperm for each and every try and I'm 34 so this is not something we can just dick around with okay??? <sigh> I can't imagine if we were paying for sperm and each cycle cost thousands of dollars. How many times could be try before we were forced to give up for simple financial reasons, if we were even willing to consider making a child that couldn't know the beginning of its own story? I don't know how to tell Will and Tink what it means that they choose to help us make a family, and are committed to being a family to us and to Tk. My fear says they'll give up on us, or it will become too awkward or inconvenient. I think it's just a miserable stupid fear, but it gnaws at me when I imagine letting more time slip by because of obstacles that could be removed. If progesterone cream is not going to give me cancer--and research suggests that it isn't--then I'm not interested in hearing about why I can't have what I believe will make a healthy pregnancy happen.
I have an appointment for this coming Monday, which likely means that any help I get will be too late for this attempt--hence the B6, chasteberry, and OTC progesterone cream. Unless you've tried to get pregnant (and I know there are so many people who have it so very much harder than I do) I don't know if you can understand the wordless animal need to make this happen. There's an emotional/intellectual side that wants to parent, wants to meet Tk, wants to continue the experience of family that so enriches my life, wants to make Tk's future as full of opportunity and possibility as it can be. And then there this bloody, hungering, primal goddess-not-like-Aphrodite-think-like-the-Morrigan-or-the-Gorgons. She has teeth and claws and a red ripe womb that's fit to burst with life, and god help you if you get in the way, because she will slash you to pieces and drink you dry.
Ahem.
I might not mention that last part to my doctor. Anyway, I'm taking Socks to the appointment if at all possible, and he's good at medical stuff. We can take turns playing good cop, bad cop.
Because come hell or high water, I am having this baby. And everyone else can help or get out of the way.
Chance conspired to give us only one try at conception this month. We had two last time, and three is the goal. This is our second cycle, and it's both harder and easier than the first time. There are new fears: my luteal phase is too short, this pregnancy will fail like the last one, since we only got one try, it's not going to work, etc.
There are hopes, too. My body started a pregnancy the first time we tried. That makes it likely that I am fertile and reproductively capable, and that swim team Iron Will is going for the gold. (We threatened to get Will a swim trophy, because his little dudes clearly have what it takes). As for the short luteal phase, I'm lucky that it's fairly minor. Mine is 9-11 days, but I've seen people online allude to 4-6 day phases. That means that the body starts flushing the uterine lining before a fertilized egg even gets to the uterus! I'm trying everything I can to lengthen my luteal phase and raise my progesterone. I'm taking 100mg of B6, 120 mg of Chasteberry, and a bioidentical progesterone cream.
I'm also trying to get in to see my doctor. This experience had led me to appreciate the little things that make such a difference when your heart is on the line. I called my doctor's office. Her smile is dazzlingly beautiful, and her bedside manner is gracious and warm. Everyone is "gorgeous" and "honey." I'd give her a B+ on gay stuff, a C on queerness, and probably a D- on trans. That's not unusual. It will be interesting to see if she takes the opportunity to learn, as I've had several friends of the queer/trans variety ask for her information and become her patients. She is African American and her staff is entirely people of color of whom several seem to be gay/queer and her clinic shares office space and patients with a Chinese medicine and acupuncture outfit, and she takes many, many kinds of insurance. If she brushes up on care for queer folk, she'll be running about the best, most diverse, most welcoming local clinic in town. Her staff is professional, friendly, attentive, and I've never had a bad stick there. She's great about giving you the clearest information in a way you can understand. She wants my cholesterol down, which I know is responsible, but it kind of annoys me because I don't want to take statins, my diet is healthy and very low cholesterol, and the pattern for women in my family is (a) until 30s, low blood pressure and low cholesterol, (b) 30s through middle age, low blood pressure and highish cholesterol, (c) after menopause, high blood pressure and highish cholesterol. This seems to hold true depite many variations in lifestyle, climate, diet, and medication. I know it's unusual for a person to have an army of clones for medical reference, but that's how we do in my family. A bevvy of females. A matriarchy with my grandmother at the head (and my mom next in line of succession). We're all slight variations on a template, so you only have to look around the family tree to see your future.
Anyway, a week before I was due to ovulate, I realized that while I'd seen (and taken) over the counter progesterone, the medicine people were talking about on all the TTC websites is available by prescription only.
Boo.
So I call my doctor and (unsurprisingly) she is booked for the whole week. One of her staff, a beautiful young man named Alfonso, took my call. It would have been easy to just schedule me and note "would like advice on a prescription," but he paused and, hearing the urgency in my voice, asked if I would be willing to tell him more about it. I poured out the facts as quickly as I could: I am a queer person starting a family and trying to get pregnant through assisted insemination, I've been charting for months, my luteal phase is on the short side, last month I lost an early pregnancy, I need medical support to sustain a pregnancy, and the sooner the better because I was about to try again. Alfonso repeated everything back to me and said, "I'm going to talk to the doctor as soon as she gets out of her next appointment. I'll call you back before 4." I hung up on the verge of tears, just because someone seemed to take my needs seriously. I felt like I had support.
When he called back, he said that my doctor was willing to prescribe the cream, but wanted a hormone panel first. I came in the next morning, got a perfect stick (as usual--seriously, I can't tell you what a big deal it is to have someone competent draw your blood!) and--you guessed it--waited.
Our one insemination happened over the weekend. I figure that if I ovulate on Sunday, the (potentially) fertilized egg has a week to travel before it implants. That meant I had about a week to get my progesterone up and/or extend my luteal phase if I wanted to support implantation. On Monday they got my hormone panel back, but the conversation was really, really frustrating. Again, I still haven't seen the doctor, so I haven't gotten to communicate clearly about what's happening and why I'm asking for help. The message I got was that (1) based on the panel, she doesn't think my hormones need support, (2) she'd like to put me on birth control to regulate my cycle, (3) which means 6-12 months before I can get pregnant. Also (4) my vitamin D is a little low and my cholesterol is a little high and she'd like to straighten that out first.
...
Fun fact! Often ellipses imply a trailing off into silence. In this case, they indicate simmering rage.
I'm trying to chill because I know I still haven't talked to her, so my doctor probably doesn't understand that I'm a healthy person without severe fertility challenges who needs support because we have to borrow sperm for each and every try and I'm 34 so this is not something we can just dick around with okay??? <sigh> I can't imagine if we were paying for sperm and each cycle cost thousands of dollars. How many times could be try before we were forced to give up for simple financial reasons, if we were even willing to consider making a child that couldn't know the beginning of its own story? I don't know how to tell Will and Tink what it means that they choose to help us make a family, and are committed to being a family to us and to Tk. My fear says they'll give up on us, or it will become too awkward or inconvenient. I think it's just a miserable stupid fear, but it gnaws at me when I imagine letting more time slip by because of obstacles that could be removed. If progesterone cream is not going to give me cancer--and research suggests that it isn't--then I'm not interested in hearing about why I can't have what I believe will make a healthy pregnancy happen.
I have an appointment for this coming Monday, which likely means that any help I get will be too late for this attempt--hence the B6, chasteberry, and OTC progesterone cream. Unless you've tried to get pregnant (and I know there are so many people who have it so very much harder than I do) I don't know if you can understand the wordless animal need to make this happen. There's an emotional/intellectual side that wants to parent, wants to meet Tk, wants to continue the experience of family that so enriches my life, wants to make Tk's future as full of opportunity and possibility as it can be. And then there this bloody, hungering, primal goddess-not-like-Aphrodite-think-like-the-Morrigan-or-the-Gorgons. She has teeth and claws and a red ripe womb that's fit to burst with life, and god help you if you get in the way, because she will slash you to pieces and drink you dry.
Ahem.
I might not mention that last part to my doctor. Anyway, I'm taking Socks to the appointment if at all possible, and he's good at medical stuff. We can take turns playing good cop, bad cop.
Because come hell or high water, I am having this baby. And everyone else can help or get out of the way.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Conception II: The Reckoning, Part Deux
So why are we trying again? Didn't it work out the first time?
Yes and no.
Yes.
But subsequently no.
Let's go back to the filmstrip about where babies come from. Not the one in the gym. That one reeeally doesn't track with my experience. The one in science class. Sperm is introduced into the "vagina" (or "man cave," or whatever the owner of the orifice in question calls it). The ones who get their act together survive the acidity of that region probably with the help of super-friendly eggwhite-consistency cervical mucus. If they make it to the cervix, they swim up up up the fallopian tubes, headed for the ovaries. If an egg is already present, it's party time. If not, they hang out and wait. (I don't think that eggs are inherently female, but I suspect that they're inherently femme).
Side note: your average ejaculatory emission contains about a quarter of a billion sperm. 250 million. Of these, maybe 100 will get a shot at the egg. Those may be discouraging odds, but I do like that the body sets a nice high bar for making humans. If you're still chasing your tail 24 hours after being introduced to a nice cervix, I don't think you should be fertilizing anybody. And even if you're a clever little sperm, zipping up a fallopian tube, there's no guarantee that the ovary you're headed for is the one that released an egg this cycle. What's more, if you make it to the right destination but the egg hasn't arrived yet, you're going to have to wait. Female sperm live longer, so if insemination happens days before ovulation, the sperm who are still around to greet the egg are probably going to produce a girl. Alternately, if insemination is timed very close to ovulation, the race is to the swift--which tend to be male sperm. So it's a tough combination of speed and endurance that generally yields a 50-50 chance of creating a boy child or a girl child, even among DIY/assisted insemination conception. (Also, in 1 in 100 live births babies show signs of sexual ambiguity, suggesting that biological sex itself is more of a spectrum than a binary. That's another blog post).
We inseminated, and then we waited. If you knew me, you'd know how very not-at-all-good I am at waiting. See, even if fertilization occurs, you're still looking at a week of travel for the zygote to be passed back down through the fallopian tubes to the uterus where it implants. (If it implants anywhere but in the wall of the uterus, that's bad). So that's a week where you feel normal, but there's something of great interest taking place that you can't see or sense. All the early pregnancy symptoms are pretty much just like PMS symptoms, and most of the clear indicators don't happen any sooner than your next missed period. So it's waiting. For me, I spent the time being obnoxious. If I had a headache, I would announce in a grave scientific voice that this was clearly a "pregnancy headache." I was also burdened with "pregnancy allergies" and "pregnancy munchies." But I really was just playing around until the morning I woke up and instead of getting my coffee and perusing the internet before work, I jumped Socks's bones. Like whoa. They next day I did it again. This is about a week after my ovulation, which means that it would be about time for a fertilized egg to implant in my uterus and for my body to ramp up production of pregnancy hormones. All of the sudden I was almost annoyingly aroused, kind of all the time. I had read that this can be caused by increased blood flow, but for all my "pregnancy munchies" jokes, I really didn't have any reason to think that I was pregnant--or wasn't! It was frustrating, because it was a total coin flip; just no clue on way or another.
Then exactly 7 days after ovulation, I found light pink blood on a tissue after urinating. (Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome! So much mucus and urine for sharing!) Socks tripped on one of our doofy cats while I was in the restroom and hollared, "I'm alright!" I stared at the tissue and after several seconds, found my voice to say: "I don't think I am." Socks and I jumped up and down in the living room. "I might be pregnant!" "You might be pregnant!" I felt increasingly certain the next day as I felt cramping that wasn't followed by bleeding. I even had the tiny temperature dip that often corresponds to implantation. My chart and symptoms were textbook.
I had about two and a half days of quiet, almost matter-of-fact joy. I knew to expect that things might not work out. My luteal cycle is between 9 and 11 days. That's on the short side, because your luteal cycle is the maximum amount of time an egg has to get fertilized, head for the uterus, implant, and for the body to release the chemicals that help you support a pregnancy. If there's too short a time between ovulation and when menstuation would usually begin, you may never be able to support a pregnancy without intervention. Fortunately a luteal cycle defect (that's what they call it) is pretty easy to correct with diet, supplements, and hormones. But even everything starts well, something like 1 in 3 pregnancies doesn't continue to healthy birth. Most of those miscarriages happen in the first 12 weeks. Our friends Keds and Eds lost a pregnancy after the 5th week, for no apparent reason, and it was devastating for them. So I was trying to be ready for one or more false starts. But you're not really ready. Especially for something you've simply never experienced.
Friday, 11 days after conception occurred, I felt cramps. I went to the restroom and there was blood, blood, blood. I texted my partners and my sister. I couldn't hold the feeling of having lost that beginning inside of me. The meeting I was in had broken for lunch and I sort of staggered out of the building and down the street. There was a health food store at the corner (because this is Austin) and I wandered in, searching on my phone for supplements that help lengthen your luteal cycle. Socks called me. I was choking up, trying to squeeze out an even voice: "I want--you to research--short luteal cycles for me." Socks murmured, "I don't think that there's anything wrong with your luteal--" "It would really help me right now if you would help me by researching short luteal cycles." I was losing it. "Okay. I will." I can't remember the rest of the conversation. I was blinded by tears trying to speak quietly and calmly in a health food store without attracting attention, and I was falling apart. I bought chasteberry after a conversation about which product the associate recommended. She was friendly and knowledgeable, and I wondered if she could tell I was having trouble keeping it together. I bought myself cheese and a protein smoothie as consolation and went back to my meeting.
I came home to the boys. Mr. Fish was working from home and Socks had returned from an errand. I got in the bath and gave in. This was more than the abstract sense of loss of a potential child. This was physical. This was a part of me that didn't have language, that didn't reason, that just wanted to scream and howl with emptiness. I just kept rocking and sobbing, with Socks behind me, holding me in his arms. I just couldn't hold onto it. Why couldn't I hold onto it? I had it. I had it. I'm not crazy. I had it. I felt insane for grieving something that didn't even test positive on an early pregnancy test. But I also knew what I felt.
Over the next few days I kept looking at my chart: the picture of insemination and ovulation, conception and implantation, and then the 2 degree temperature drop that signaled my body was halting the pregnancy. I just needed proof to show--somebody? everybody? myself?--that my grief had some cause. I was a mess for days. I just couldn't stop crying. I drove down to Houston for my mom's birthday. It was an occasion I was hoping to celebrate with good news. Instead I was just "scattered showers" all weekend. It wasn't like I was in shock or still reeling from the disappointment. I had hardly started to hope! It was just...bare, physical loss. I could be around people for two or three hours, and then I just had to get away. I felt even more wrecked that no one was experiencing the loss the way I was--not even my partners. They were disappointed and sad, and particularly sad for my sorrow, but the grief was located in my body and no one else's and ultimately it just had to run its course.
I'm wearing what Socks described as an art installation around my neck. One necklace is from Socks. It's a gift from his mother, a simple silver heart on a chain. The heart usually catches on a silver cylinder--a souvenir from a church in St. Petersburg, Russia, that holds a prayer for Tk: Come home, Tk: whole and healthy and already loved. Another necklace was a gift from my mother for Tk's altar; it's a gift from a family friend upon her high school graduation, shortly after her father's death. The last necklace in Tink's brass key. I mean to take them off, but they give me comfort. Most people around me don't know I'm trying to get pregnant, and they certainly don't know about my disappointment. I like the tangle of delicate chains, and the chime when I lean forward and they touch. I like that my 9 month old godson reaches for them.
It's strange to write this with detachment now. It's been two weeks, and I feel...normal? This morning I did experience a jolt of excitement and fear, thinking that I may be starting the process all over again, and it could happen again. The having and the losing. It could be worse (as I'm certain that it's worse and worse the longer the pregnancy lasts before ending). I'm taking chasteberry, vitamin B6, and I'm trying to get progesterone cream from my doctor before implantation would be likely. When I go home tonight, I'll see my loves, I'll clean my room, I'll put on the Boss again, and try again.
Wish us luck. Come home, Tk.
Yes and no.
Yes.
But subsequently no.
Let's go back to the filmstrip about where babies come from. Not the one in the gym. That one reeeally doesn't track with my experience. The one in science class. Sperm is introduced into the "vagina" (or "man cave," or whatever the owner of the orifice in question calls it). The ones who get their act together survive the acidity of that region probably with the help of super-friendly eggwhite-consistency cervical mucus. If they make it to the cervix, they swim up up up the fallopian tubes, headed for the ovaries. If an egg is already present, it's party time. If not, they hang out and wait. (I don't think that eggs are inherently female, but I suspect that they're inherently femme).
Side note: your average ejaculatory emission contains about a quarter of a billion sperm. 250 million. Of these, maybe 100 will get a shot at the egg. Those may be discouraging odds, but I do like that the body sets a nice high bar for making humans. If you're still chasing your tail 24 hours after being introduced to a nice cervix, I don't think you should be fertilizing anybody. And even if you're a clever little sperm, zipping up a fallopian tube, there's no guarantee that the ovary you're headed for is the one that released an egg this cycle. What's more, if you make it to the right destination but the egg hasn't arrived yet, you're going to have to wait. Female sperm live longer, so if insemination happens days before ovulation, the sperm who are still around to greet the egg are probably going to produce a girl. Alternately, if insemination is timed very close to ovulation, the race is to the swift--which tend to be male sperm. So it's a tough combination of speed and endurance that generally yields a 50-50 chance of creating a boy child or a girl child, even among DIY/assisted insemination conception. (Also, in 1 in 100 live births babies show signs of sexual ambiguity, suggesting that biological sex itself is more of a spectrum than a binary. That's another blog post).
We inseminated, and then we waited. If you knew me, you'd know how very not-at-all-good I am at waiting. See, even if fertilization occurs, you're still looking at a week of travel for the zygote to be passed back down through the fallopian tubes to the uterus where it implants. (If it implants anywhere but in the wall of the uterus, that's bad). So that's a week where you feel normal, but there's something of great interest taking place that you can't see or sense. All the early pregnancy symptoms are pretty much just like PMS symptoms, and most of the clear indicators don't happen any sooner than your next missed period. So it's waiting. For me, I spent the time being obnoxious. If I had a headache, I would announce in a grave scientific voice that this was clearly a "pregnancy headache." I was also burdened with "pregnancy allergies" and "pregnancy munchies." But I really was just playing around until the morning I woke up and instead of getting my coffee and perusing the internet before work, I jumped Socks's bones. Like whoa. They next day I did it again. This is about a week after my ovulation, which means that it would be about time for a fertilized egg to implant in my uterus and for my body to ramp up production of pregnancy hormones. All of the sudden I was almost annoyingly aroused, kind of all the time. I had read that this can be caused by increased blood flow, but for all my "pregnancy munchies" jokes, I really didn't have any reason to think that I was pregnant--or wasn't! It was frustrating, because it was a total coin flip; just no clue on way or another.
Then exactly 7 days after ovulation, I found light pink blood on a tissue after urinating. (Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome! So much mucus and urine for sharing!) Socks tripped on one of our doofy cats while I was in the restroom and hollared, "I'm alright!" I stared at the tissue and after several seconds, found my voice to say: "I don't think I am." Socks and I jumped up and down in the living room. "I might be pregnant!" "You might be pregnant!" I felt increasingly certain the next day as I felt cramping that wasn't followed by bleeding. I even had the tiny temperature dip that often corresponds to implantation. My chart and symptoms were textbook.
I had about two and a half days of quiet, almost matter-of-fact joy. I knew to expect that things might not work out. My luteal cycle is between 9 and 11 days. That's on the short side, because your luteal cycle is the maximum amount of time an egg has to get fertilized, head for the uterus, implant, and for the body to release the chemicals that help you support a pregnancy. If there's too short a time between ovulation and when menstuation would usually begin, you may never be able to support a pregnancy without intervention. Fortunately a luteal cycle defect (that's what they call it) is pretty easy to correct with diet, supplements, and hormones. But even everything starts well, something like 1 in 3 pregnancies doesn't continue to healthy birth. Most of those miscarriages happen in the first 12 weeks. Our friends Keds and Eds lost a pregnancy after the 5th week, for no apparent reason, and it was devastating for them. So I was trying to be ready for one or more false starts. But you're not really ready. Especially for something you've simply never experienced.
Friday, 11 days after conception occurred, I felt cramps. I went to the restroom and there was blood, blood, blood. I texted my partners and my sister. I couldn't hold the feeling of having lost that beginning inside of me. The meeting I was in had broken for lunch and I sort of staggered out of the building and down the street. There was a health food store at the corner (because this is Austin) and I wandered in, searching on my phone for supplements that help lengthen your luteal cycle. Socks called me. I was choking up, trying to squeeze out an even voice: "I want--you to research--short luteal cycles for me." Socks murmured, "I don't think that there's anything wrong with your luteal--" "It would really help me right now if you would help me by researching short luteal cycles." I was losing it. "Okay. I will." I can't remember the rest of the conversation. I was blinded by tears trying to speak quietly and calmly in a health food store without attracting attention, and I was falling apart. I bought chasteberry after a conversation about which product the associate recommended. She was friendly and knowledgeable, and I wondered if she could tell I was having trouble keeping it together. I bought myself cheese and a protein smoothie as consolation and went back to my meeting.
I came home to the boys. Mr. Fish was working from home and Socks had returned from an errand. I got in the bath and gave in. This was more than the abstract sense of loss of a potential child. This was physical. This was a part of me that didn't have language, that didn't reason, that just wanted to scream and howl with emptiness. I just kept rocking and sobbing, with Socks behind me, holding me in his arms. I just couldn't hold onto it. Why couldn't I hold onto it? I had it. I had it. I'm not crazy. I had it. I felt insane for grieving something that didn't even test positive on an early pregnancy test. But I also knew what I felt.
Over the next few days I kept looking at my chart: the picture of insemination and ovulation, conception and implantation, and then the 2 degree temperature drop that signaled my body was halting the pregnancy. I just needed proof to show--somebody? everybody? myself?--that my grief had some cause. I was a mess for days. I just couldn't stop crying. I drove down to Houston for my mom's birthday. It was an occasion I was hoping to celebrate with good news. Instead I was just "scattered showers" all weekend. It wasn't like I was in shock or still reeling from the disappointment. I had hardly started to hope! It was just...bare, physical loss. I could be around people for two or three hours, and then I just had to get away. I felt even more wrecked that no one was experiencing the loss the way I was--not even my partners. They were disappointed and sad, and particularly sad for my sorrow, but the grief was located in my body and no one else's and ultimately it just had to run its course.
I'm wearing what Socks described as an art installation around my neck. One necklace is from Socks. It's a gift from his mother, a simple silver heart on a chain. The heart usually catches on a silver cylinder--a souvenir from a church in St. Petersburg, Russia, that holds a prayer for Tk: Come home, Tk: whole and healthy and already loved. Another necklace was a gift from my mother for Tk's altar; it's a gift from a family friend upon her high school graduation, shortly after her father's death. The last necklace in Tink's brass key. I mean to take them off, but they give me comfort. Most people around me don't know I'm trying to get pregnant, and they certainly don't know about my disappointment. I like the tangle of delicate chains, and the chime when I lean forward and they touch. I like that my 9 month old godson reaches for them.
It's strange to write this with detachment now. It's been two weeks, and I feel...normal? This morning I did experience a jolt of excitement and fear, thinking that I may be starting the process all over again, and it could happen again. The having and the losing. It could be worse (as I'm certain that it's worse and worse the longer the pregnancy lasts before ending). I'm taking chasteberry, vitamin B6, and I'm trying to get progesterone cream from my doctor before implantation would be likely. When I go home tonight, I'll see my loves, I'll clean my room, I'll put on the Boss again, and try again.
Wish us luck. Come home, Tk.
Conception II: The Reckoning
Today we start Conception II: The Reckoning (working title).
Last month was our first try. In 2012, between September and December, my--
Hang on. We're going to need names. Not real names, certainly. And while my partners may be, respectively, Pterodactyl- and Tuna-identified, Pterodactyl is a long word and Tuna is awfully familiar. How about Socks and Mr. Fish? That'll do until I ask them and then conduct a Ctrl+F to replace each incident with something better. Socks and Mr. Fish. For clarity's sake, Socks is the boy I met at the party. He is a queer little princeling, last of the pterodons, with giant brown eyes and thinky fingers that twitch when he's scheming. Mr. Fish is patience and eyelashes, a logician with a heart of gold, and far too stealthy to be safe.
In 2012, Socks undertook what my friend Keds called The Hunt For Sperm October. I first asked my childhood bestie, but he's married now with aspirations of family of his own, so asking him to make the babies was somewhat more complicated than when I was a Lessbian (pronounce it with a lisp for the full effect) and he was a gay bachelor (but he's not gay). So Socks asked a childhood friend of his own, a delightful writer and fellow queermo in another city five hours away. But somehow whenever Socks would talk about this co-worker of his and his awesome wife, (let's call them Iron Will and Tinkerbell--IT'S MY BLOG I DO WHAT I WANT), he and I both had this strong tug of affection around them, even though I'd never met them. We decided to have the five of us meet, and then if things felt right, Socks would pop the question.
The meeting was conducted at a BYOB pinball arcade (we are somewhat traditional). Tink and I hit it off hard, and I liked Will immediately. (Side note: Tink and I rained destruction on the others at air hockey. V. satisfying.) A month or so later, Socks asked them and they said yes! Also, Tink is a hell of a witch, so we knew we'd picked a winning team.
Fast forward to the last month and our first try. I'm telling you, there is something about what the body knows wordlessly and what we think and intend using language. I'd been charting for months. For the uninitiated (most humans) this means waking up and checking (1) my temperature, (2) the position of my cervix, and (3) the consistency of my cervical mucus. My clever phone wakes me up at 6am every morning with the theme to Joss Whedon's Firefly (I like to wake up feeling rebellious) and I enter these data. Over time you get a picture that centers on ovulation. Morning temps are usually the lowest of the day, which is why this method is called BBT, or basal body temperature. After you ovulate, your temperature spikes due to a release of the hormone progesterone. If you were doing it by hand, you would look at the 6 temps before a spike, pick the highest one, and draw a line 1/10 of a degree higher than it. This is your coverline. You use it to figure out what's happening inside your body. Your temperature will probably stay above the coverline every day after the spike, until you get your period. Then it drops and stays low until your next ovulation. On the other hand, if it stays consistently above the line for 18 days, you're probably pregnant.
Anyway, I was all aglow with we're-gonna-try-this-month-finally! energy, and I swear, my ovaries got the message that I was ovulating purposefully for the first time, because I was pleasantly but intensely tingly and tender and I could point to exactly exactly where my ovaries and uterus were. (Before, I just shrugged and indicated everything below my rib cage and above my knees).
I got home from work a couple of days before we were scheduled to try and Socks met me with affection, but something like reservation in his face as I gushed about every possible feeling related to conception. He finally, reluctantly admitted that something felt off about our sperm sperm sperm BABY NOW focus, which had eclipsed our continuing to establish closeness with Will and Tink, despite stating the intention to form a family with them. We hadn't created a donor agreement, explicitly describing both the limitations of the relationship (aunt-uncle, not parents; terminating legal parentage, remaining close to Tk as family, being available for Tk's questions over time, etc). Basically, we were rushing so single-mindedly towards get-a-baby-now-figure-it-out-later that we were already putting something--our desire for a child--ahead of the best interests of said child. And without delving into Socks's origin story, I can just say that if there's anybody who's going to keep this family honest about the non-commodification of children and the best interests of same, it's Socks. We count on him to see things other people don't, especially as they relate to a small person's needs and development.
But you never saw such a hard, sad conversation. He felt like he was wrenching something away from me that I wanted more than anything, and that some part of me might never forgive him or trust him again. He was afraid I'd mistake it for cold feet or over-planning to the point of stalling out, (which is not completely outside of Socks's capacity. He is a ruthless planner. But damn, when the boy does something, it gets done right). Then Mr. Fish got home and we had to do it all over again. The explanations, the fear, the disappointment. I felt like I was holding as still as I could not to overbalance the conversation with the howl inside of me, this physical now now NOW NOW NOW need that radiated out from my ovaries, my uterus that cramped with want, into my whole body. We talked late into the night, cried, cuddled, agreed to pursue a level of understanding and closeness with our donor family that left each of us feeling confident that we were doing best by Tk, even if it meant missing this month's attempt.
In the end, Socks made it all happen. He met up with Will and Tink, and the following day we all came over and hung out. We looked at Will's baby pictures--(I may end up with a blond haired baby child. So strange!) Tink and I talked fertility magic, and I asked them each for something for Tk's altar. Will picked a shell, Tink contributed an old-fashioned brass key and gave me a tiny carved totem painted like a doll. Socks dropped Mr. Fish and me home and drove around until Will and Tink delivered a mason jar, which he then cradled in his binder to keep it warm. (This is maybe the queerest baby ever. Sperm contributed by a witch and a metal punk, kept in a farmer's market mason jar, warmed in a chest binder, delivered to the cervix via testosterone syringe. Egg contributed by high femme in ruffle panties and a tiara. Now watch our baby come out a Young Republican...)
At home Mr. Fish selected a Rock Band guitar pick for the altar while Socks arranged river-smoothed rocks from his collection atop a children's book about a dragon, bounded by the rosebud blanket my grandmother made for me, her first grandchild. I actually felt a lot of not-so-fun feelings during this first try. Fish and I are not sexual partners, so I didn't like getting nakey and splayed in front of him just because I was making babies. I'm not normally modest at all, but there was something about that role of "vessel" that I was really afraid of. Like somehow they'd stop seeing me as a whole person and I'd reduced to my reproductive function. Mr. Fish and Socks are very patient with me having some hella strong feelings about my own experience of marginalization as a girl and woman, and resentment of the centrality of masculinity even in queer circles. Not just patient--that sounds like "tolerance." They understand, and it matters to them. I have the best husbands.
But the next try, two days later after a positive ovulation test was better. I understood my feelings and they'd heard me out with love and compassion, so I stripped down, put a Bruce Springsteen album on the record player, and Mr. Fish lay next to me, feet in the air, assuming every ridiculous position I had to for the duration of the effort (exclusive of a little private time devoted to orgasm, which helps the cervix pick up more of the sperm. If you've never tried to climax with your feet over your head trying not to spill about two tablespoons of sperm from your business area, can I just recommend against it? This posish is not in the Kama Sutra for a reason). This means feet overhead, hips on pillows, first in pike position and then straddle, then pike again and rotate every fifteen minutes. You can't make this shit up. Also, don't laugh or you're likely spill everything everywhere. At some point Mr. Fish asked Socks to pass his phone, which was on "the sperm desk." My head popped up and indignant I exclaimed, "It's a VANITY." Yeah, we nearly lost all the sperm on the subsequent gasping laughter.
Oops. There's more to this story, but I need to shower, take a bird to the wildlife rehabber, and go to work. (Normal day). Talk soon.
Last month was our first try. In 2012, between September and December, my--
Hang on. We're going to need names. Not real names, certainly. And while my partners may be, respectively, Pterodactyl- and Tuna-identified, Pterodactyl is a long word and Tuna is awfully familiar. How about Socks and Mr. Fish? That'll do until I ask them and then conduct a Ctrl+F to replace each incident with something better. Socks and Mr. Fish. For clarity's sake, Socks is the boy I met at the party. He is a queer little princeling, last of the pterodons, with giant brown eyes and thinky fingers that twitch when he's scheming. Mr. Fish is patience and eyelashes, a logician with a heart of gold, and far too stealthy to be safe.
In 2012, Socks undertook what my friend Keds called The Hunt For Sperm October. I first asked my childhood bestie, but he's married now with aspirations of family of his own, so asking him to make the babies was somewhat more complicated than when I was a Lessbian (pronounce it with a lisp for the full effect) and he was a gay bachelor (but he's not gay). So Socks asked a childhood friend of his own, a delightful writer and fellow queermo in another city five hours away. But somehow whenever Socks would talk about this co-worker of his and his awesome wife, (let's call them Iron Will and Tinkerbell--IT'S MY BLOG I DO WHAT I WANT), he and I both had this strong tug of affection around them, even though I'd never met them. We decided to have the five of us meet, and then if things felt right, Socks would pop the question.
The meeting was conducted at a BYOB pinball arcade (we are somewhat traditional). Tink and I hit it off hard, and I liked Will immediately. (Side note: Tink and I rained destruction on the others at air hockey. V. satisfying.) A month or so later, Socks asked them and they said yes! Also, Tink is a hell of a witch, so we knew we'd picked a winning team.
Fast forward to the last month and our first try. I'm telling you, there is something about what the body knows wordlessly and what we think and intend using language. I'd been charting for months. For the uninitiated (most humans) this means waking up and checking (1) my temperature, (2) the position of my cervix, and (3) the consistency of my cervical mucus. My clever phone wakes me up at 6am every morning with the theme to Joss Whedon's Firefly (I like to wake up feeling rebellious) and I enter these data. Over time you get a picture that centers on ovulation. Morning temps are usually the lowest of the day, which is why this method is called BBT, or basal body temperature. After you ovulate, your temperature spikes due to a release of the hormone progesterone. If you were doing it by hand, you would look at the 6 temps before a spike, pick the highest one, and draw a line 1/10 of a degree higher than it. This is your coverline. You use it to figure out what's happening inside your body. Your temperature will probably stay above the coverline every day after the spike, until you get your period. Then it drops and stays low until your next ovulation. On the other hand, if it stays consistently above the line for 18 days, you're probably pregnant.
Anyway, I was all aglow with we're-gonna-try-this-month-finally! energy, and I swear, my ovaries got the message that I was ovulating purposefully for the first time, because I was pleasantly but intensely tingly and tender and I could point to exactly exactly where my ovaries and uterus were. (Before, I just shrugged and indicated everything below my rib cage and above my knees).
I got home from work a couple of days before we were scheduled to try and Socks met me with affection, but something like reservation in his face as I gushed about every possible feeling related to conception. He finally, reluctantly admitted that something felt off about our sperm sperm sperm BABY NOW focus, which had eclipsed our continuing to establish closeness with Will and Tink, despite stating the intention to form a family with them. We hadn't created a donor agreement, explicitly describing both the limitations of the relationship (aunt-uncle, not parents; terminating legal parentage, remaining close to Tk as family, being available for Tk's questions over time, etc). Basically, we were rushing so single-mindedly towards get-a-baby-now-figure-it-out-later that we were already putting something--our desire for a child--ahead of the best interests of said child. And without delving into Socks's origin story, I can just say that if there's anybody who's going to keep this family honest about the non-commodification of children and the best interests of same, it's Socks. We count on him to see things other people don't, especially as they relate to a small person's needs and development.
But you never saw such a hard, sad conversation. He felt like he was wrenching something away from me that I wanted more than anything, and that some part of me might never forgive him or trust him again. He was afraid I'd mistake it for cold feet or over-planning to the point of stalling out, (which is not completely outside of Socks's capacity. He is a ruthless planner. But damn, when the boy does something, it gets done right). Then Mr. Fish got home and we had to do it all over again. The explanations, the fear, the disappointment. I felt like I was holding as still as I could not to overbalance the conversation with the howl inside of me, this physical now now NOW NOW NOW need that radiated out from my ovaries, my uterus that cramped with want, into my whole body. We talked late into the night, cried, cuddled, agreed to pursue a level of understanding and closeness with our donor family that left each of us feeling confident that we were doing best by Tk, even if it meant missing this month's attempt.
In the end, Socks made it all happen. He met up with Will and Tink, and the following day we all came over and hung out. We looked at Will's baby pictures--(I may end up with a blond haired baby child. So strange!) Tink and I talked fertility magic, and I asked them each for something for Tk's altar. Will picked a shell, Tink contributed an old-fashioned brass key and gave me a tiny carved totem painted like a doll. Socks dropped Mr. Fish and me home and drove around until Will and Tink delivered a mason jar, which he then cradled in his binder to keep it warm. (This is maybe the queerest baby ever. Sperm contributed by a witch and a metal punk, kept in a farmer's market mason jar, warmed in a chest binder, delivered to the cervix via testosterone syringe. Egg contributed by high femme in ruffle panties and a tiara. Now watch our baby come out a Young Republican...)
At home Mr. Fish selected a Rock Band guitar pick for the altar while Socks arranged river-smoothed rocks from his collection atop a children's book about a dragon, bounded by the rosebud blanket my grandmother made for me, her first grandchild. I actually felt a lot of not-so-fun feelings during this first try. Fish and I are not sexual partners, so I didn't like getting nakey and splayed in front of him just because I was making babies. I'm not normally modest at all, but there was something about that role of "vessel" that I was really afraid of. Like somehow they'd stop seeing me as a whole person and I'd reduced to my reproductive function. Mr. Fish and Socks are very patient with me having some hella strong feelings about my own experience of marginalization as a girl and woman, and resentment of the centrality of masculinity even in queer circles. Not just patient--that sounds like "tolerance." They understand, and it matters to them. I have the best husbands.
But the next try, two days later after a positive ovulation test was better. I understood my feelings and they'd heard me out with love and compassion, so I stripped down, put a Bruce Springsteen album on the record player, and Mr. Fish lay next to me, feet in the air, assuming every ridiculous position I had to for the duration of the effort (exclusive of a little private time devoted to orgasm, which helps the cervix pick up more of the sperm. If you've never tried to climax with your feet over your head trying not to spill about two tablespoons of sperm from your business area, can I just recommend against it? This posish is not in the Kama Sutra for a reason). This means feet overhead, hips on pillows, first in pike position and then straddle, then pike again and rotate every fifteen minutes. You can't make this shit up. Also, don't laugh or you're likely spill everything everywhere. At some point Mr. Fish asked Socks to pass his phone, which was on "the sperm desk." My head popped up and indignant I exclaimed, "It's a VANITY." Yeah, we nearly lost all the sperm on the subsequent gasping laughter.
Oops. There's more to this story, but I need to shower, take a bird to the wildlife rehabber, and go to work. (Normal day). Talk soon.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Into The Matrix
So, if you're trying to get pregnant and it ain't happenin' by accident, you are probably about to enter the Fertility Matrix--where everything that people take for granted is a lie (or at least a startling distortion of reality) and you have to choose the red pill of Things Other People Don't Have To Know About. Like your cervix. Do you have a cervix? I do. But unless somebody was bumping into it in the dark (OW, motherfucker!) it didn't really register as Thing I Needed To Know About. But all that changed when the Fire Nation attacked I decided I wanted to get pregnant...
When the three of us had the Big Talk,--(come for the cervix chat, stay for the capitalization!)--one of the first things I did was try to understand how my cycle works, especially re: fertility. Then I immediately got overwhelmed and laid down on the couch with the book Taking Charge of Your Fertility covering my whole face. (No lie, I really just typed "Futility" instead of "Fertility." I could probably benefit from taking charge of my futility, but that's another blog...) Then, like any red-blooded American, I want to the Android app store. Unsurprisingly, there is, in fact, an app for that. The best one, in my opinion, is called OvuView. The name seemed impertinent right from the jump; I'm not sure that I want my Ovu Viewed. But since I was the one doing the viewing, and I really kinda very wanted this baby thing to work, I sat down and gave it all kinds of information about my last period and my intention to conceive.
OvuView started asking some very forward questions! Guess what? If you're trying to conceive, you get to learn all about Cervical Mucus (Dry<-->Egg White), Cervical Position (Low<-->High, Open<-->Closed), your Luteal Cycle (this is a big deal), and Ovulation (is this going to be on the test?) Explaining this to my close friends, cervix-having folk, all of them, led to a hilarious back and forth.
Me: So first thing in the morning I get to take my temperature and feel my cervix.
Friend: But that's IMPOSSIBLE! No one can reach their own cervix!
Me: Yes. Yes, you can reach your cervix. It's just right in there.
Friend: Oh! I thought you needed to be a doctor!
Me: Um....no.
I'm sure I'll deposit more information here in the future--probably more than anyone needs, just because this has become like a really weird hobby for me. Not weird like SCA tourneys, but still, not something you bring up in everyday conversation. But what I'd really like to share is a note I wrote to the developers of OvuView. I haven't heard back, but I hope I do someday. See, making babies in a queer family--queer poly family, no less--is often an isolating experience. When people write about making babies, not only is it usually hella heteronormative, but it assumes that "lovemaking" and "acts of intercourse" lead directly to babies. Well, guess what? If you've got queer bodies, or you're flying solo, or you and your partner(s) have fertility challenges, that's really marginalizing talk. See, I can engage in some really creative acts of intercourse and some really intimate intimacies and some lovely lovemaking, but it's not going to get me pregnant. You know what gets people pregnant? Sperm, eggs, and a handy uterus. Bake until done. That's the universal experience of making new humans: sperm, eggs, uterus. Might happen outside the body in a lab. Might happen via a syringe full of friendly splooj. Might happen with one partner, or two, or none. Might happen in a female-identified body, or a male-identified body, or a body that defies identification but is capable of sustaining gestation. But we all start out the same way. And there's no reason my experience of making family should be erased, nor anyone else's, when the basics are universal. So I wrote this letter:
I love OvuView. At I was really intimidated by the overwhelming amount of data that I felt like I needed to collect and chart when trying to become pregnant, but OvuView has streamlined the process in the most helpful and attractive ways!
Something I ask you to consider:
I believe the developers of OvuView must understand the importance and frustration of repeated attempts to conceive. Emotions are intense, and disappointments frequent. And I am certain you understand that the target market for your product contains many overlapping groups of people who do not find conception an effortless endeavor. Among them: heterosexual couples with fertility challenges, single-mothers-by-choice, same-sex couples, and trans people who are able to carry children.
I am a female bodied person trying to get pregnant with my partners using donor sperm. My sister is also a female bodied person, but her husband has a low sperm count, so they are also considering semen delivery using a syringe, optimizing their timing with the use of your app. While our situations are unusual for the general population, they are common among people who use your app. In fact, people who rely on your app--and who are willing to pay full price for such a useful tool--are largely those for whom the process is more complicated--or just looks different--than "when a man and a woman love each other verrrry much..." ;)
Please let the diversity of your users rest in your thoughts for a few moments. We are a significant group of people, and our use of conception-related apps is connected to (1) hope, (2) frequent disappointment, and (3) marginalization and isolation among the sea of folks who just (OOPS!) get pregnant. We're happy for them, but that's not how our families form.
OvuView can't help much with (1) and (2), but it can do something about (3) when it comes to two aspects of your app:
Intercourse - this is a pretty clinical term, but it's also wildly inaccurate when you're talking about families who need to use assisted or artificial insemination, but still want to use OvuView to track symptoms and plan conception tries. (Again, families like this make up a significant percentage of your consumer base). Intercourse/insemination, or
Sex Drive - I know this one has been brought up before, but it would be a sign of respect to all families who use OvuView to simplify representation down to a heart--already a part of the icon. I'm not asking OvuView to complicate its icons--just to use something simple and universally recognized that is not exclusive of gay, lesbian, trans, and poly families. Making families and having children as queer people, you come up again exclusion and marginalization a lot. I understand OvuView not wanting to overly complicate or politicize this excellent app, but it would be such an easy fix, and I cannot explain how bad it feels every time your experience is treated like it's not part of the larger human experience, or how good it feels when you encounter a neutral or inclusive word.
Trying to get pregnant is an emotional process for everyone involved. It's not irrational to ask to be included--or rather, just not excluded--in the language and tools one uses to get pregnant. It just makes a difficult thing slightly better. And that's what OvuView is good at. Making something difficult easier and better.Many thanks for your consideration. A written response would be so appreciated. I like promoting OvuView. I would feel even better if I could point to a letter and say, "This company and these developers care about ALL the people who use their product," as I truly believe you do.
Sincerely,A-Queer-Mom-To-Be
When the three of us had the Big Talk,--(come for the cervix chat, stay for the capitalization!)--one of the first things I did was try to understand how my cycle works, especially re: fertility. Then I immediately got overwhelmed and laid down on the couch with the book Taking Charge of Your Fertility covering my whole face. (No lie, I really just typed "Futility" instead of "Fertility." I could probably benefit from taking charge of my futility, but that's another blog...) Then, like any red-blooded American, I want to the Android app store. Unsurprisingly, there is, in fact, an app for that. The best one, in my opinion, is called OvuView. The name seemed impertinent right from the jump; I'm not sure that I want my Ovu Viewed. But since I was the one doing the viewing, and I really kinda very wanted this baby thing to work, I sat down and gave it all kinds of information about my last period and my intention to conceive.
OvuView started asking some very forward questions! Guess what? If you're trying to conceive, you get to learn all about Cervical Mucus (Dry<-->Egg White), Cervical Position (Low<-->High, Open<-->Closed), your Luteal Cycle (this is a big deal), and Ovulation (is this going to be on the test?) Explaining this to my close friends, cervix-having folk, all of them, led to a hilarious back and forth.
Me: So first thing in the morning I get to take my temperature and feel my cervix.
Friend: But that's IMPOSSIBLE! No one can reach their own cervix!
Me: Yes. Yes, you can reach your cervix. It's just right in there.
Friend: Oh! I thought you needed to be a doctor!
Me: Um....no.
I'm sure I'll deposit more information here in the future--probably more than anyone needs, just because this has become like a really weird hobby for me. Not weird like SCA tourneys, but still, not something you bring up in everyday conversation. But what I'd really like to share is a note I wrote to the developers of OvuView. I haven't heard back, but I hope I do someday. See, making babies in a queer family--queer poly family, no less--is often an isolating experience. When people write about making babies, not only is it usually hella heteronormative, but it assumes that "lovemaking" and "acts of intercourse" lead directly to babies. Well, guess what? If you've got queer bodies, or you're flying solo, or you and your partner(s) have fertility challenges, that's really marginalizing talk. See, I can engage in some really creative acts of intercourse and some really intimate intimacies and some lovely lovemaking, but it's not going to get me pregnant. You know what gets people pregnant? Sperm, eggs, and a handy uterus. Bake until done. That's the universal experience of making new humans: sperm, eggs, uterus. Might happen outside the body in a lab. Might happen via a syringe full of friendly splooj. Might happen with one partner, or two, or none. Might happen in a female-identified body, or a male-identified body, or a body that defies identification but is capable of sustaining gestation. But we all start out the same way. And there's no reason my experience of making family should be erased, nor anyone else's, when the basics are universal. So I wrote this letter:
I love OvuView. At I was really intimidated by the overwhelming amount of data that I felt like I needed to collect and chart when trying to become pregnant, but OvuView has streamlined the process in the most helpful and attractive ways!
Something I ask you to consider:
I believe the developers of OvuView must understand the importance and frustration of repeated attempts to conceive. Emotions are intense, and disappointments frequent. And I am certain you understand that the target market for your product contains many overlapping groups of people who do not find conception an effortless endeavor. Among them: heterosexual couples with fertility challenges, single-mothers-by-choice, same-sex couples, and trans people who are able to carry children.
I am a female bodied person trying to get pregnant with my partners using donor sperm. My sister is also a female bodied person, but her husband has a low sperm count, so they are also considering semen delivery using a syringe, optimizing their timing with the use of your app. While our situations are unusual for the general population, they are common among people who use your app. In fact, people who rely on your app--and who are willing to pay full price for such a useful tool--are largely those for whom the process is more complicated--or just looks different--than "when a man and a woman love each other verrrry much..." ;)
Please let the diversity of your users rest in your thoughts for a few moments. We are a significant group of people, and our use of conception-related apps is connected to (1) hope, (2) frequent disappointment, and (3) marginalization and isolation among the sea of folks who just (OOPS!) get pregnant. We're happy for them, but that's not how our families form.
OvuView can't help much with (1) and (2), but it can do something about (3) when it comes to two aspects of your app:
Intercourse - this is a pretty clinical term, but it's also wildly inaccurate when you're talking about families who need to use assisted or artificial insemination, but still want to use OvuView to track symptoms and plan conception tries. (Again, families like this make up a significant percentage of your consumer base). Intercourse/insemination, or
Sex Drive - I know this one has been brought up before, but it would be a sign of respect to all families who use OvuView to simplify representation down to a heart--already a part of the icon. I'm not asking OvuView to complicate its icons--just to use something simple and universally recognized that is not exclusive of gay, lesbian, trans, and poly families. Making families and having children as queer people, you come up again exclusion and marginalization a lot. I understand OvuView not wanting to overly complicate or politicize this excellent app, but it would be such an easy fix, and I cannot explain how bad it feels every time your experience is treated like it's not part of the larger human experience, or how good it feels when you encounter a neutral or inclusive word.
Trying to get pregnant is an emotional process for everyone involved. It's not irrational to ask to be included--or rather, just not excluded--in the language and tools one uses to get pregnant. It just makes a difficult thing slightly better. And that's what OvuView is good at. Making something difficult easier and better.Many thanks for your consideration. A written response would be so appreciated. I like promoting OvuView. I would feel even better if I could point to a letter and say, "This company and these developers care about ALL the people who use their product," as I truly believe you do.
Sincerely,A-Queer-Mom-To-Be
Making Queer Family: How Does That Work?
So a dragon, and pterodactyl, and a fish walk into a bar...
No, that doesn't work.
When three people love each other verrry much...
Still not right.
Hmph.
First comes love, then comes poly-marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage, ...
That's not even chronologically accurate.
So five years ago there was this boy. At a party. He told me the stories behind each of his tattoos, and I painted a moonrise reflected over a lake on his skin. We fell in love. It took me a while to notice. In the years it took me to reciprocate, he also fell in love with the most amazing man. A little more than a year ago I found the courage to love him back, and the three of us began a journey towards being family. Queer, poly, thrupple-y family. And now we're trying to bring the first of (probably) a soccer team of tiny humans into the world. Specifically, we are working on bringing home Tk.
No, that doesn't work.
When three people love each other verrry much...
Still not right.
Hmph.
First comes love, then comes poly-marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage, ...
That's not even chronologically accurate.
So five years ago there was this boy. At a party. He told me the stories behind each of his tattoos, and I painted a moonrise reflected over a lake on his skin. We fell in love. It took me a while to notice. In the years it took me to reciprocate, he also fell in love with the most amazing man. A little more than a year ago I found the courage to love him back, and the three of us began a journey towards being family. Queer, poly, thrupple-y family. And now we're trying to bring the first of (probably) a soccer team of tiny humans into the world. Specifically, we are working on bringing home Tk.
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