Overwrought

Is how my state of mind has been in the last day or two. Last night I became convinced that the abdominal and lower back pain I was having must be the beginning of a pelvic infection from the hysteroscopy (camera through the cervix thingy) I had last week. So after 60 minutes at the after hours clinic and and expenditure of $83.50, I had a packet of 30 ibuprofen and advice to come back again if I started to get a temperature or feel sick. L was very good to refrain from saying 'I told you so' and chauffeured me both ways with no complaint.

Anyway, so I found this article, where Dr Lesley Regan, who runs the top recurrent miscarriage clinic in the world (based in London) says "We have done studies that have shown that the levels of psychological distress and disturbance in couples who have repeated miscarriages and lose babies is very similar to that in psychiatric hospitals. It really is an enormous burden on people."

So the first thing this makes me think is "Yay, finally some validation for my wonky emotional state." Cos seriously, infertility and pregnancy loss hardly ever show up in official literature about stressors that impact on emotional health.

But then I start to wonder "Does this mean I should be institutionalised or is it just that the UK its easier to get into a psychiatric inpatient unit?"

Brittle

I feel like a window pane with a crack in it. There is a truth at the core of me and sometimes I feel it could make me shatter - I want a baby, I want a baby but my arms are empty.

Thanksgiving

Sometimes its good to give thanks

for waves and sunsets

and rainbows

and playing in the sand

for food prepared with love and generosity

for grace and beauty

for wit and the creative spark

for friends and community.

Thank you HP for bringing us together in celebration.

Clean as a whistle

is how the gynae consultant described my uterus after looking into it with a camera yesterday. No scars, no fibroids, no polyps, nothing out of the usual - completely normal. It seems that it's reasonably common for a scan to show that something is a bit odd but for nothing to be found once the doctors get a real inside look.

So after being told that I might have to wait six months for this procedure it turns out I only had to wait three weeks, which just confirms my previous assessment of the quality of care in the public health system - highly variable.

And I have to say, this was way easier than having the D & C basically because this time I wasn't in the midst of an intense emotional crisis. Although I have to say the anaethetist scared me a little - I ended up concluding that either he had very poor interpersonal skills (mumbling in a monotone and refraining from eye contact as he went over the risks of GA), or that he was going through some kind of personal crisis (he was late to work and everyone was waiting for him before they could start). Given that patients can't really say "OMG is the anaethetist wacked out?" and still expect to get prompt treatment I decided to just cross my fingers and hope that he was just aspergic. I seem to have survived the procedure with few ill effects so I guess he did his job alright.

Anyway, in a burst of unwarranted optimism, I'm thinking that maybe this is the end of the line for me in terms of reproductive crap. Maybe things will just be really easy from here on out. A girl can dream can't she.

Journeys

The other couple who live in our apartment complex had slightly premature twin babies in mid February. The babies were in the hospital for a while but now they have come home.

Since they came home I've had glimpses of their presence every now and then - rows of baby onesies hanging on the communal washing line, faint newborn crying. But the other day we had a odd confrontation. L and I were carrying our mountain bikes up some steps to the driveway and removing the front wheels so we could load them in our hatchback. At the same time, our neighbours were valiantly trying to load their double stroller, two baby car seats and assorted baby paraphernalia into their vehicle.

We chatted a little and I got my first good look at one of the babies - a small sleepy bundle. It turned out this was the first time they were leaving the house with the babies since they had come home. S, the mother, was looking a little grey with fatigue. When I asked her how it was all going she simply said "It pretty full on".

It was an odd moment because if my second pregnancy had worked out I too would have been lugging around a newborn right then. Or if my third pregnancy had worked out, I would have had a visible bump and been able to trade stories about the trials of pregnancy. But as things were, I was still footloose and fancy free, about to spend the afternoon whizzing around on my pretty new bike with my partner and to spare no thought for the needs of any other. And at that moment, although I would happily give a kidney or some other body part to have a baby myself, I was glad that I was not the one weighed down with responsibility and the awful slog of wrangling two new borns.

Last night I was walking past their lounge window on my way to the car, and as I have been doing habitually since the babies came home, I tried to subtly catch a glimpse of the interior. This time I saw J, the father, in the cosily lighted room, cradling a newborn gently on his lap, gazing enraptured at his child. And I felt like the orphan child in the Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale who presses her nose against the glass of the rich house on Christmas eve to glimpse the beauty of the Christimas tree and the glorious presents wrapped beneath.

Tick tock, turn the screw, raise the stakes

So the same day that I saw the beautiful ob/gyn in his private practice I also fronted up to Wellington Hospital for a publicly funded consultation. (The public ob/gyn got pissed off when I told him I'd had the two appointments in one day, I guess because he thought I was wasting precious public resources - but if they hadn't double booked me and left me waiting for an hour in mid-Feb then I would have felt confident enough about this public appointment would go ahead that I would have cancelled the private one - after all I had to wait three months for both of them).

The hospital started the ball rolling with a 3D ultrasound scan which involved the use of a large vaginal probe with the appearance of a joke sex toy. I love the way they know how to put you at ease.

Anyway it seems that me and scans have bad karma because it turns out there is something amiss in my uterus. A very small something - the ob/gyn described it as the size of the end of a ball point pen (you know the little sticky up bit) - only a few millimetres in diameter. In this area, there was no uterine lining growing. It seems the most likely scenario is that this is scarring from my d & c. I knew that scarring was a risk - however no one told me that there is research that indicates when you are having a d & c for a missed miscarriage as I did that there is a 30 % chance of scarring. At the time I was so focused on having the chromosomal testing done that I was prepared to take what I thought was a small risk. Was this the right decision? Is this another betrayal of me by my body unfolding in its unseen depths?

On the other hand this could be a 'something else', from my internet reading most likely a fibroid or polyp, and this something else could have been the cause of at least some of my miscarriages.

So the next step is to put a teeny tiny camera through my cervix to look at my uterus from the inside to see what it is and then to possibly operate. The waiting list for this procedure is six months, although people keep making vague statements about how they think I'll probably get it done sooner than that.

I feel like I'm whooshing down the slipperly slope of medical intervention at full speed. Every procdure that involves dilation of the cervix can weaken it ultimately making it to weak to hold together during pregnancy. Every entry into my uterus risks perforation, infection and further scarring. Surgery to remove adhesions, polyps and fibroids if done improperly can damage the uterus to the point that conception becomes difficult or impossible.

And then theres the issue of whether we should continue trying to conceive while we are waiting for the 'something' in my uterus to be photographically diagnosed. Public ob/gyn said it was fine as long as there was no possibility of me being pregnant at the time they stick the camera in. But there are vague online statements about pregnancies in compromised uteruses leading to miscarriage in the second trimester, prematurity and post-birth hemoragghing. Yay.

It seems that without any conscious volition on my part we are on the track to keep trying despite the ambiguous status of my uterus. I can't bring myself to stop again.

Missing the mark

I went to see a private fertility specialist the other day. A man only a year older than me, who is renown as being the young sexy ob/gyn about town. He was beautiful, and personable and sympathetic but he still doesn't really understand how it is to be the one sitting in my chair.

After I told him we'd been trying to have a baby for two years, he asked me if I had gotten sick of taking the folic acid every day.

Uh ........ no
I'm sick of having sex just to get pregnant when I'm tired and stressed and not in the mood
I'm sick of the roller coaster wait each month to see if it worked
I'm sick of all the people around me swelling up with child and bringing their babies into work
I'm sick of wondering what went wrong and could I have stopped it and will it happen again next time
I'm sick of the impact that the grief and the stress has on my life and my relationship

But frankly, no, I'm not sick of taking a teeny tiny pill every day. I'd be willing to do a great deal more, if it would help.

Then of course, there was the cool, serene acupuncturist who poleaxed me when making polite conversation and asking if I was sick of waiting to get pregnant.

Hello, I'm not infertile I'm a recurrent miscarrier, I've already been pregnant several times. Have you even read my file lately? And frankly, "sick of waiting to get pregnant" is the biggest understatement I've heard in a long time. When I'd been trying to get pregnant for six months with no result, THEN I was sick of trying to get preggers. Now, I've visited the deepest reaches of soul and come to the understanding that I have absolutely no control over what fate chooses to dish out to me and yet I've still scraped together enough courage to keep on trying and risk it all again. OK?