Vacillations

Last night, DH asked me how I’m feeling — as in, what does this pregnancy feel like?

I told him every day is a different combination of regular feelings and symptoms. It’s a bit of a whirlwind, actually.

I describe how my sense of smell has improved. How it isn’t all round better like a dog’s is, but sensitive to certain things — for example, being able to tell MIL just washed her hands because I can smell the soap.  I share with him how I find excess sugar has a bitter aftertaste, and how more intense salty and sour foods are — my morning glass of kefir now tastes of apple cider vinegar. And I add that I am constantly swallowing the excess of saliva, just like in my last pregnancy…

I wonder if this smell/taste thing is psychosomatic. I consider whether I am unconsciously making up symptoms, but decide I can’t be. Because I eat a full meal, and am ravenous less than two hours later. At tea-time, when I was munching on an apple and peanut butter, he was half serious when he joked, Are you just eating for show? I laughed and said I wasn’t, that I am genuinely hungry all the time. By dinner, I am starving again, like I haven’t eaten in six hours, not two. I snack after dinner while watching a movie, but early enough that I can take my oral progesterone on an empty stomach (if taken with food, it will absorb very quickly and cause nausea). When I get up to pee in the middle of the night, my stomach is rumbling again. I don’t eat at 4.30am, and find that I feel a bit queasy and not ready for food come breakfast time. I am reluctant to call it morning sickness, but it feels like a very mild form of nausea. When I am irritable (which is more often these days), I remind myself that I am probably hungry (I am). When I am on the verge of bursting into tears, I remind myself that my hormonal landscape has been artificially pruned and replanted. And then I laugh, because I am pregnant, and this is exactly what I wanted.

But the doubt flashes in front of me and stops me dead in my tracks. Miscarriage robs you of the innocence of pregnancy. Its ugly legacy permeates into every unsteady breath, and so much energy is required to fight it.

Is this pregnancy real? Is that why I haven’t relegated my four tests to my desk drawer, but keep them in view on my desk, periodically rearranging them to line them up or stack them like an infertility zen desk garden? They are my only external proof that I am, apparently, pregnant. They, along with the memory of being told my betas were strong and rising sharply, are the only things that convince me that I’m not making it up.

Am I still pregnant? Because all these symptoms aren’t reassuring enough. I had pregnancy symptoms long after Bean had died. And symptoms, like cramping and nausea, come and go. Can I rely on a heartier appetite for reassurance today when my uterus is so quiet?

Will it last? A couple of days ago, I was clutching my swollen bosom. I used to be a 34B and, by my own recent measurements, had gone up to a 34D — only four days after transfer! I simultaneously acknowledged the need to buy new bras and was horrified by the prospect of doing so this early on. I was swayed by my Twitter friends, particularly one who shared this wisdom: Celebrate the small victories in the infertility journey. So I did. I went and got myself measured for the first time in over seven years and I am now a 34D or DD, depending on the bra. But my one concession was to buy the pullover bras that I favour. There will be no hook-and-eye, back-fastening, spine-digging, underwired, ultra-supportive bras for me until I am convinced this pregnancy is a go.

Is it too early to get excited? DH asked when I might take out the collection of pregnancy books that Momsicle sent me a little over a year ago. He discreetly removed them after I hurled one across the room, screaming. I am longing to know how big Three & Four are this week. I think their hearts start beating today. I think they are the size of an apple pip, but I don’t know for sure. Taking those books out now feels premature.

Oh, the sadness.

I dared open my first pregnancy diary a couple of days ago, to compare first and second pregnancy symptoms. I’d forgotten the prompts at the beginning of each new month. On the First Month page was

I am excited about
Seeing how my body will change and pushing it to its biological limit. It’s also a relief to know that I am not infertile.

The first sentence takes on a whole new meaning with this pregnancy. It is sad to think I’ll never know what it’s like to have a worry-free pregnancy, that I’ll never see my genes expressed with DH’s, but I accept it.

The second makes me want to hug the girl who wrote it, she somehow knew deep down that she would have problems, and that’s why she didn’t push harder to start trying for a baby sooner. She wasn’t ready to learn her truth. I am not that girl anymore, but I still want to hug her.

Below,

I am nervous about
Mainly, miscarriage…

Was it irrational fear speaking then? I suppose it’s not important any more.

And, oh, the guilt.

I feel guilty that maybe I’m not bonding as much with Three & Four as I did with Bean. I think about them constantly, but I don’t talk to them as much as I talked to Bean. As if by not allowing myself to get my hopes up, I will somehow mitigate their loss in the event that I miscarry again. AS IF! I must make more of an effort to talk to them and cheer them on, because if I lose them I will regret having missed the opportunity to do so.

I feel guilty that I should have made it this far when others, wonderful women I know online, have battled harder, for longer, and have never got out of the stable and past the starting line. My heart howls for these women — especially those whose hearts are so broken they can’t be around me right now, which I completely respect and understand — and I feel guilty that perhaps I am not enjoying this pregnancy as much as I should be, knowing they would give anything to be in my shoes. I feel guilty for talking about my pregnancy the little I do, knowing that it might be a grief trigger for someone else. There’s a fine line between being happy and hopeful vs. stomping all over another woman’s heart. I hope I am walking it gracefully.

And I feel guilty that I ever thought my congratulations and support for a newly-pregnant woman would have meant so little to her. I couldn’t have known then that a simple word of encouragement would mean so much.

But, oh, the gratitude…

I am so grateful that I should have had so many well wishes from women for whom I know my BFP was a sting. I wasn’t expecting to hear from so many. I am grateful that today I am the one with the BFP, because I know firsthand the acute pain of feeling like everyone else but you is pregnant.

I am so thankful that I have an explanation for why I miscarried — although we didn’t have Bean karyotyped to be able to definitively say so, he almost certainly would have been recombinant. Bean never stood a chance, but thanks to him his brothers and sisters do. Unlike so many women stranded on IF island, I have an explanation for my DOR. And although the grief and horror of last year was intense, my genetic diagnosis was so final that I had no real choice but either go the donor egg or adoption route. In spite of my three devastating diagnoses, I am very grateful that I had such a clear path to walk.

I have learned I can trust my body and my maternal instincts. My 8th chromosome might be wonky and my eggs duds as a result, but I have a cushy uterus, a body that is good at being pregnant. Both times, I knew I was pregnant; and one time I knew something was wrong. Reminding myself of this helps me get through the scary moments. With Bean, I never could picture myself with a baby, something I pushed out of my mind at the time. With Three & Four, I can see DH and me each holding a baby with broad smiles on our faces.

And I’m grateful to Bean for teaching me so much–my already wonderful marriage is even better, my relationship with my close friends and family is improved, I am kinder to myself and others, I am able to count my blessings, and I have made wonderful friends along the way.

…and the hope.

I’m so hopeful to have two little dots apparently thriving. I confess to doing some research about twin pregnancy and delivery at my chosen hospital here in San Diego.  I’ve even taken a sneaky peek at double-strollers and other twins-related things. Just in case my instincts are right.

Because along with the knowledge that my betas are strong, I am hopeful that by taking myself out of the genetic equation we will succeed in (and be succeeded by!) our efforts. After miscarriage and infertility, when walking the fine line between fear and hope, I want to land on hope’s side if I fall.

And now, a couple of hours after lunch, I am hungry again. Maybe I’ll dust off one of those pregnancy books to keep me company as I eat.

♥ ♥ ♥

Update a few hours later:

NEW PREGNANCY ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED!

My MIL made salmon for dinner and the smell as I stood outside the dining room was enough to make me gag. If I had taken a step closer I would have thrown up. I’m nauseated just thinking about it. DH looked at me quizzically because in between bouts of extreme nausea I was grinning from ear to ear. Behold the glorious symptom of a woman in her first trimester! After I’d finished eating (boiled pierogis with applesauce and crème fraîche) she told me she knew I didn’t feel well because I turned pale as soon as I stepped inside the dining room. If that ain’t reassurance that this pregnancy is going well, I don’t know what is — I can’t fake blanching!

Poor MIL. She went out especially to buy a fish that is safe in pregnancy. But she’s almost as happy as I am to witness such a major pregnancy-related aversion!