Lawyer Mama

Blunt and Blue

This is the final chapter of my Baby Chase series. If you haven't read the earlier posts, I've linked Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, and Part V for your reading pleasure.

Cleaning out the drawers in my desk this morning, I found my diary. I've neglected my poor diary since my children, and my blogs, were born. The last entries relate to my unsuccessful pregnancies. They were all so full of hope. Every single one. And then they end before Hollis. Because by the time I became pregnant with Hollis I was afraid to jinx myself by writing down my hope, by making it real.

In my last post I wrapped everything up with a nice little bow, didn't I?

The truth is, in my rush to get to the happy ending, I left out everything that was messy and indistinct. I left out the parts where I cried. I left out the parts where T became frustrated with my inability to leave our losses behind me and unable to understand my obsession with knowing as much information as possible. I left out the parts where I was hormonal and mercurial and weepy and timid and scared and angry and confident, all at the same time.

It's easier to leave out the mess, isn't it? To state that we had "decided" not to do IVF. To say that a little vacation made it happen. (Is there anything more annoying than hearing that?) In reality, it really wasn't like that at all. It certainly wasn't that easy. It was hard.

Everything was hard.

Sometimes it was hard to get up in the morning, to brush my teeth, to breathe.

Only by looking back through time can I blur the edges of what happened and what I felt and the fear.

Let's talk about the fear.

The cycle that worked? I didn't expect it to work. I just needed to be trying. I needed to have that 2 week wait to look forward to. I measured my life in small conception-related increments. It was my way of taking it day by day. I charted and temped. At the right time, I peed on sticks. I went to the doctor. I started over again.

When I found out I was pregnant in January of 2007 I was not expecting it. Not at all. I'd had the world's longest cycle, coupled with the plane stress, and at that point I wasn't on Clomid or doing injectables. We were flying solo.

My first beta was great. My progesterone was not. It was 13. If you recall from my earlier posts, my doctor liked to see a 20 with the first beta. So I started taking progesterone, even though there is no consensus in the medical community that progesterone actually helps maintain a pregnancy if it's started after a positive pregnancy test. But I took it anyway.

At 7 weeks, we saw a heartbeat.

It was the first time we'd ever seen a beating heart in my belly.

I finally got a grainy black and white ultrasound image to take home.

My heart flipped. Then landed with a thud. The baby was small for its gestational age. I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It came in the form of a positive prenatal screen. T was in Florida. My doctor's office called and told me I had to come in that day for an amnio. My test results had given me a 1 in 31 chance of Down Syndrome. I called T and shared the news. We made our decision very quickly. I would have the test.

There is a back story here, but it is one that's not really mine to tell. You see, our nephew has Down Syndrome. Perhaps our decision was made easier by the fact that our nephew, S, is the sweetest most wonderful boy to have blessed the family. Perhaps our decision was made easier by watching K and J with their son, by seeing the love and joy he brought to their lives. Personally, I think our decision was made long before I had a positive AFP. It was made when I held S for the first time and smelled his precious little baby smell.

But why have the amnio if you didn't intend to "terminate," you ask?

Because there are a whole host of complications that usually accompany the birth of such a child. S had to be airlifted to a hospital half way across the state, leaving his terrified parents behind. Even I, 1500 miles away was completely terrified. We weren't going to let that happen. S's parents and doctors had no way of knowing. J's prenatal screening had been negative. But we had the power to know. And so we would.

I had the amnio that afternoon, with a nurse holding my hand for support. Then I drove myself home and slept. And waited an agonizing 10 days for the results.

Everything was fine. We were having a boy.

And for the first time, at 20 weeks, I let myself believe that we were actually having a baby.

Then came the gestational diabetes, the insulin shots, the twice weekly ultrasounds and biophysical profiles, the early disintegration of the placenta, the oligohydramnios, the intra-uterine growth retardation diagnosis and, finally, the emergency c-section. And there I go again, glossing over the fear.

The end result was completely worth it. Every agonizing, wonderful moment.

For this.*


and this


That's not to say that holding a baby healed all my wounds. It didn't. But the pain, once sharp and green, with time, became blunt and muted blue. An ache in my chest for what might have been, rather than despair for what might not be.

I still think of them, the children that weren't. Their names are written in the back of my diary, written when I was irrationally holding onto hope for each of them.

I watch Hollis and Holden thrusting through life and it's hard to regret my path to motherhood. How could I regret what brought me my boys? But still, I'll never forget.




"What about Holden?" you ask. Holden will get a post all his own....

*Sorry about that bit of gore in the background in the OR picture. I blurred it with Photo Shop, but just try to avoid clicking on the photo to enlarge, m'kay?

Blunt and Blue

This is the final chapter of my Baby Chase series. If you haven't read the earlier posts, I've linked Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, and Part V for your reading pleasure.

Cleaning out the drawers in my desk this morning, I found my diary. I've neglected my poor diary since my children, and my blogs, were born. The last entries relate to my unsuccessful pregnancies. They were all so full of hope. Every single one. And then they end before Hollis. Because by the time I became pregnant with Hollis I was afraid to jinx myself by writing down my hope, by making it real.

In my last post I wrapped everything up with a nice little bow, didn't I?

The truth is, in my rush to get to the happy ending, I left out everything that was messy and indistinct. I left out the parts where I cried. I left out the parts where T became frustrated with my inability to leave our losses behind me and unable to understand my obsession with knowing as much information as possible. I left out the parts where I was hormonal and mercurial and weepy and timid and scared and angry and confident, all at the same time.

It's easier to leave out the mess, isn't it? To state that we had "decided" not to do IVF. To say that a little vacation made it happen. (Is there anything more annoying than hearing that?) In reality, it really wasn't like that at all. It certainly wasn't that easy. It was hard.

Everything was hard.

Sometimes it was hard to get up in the morning, to brush my teeth, to breathe.

Only by looking back through time can I blur the edges of what happened and what I felt and the fear.

Let's talk about the fear.

The cycle that worked? I didn't expect it to work. I just needed to be trying. I needed to have that 2 week wait to look forward to. I measured my life in small conception-related increments. It was my way of taking it day by day. I charted and temped. At the right time, I peed on sticks. I went to the doctor. I started over again.

When I found out I was pregnant in January of 2007 I was not expecting it. Not at all. I'd had the world's longest cycle, coupled with the plane stress, and at that point I wasn't on Clomid or doing injectables. We were flying solo.

My first beta was great. My progesterone was not. It was 13. If you recall from my earlier posts, my doctor liked to see a 20 with the first beta. So I started taking progesterone, even though there is no consensus in the medical community that progesterone actually helps maintain a pregnancy if it's started after a positive pregnancy test. But I took it anyway.

At 7 weeks, we saw a heartbeat.

It was the first time we'd ever seen a beating heart in my belly.

I finally got a grainy black and white ultrasound image to take home.

My heart flipped. Then landed with a thud. The baby was small for its gestational age. I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It came in the form of a positive prenatal screen. T was in Florida. My doctor's office called and told me I had to come in that day for an amnio. My test results had given me a 1 in 31 chance of Down Syndrome. I called T and shared the news. We made our decision very quickly. I would have the test.

There is a back story here, but it is one that's not really mine to tell. You see, our nephew has Down Syndrome. Perhaps our decision was made easier by the fact that our nephew, S, is the sweetest most wonderful boy to have blessed the family. Perhaps our decision was made easier by watching K and J with their son, by seeing the love and joy he brought to their lives. Personally, I think our decision was made long before I had a positive AFP. It was made when I held S for the first time and smelled his precious little baby smell.

But why have the amnio if you didn't intend to "terminate," you ask?

Because there are a whole host of complications that usually accompany the birth of such a child. S had to be airlifted to a hospital half way across the state, leaving his terrified parents behind. Even I, 1500 miles away was completely terrified. We weren't going to let that happen. S's parents and doctors had no way of knowing. J's prenatal screening had been negative. But we had the power to know. And so we would.

I had the amnio that afternoon, with a nurse holding my hand for support. Then I drove myself home and slept. And waited an agonizing 10 days for the results.

Everything was fine. We were having a boy.

And for the first time, at 20 weeks, I let myself believe that we were actually having a baby.

Then came the gestational diabetes, the insulin shots, the twice weekly ultrasounds and biophysical profiles, the early disintegration of the placenta, the oligohydramnios, the intra-uterine growth retardation diagnosis and, finally, the emergency c-section. And there I go again, glossing over the fear.

The end result was completely worth it. Every agonizing, wonderful moment.

For this.*


and this


That's not to say that holding a baby healed all my wounds. It didn't. But the pain, once sharp and green, with time, became blunt and muted blue. An ache in my chest for what might have been, rather than despair for what might not be.

I still think of them, the children that weren't. Their names are written in the back of my diary, written when I was irrationally holding onto hope for each of them.

I watch Hollis and Holden thrusting through life and it's hard to regret my path to motherhood. How could I regret what brought me my boys? But still, I'll never forget.




"What about Holden?" you ask. Holden will get a post all his own....

*Sorry about that bit of gore in the background in the OR picture. I blurred it with Photo Shop, but just try to avoid clicking on the photo to enlarge, m'kay?

Sidetrip to Iceland

This is part of my continuing Baby Chase series. If you'd like to catch up, you can read Parts 1, 2, 3 and 4. A warning for those who know me and are male. This post contains lots of details about my lady bits, menstrual cycles, and mentions the term "cervical mucus" more than once. Proceed with caution. You've been warned.

While I was planning a trip to London with friends in Fall of 2003, several people told us we should fly through Iceland. Apparently if you stay for a night in Reykjavik, you can get really great airfare to Europe. But the last thing I wanted was a side trip to Iceland. I wanted to go to London, dammit. And I wanted to get there as quickly as possible.

That's the story of my life. When I want something, I want it now. Patience is not my strong point.

After the D&C, I was a woman on a mission.

I'm great at school. I'm great at planning. In my past experience, that's the best way to ensure that you get exactly what you want. So charts were employed, temperatures were taken daily, and I did far, far too much Googling. You see, the genetic testing results from the remains (their word, not mine) of the D&C were normal. So my OB told us what had happened was just bad luck and to try again.

Famous last words.

My daily temperature taking, fanatical charting, obsessive OPK (ovulation predictor kit) purchasing, and cervical mucus observing was quite successful. We conceived on the first try every. single. time. That's right. We were professionals at getting me knocked up. Pros, I tell you. But every single time resulted in the same thing. A questionable positive home pregnancy test, a positive beta with crappy progesterone levels, followed by a lower beta, and then a miscarriage. Luckily, I've only endured 2 D&C's. Luckily. Hah!

During all of this, we went through testing. Oh, and, ladies, if you are ever unlucky enough to have an HSG and your doctor tells you it will only be "a bit uncomfortable?" He's lying. Other than that advice, I'm going to ensure that this doesn't become a 72 part series staler than Oceans 23 and cut out most of the wallowing in depression and testing stuff. Suffice it to say that no one was quite sure what the heck was going on.

I sucked at staying pregnant, but I excelled at putting on a good face. Only a few people in my office had any idea what was going on with me. My secretary knew and she was discrete. I confided in 1 female partner who was a mentor and friend and a few of my associate friends knew. The years that all this crap was going on? I billed more hours than anyone else in my firm.

It was a hell of a lot easier to work myself to death than to go home and worry about whether or not I could ever have children. Or speculate about what might be wrong with me. Because it had to be me. I knew it was somehow my fault. This was some sort of karmic retribution for my list of 100 reasons not to have children.

Now that we knew that we were both basically normal and there was no real explanation for what the heck was causing my miscarriages, we started to weigh other options. Before even going there, T and I decided that we were probably willing to do IUI (intrauterine insemination) but probably not IVF. We would adopt if it came to that. But we would have children.

In the Fall of 2003, we decided to take a bit of a break from all this baby chasing stuff. You have no idea how hard this was for me. To stop. To watch that temperature dip on the chart, to see that great "egg white" cervical mucus and do nothing was, for me, pure torture. If I wanted to get what I wanted I just needed to keep trying, right? But we agreed to take some time off and go back to all this stuff in January. It would be a new year and a fresh start.

So, of course, T was scheduled to be in Germany for work when I would be ovulating in January.

Yep. Karmic retribution, I tell you.

So I sat back in D.C. while T cavorted in Germany (at least in my mind) and wallowed in self pity and chocolate chip cookie dough. I had my longest cycle ever. Seriously. And they were already pretty damn long.

I watched for that temperature dip that always foretold approaching ovulation. Nothing.

Holy crap! T would be back on January 6th. Maybe he would make it back in time! You wouldn't believe how incredibly excited I was to be trying that month. I didn't expect a different outcome, but we had to be doing something.

So, of course, my hopes had to be dashed again.

On the 6th, T called me at work. I was a little confused. He was supposed to be on a plane over the Atlantic. He wasn't. He was calling me from Iceland. Where his plane had made an emergency landing.

About half way over the Atlantic, they encountered a "shit load" of turbulence. (I think that's a technical aviation term.) T noticed that the plane's altitude was dropping and the plane seemed to be slowing down. A lot. Watching one of those nifty little tracking screens at every seat, he realized that the plane was now heading North. To Iceland.

Finally, the pilot let them know that they had lost an engine. On a 2 engine plane. And while they could certainly land on 1 engine, they really didn't want to continue to fly half way across the Atlantic on one engine. (Thank God!) So T got a 36 hour stay in Iceland while United flew in a new plane.

Sitting in the airport bar at Keflavik (apparently the 777 was too large for the Reykjavik airport, but everyone felt the need to have a drink), T discovered that many of the passengers sitting on the side of the plane near the engine witnessed the entire thing. And were freaking the fuck out. One passenger told them that when he grabbed a flight attendant and asked about the flames shooting past his window, she had the gall to say "Oh, that happens sometimes. It's nothing to worry about." Yeah. That's reassuring.

Anyway, T didn't make it back to D.C. until the evening of January 8, 2004. My temperature dip? Happened that day. The next morning my temperature was on the rise, indicating that I had ovulated the day before.

Hollis was born September 16, 2004.

We have a great photo of the jet with the charred engine that we found on the Internet shortly thereafter. Because I'm twisted, I also printed out a few articles for Hollis's baby book further pinpointing his date of conception. I'm sure he'll appreciate it when he's 14.

I don't know why I had the world's longest cycle that month. I don't know why we endured 4 miscarriages and several "chemical pregnancies." (Although I have some theories I'll save for my "pregnancy from hell" post.) But something in me can't help but think that this is how it was supposed to be for us. That Hollis was supposed to be.

Apparently, a little side trip to Iceland was just what we needed.

Photo by Celeste Masson.

Sidetrip to Iceland

This is part of my continuing Baby Chase series. If you'd like to catch up, you can read Parts 1, 2, 3 and 4. A warning for those who know me and are male. This post contains lots of details about my lady bits, menstrual cycles, and mentions the term "cervical mucus" more than once. Proceed with caution. You've been warned.

While I was planning a trip to London with friends in Fall of 2003, several people told us we should fly through Iceland. Apparently if you stay for a night in Reykjavik, you can get really great airfare to Europe. But the last thing I wanted was a side trip to Iceland. I wanted to go to London, dammit. And I wanted to get there as quickly as possible.

That's the story of my life. When I want something, I want it now. Patience is not my strong point.

After the D&C, I was a woman on a mission.

I'm great at school. I'm great at planning. In my past experience, that's the best way to ensure that you get exactly what you want. So charts were employed, temperatures were taken daily, and I did far, far too much Googling. You see, the genetic testing results from the remains (their word, not mine) of the D&C were normal. So my OB told us what had happened was just bad luck and to try again.

Famous last words.

My daily temperature taking, fanatical charting, obsessive OPK (ovulation predictor kit) purchasing, and cervical mucus observing was quite successful. We conceived on the first try every. single. time. That's right. We were professionals at getting me knocked up. Pros, I tell you. But every single time resulted in the same thing. A questionable positive home pregnancy test, a positive beta with crappy progesterone levels, followed by a lower beta, and then a miscarriage. Luckily, I've only endured 2 D&C's. Luckily. Hah!

During all of this, we went through testing. Oh, and, ladies, if you are ever unlucky enough to have an HSG and your doctor tells you it will only be "a bit uncomfortable?" He's lying. Other than that advice, I'm going to ensure that this doesn't become a 72 part series staler than Oceans 23 and cut out most of the wallowing in depression and testing stuff. Suffice it to say that no one was quite sure what the heck was going on.

I sucked at staying pregnant, but I excelled at putting on a good face. Only a few people in my office had any idea what was going on with me. My secretary knew and she was discrete. I confided in 1 female partner who was a mentor and friend and a few of my associate friends knew. The years that all this crap was going on? I billed more hours than anyone else in my firm.

It was a hell of a lot easier to work myself to death than to go home and worry about whether or not I could ever have children. Or speculate about what might be wrong with me. Because it had to be me. I knew it was somehow my fault. This was some sort of karmic retribution for my list of 100 reasons not to have children.

Now that we knew that we were both basically normal and there was no real explanation for what the heck was causing my miscarriages, we started to weigh other options. Before even going there, T and I decided that we were probably willing to do IUI (intrauterine insemination) but probably not IVF. We would adopt if it came to that. But we would have children.

In the Fall of 2003, we decided to take a bit of a break from all this baby chasing stuff. You have no idea how hard this was for me. To stop. To watch that temperature dip on the chart, to see that great "egg white" cervical mucus and do nothing was, for me, pure torture. If I wanted to get what I wanted I just needed to keep trying, right? But we agreed to take some time off and go back to all this stuff in January. It would be a new year and a fresh start.

So, of course, T was scheduled to be in Germany for work when I would be ovulating in January.

Yep. Karmic retribution, I tell you.

So I sat back in D.C. while T cavorted in Germany (at least in my mind) and wallowed in self pity and chocolate chip cookie dough. I had my longest cycle ever. Seriously. And they were already pretty damn long.

I watched for that temperature dip that always foretold approaching ovulation. Nothing.

Holy crap! T would be back on January 6th. Maybe he would make it back in time! You wouldn't believe how incredibly excited I was to be trying that month. I didn't expect a different outcome, but we had to be doing something.

So, of course, my hopes had to be dashed again.

On the 6th, T called me at work. I was a little confused. He was supposed to be on a plane over the Atlantic. He wasn't. He was calling me from Iceland. Where his plane had made an emergency landing.

About half way over the Atlantic, they encountered a "shit load" of turbulence. (I think that's a technical aviation term.) T noticed that the plane's altitude was dropping and the plane seemed to be slowing down. A lot. Watching one of those nifty little tracking screens at every seat, he realized that the plane was now heading North. To Iceland.

Finally, the pilot let them know that they had lost an engine. On a 2 engine plane. And while they could certainly land on 1 engine, they really didn't want to continue to fly half way across the Atlantic on one engine. (Thank God!) So T got a 36 hour stay in Iceland while United flew in a new plane.

Sitting in the airport bar at Keflavik (apparently the 777 was too large for the Reykjavik airport, but everyone felt the need to have a drink), T discovered that many of the passengers sitting on the side of the plane near the engine witnessed the entire thing. And were freaking the fuck out. One passenger told them that when he grabbed a flight attendant and asked about the flames shooting past his window, she had the gall to say "Oh, that happens sometimes. It's nothing to worry about." Yeah. That's reassuring.

Anyway, T didn't make it back to D.C. until the evening of January 8, 2004. My temperature dip? Happened that day. The next morning my temperature was on the rise, indicating that I had ovulated the day before.

Hollis was born September 16, 2004.

We have a great photo of the jet with the charred engine that we found on the Internet shortly thereafter. Because I'm twisted, I also printed out a few articles for Hollis's baby book further pinpointing his date of conception. I'm sure he'll appreciate it when he's 14.

I don't know why I had the world's longest cycle that month. I don't know why we endured 4 miscarriages and several "chemical pregnancies." (Although I have some theories I'll save for my "pregnancy from hell" post.) But something in me can't help but think that this is how it was supposed to be for us. That Hollis was supposed to be.

Apparently, a little side trip to Iceland was just what we needed.

Photo by Celeste Masson.

A Black and White Clock

6:48 am

She sat slouching in the hard plastic chair, the nausea rolling in her stomach and burning her throat. He sat beside her, scratching away at the clipboard, asking occasional questions, "When was that last D&C?" "Is your name hyphenated on your health insurance card?" "What year were you born again? Never mind. I can figure it out."

She answered with brevity, staring at the black and white clock on the wall wondering, inanely, "Why do all institutions everywhere have that same black and white clock?"

7:21 am

She heard her name, the first name stumbled over, the last name butchered as always, "Mister Stephan ___." She stood up, moved toward the indifferent woman in the faded green scrubs who couldn't be bothered to acknowledge the mistaken gender. She remembered, hesitated, looked back at him.

"He'll need to stay there for now. We'll bring him back later."

"Oh no, it's OK. He's going to work. He'll be back to get me later."

Green scrubs looked at her with kinder eyes and turned to lead her inside.

The rows of curtained cubicles, tubes, and beeping machines were frightening. As she followed the green scrubs through the room, she saw some of the patients were asleep. "Or maybe unconscious," she thought, before pushing the thought from her mind. At her blue curtained cell, she listened to perfunctory instructions regarding her clothes, jewelry, hospital gown.

The smell was cold, antiseptic, with a whiff of plastic.

"Do you need a pad?" the green scrubs asked.

Startled, she looked up, questioning.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No, um, no. No bleeding."

She carefully folded her red sweatsuit, gray shirt, panties, and bra. Comfortable clothing, as if it would help. She packed her comfort away in the brown grocery bag with her name labeled in thick, black magic marker. She donned the tissue thin gown and sat on the edge of the bed, covered her legs with the blanket and waited, staring at the clock on the wall.

7:48 am

Green scrubs flung the curtain aside and began efficiently preparing for an IV.

"Lie down on the bed."

The sting was quick, but it burned.

Left alone, she wrapped her arms around chest, careful not to hit the bandage on her arm. She saw the goosebumps and realized she was shivering. Her feet and hands were ice cold.

7:56 am.

Again, she stared at the ubiquitous clock on the wall opposite her curtained rectangle.

Dr. M came, the sight of his familiar face flooding her with unexpected relief. All too quickly he was gone. She watched him at the nurses station in the middle of the pre-op room, joking with the nurses and greeting doctors with small talk. As if this were any other day.

8:02 am

"Hi. I'm Dr. A. I'll be the anesthesiologist for your procedure."

"Why does everyone here call it a procedure?" she wondered. "Is it easier than remembering to insert the name of each surgery while he goes through his spiel 8 times a day?"

"Are you all right?"

"What? Oh, yes, what was that?"

"Can you tell me why you're having this procedure today?"

"Is he checking to see if I'm lucid? Or just making sure I'm not slipping in an optional procedure?" she thought.

"Missed miscarriage. Blighted ovum," she said out loud.

Dr. A left and again she was alone, with a dozen people in sight.

"Missed miscarriage," she thought. "Blighted ovum." Counting the syllables in each word, tapping them repeatedly into the arm of the bed, creating a comforting rhythm with the sterile words.

8:04 am

He appeared in the doorway, following green scrubs.

She simply said, "You're here."

"I couldn't leave."

"I'm glad," she sighed and closed her eyes, her cold hand in his warm fingers.

8:12 am

They wheeled her out of the room and into an operating room. The lights hurt her eyes. Now she was scared.

It was cold. She shivered. Unseen hands piled warmed blankets on her. There was a burning in her arm.

"Count backwards from ten for me."

"Ten, niiiinnnne...."


For everyone who's had to have this procedure and for everyone who has ever dreamed of a miracle they couldn't have. For DD and Julie and Kate and Emily and Jenny and Casey and Joker and Bill (and Mrs. Gunfighter) and Rony and Country Dew and Paula and Lauren and Slouching Mom and Kate and Joanne. And for Bon. Oh, dear Bon. I'm so sorry.

*************
This is part IV of my Baby Chase series. You can read Part I, Part II and Part III if you'd like to get up to speed.

A Black and White Clock

6:48 am

She sat slouching in the hard plastic chair, the nausea rolling in her stomach and burning her throat. He sat beside her, scratching away at the clipboard, asking occasional questions, "When was that last D&C?" "Is your name hyphenated on your health insurance card?" "What year were you born again? Never mind. I can figure it out."

She answered with brevity, staring at the black and white clock on the wall wondering, inanely, "Why do all institutions everywhere have that same black and white clock?"

7:21 am

She heard her name, the first name stumbled over, the last name butchered as always, "Mister Stephan ___." She stood up, moved toward the indifferent woman in the faded green scrubs who couldn't be bothered to acknowledge the mistaken gender. She remembered, hesitated, looked back at him.

"He'll need to stay there for now. We'll bring him back later."

"Oh no, it's OK. He's going to work. He'll be back to get me later."

Green scrubs looked at her with kinder eyes and turned to lead her inside.

The rows of curtained cubicles, tubes, and beeping machines were frightening. As she followed the green scrubs through the room, she saw some of the patients were asleep. "Or maybe unconscious," she thought, before pushing the thought from her mind. At her blue curtained cell, she listened to perfunctory instructions regarding her clothes, jewelry, hospital gown.

The smell was cold, antiseptic, with a whiff of plastic.

"Do you need a pad?" the green scrubs asked.

Startled, she looked up, questioning.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No, um, no. No bleeding."

She carefully folded her red sweatsuit, gray shirt, panties, and bra. Comfortable clothing, as if it would help. She packed her comfort away in the brown grocery bag with her name labeled in thick, black magic marker. She donned the tissue thin gown and sat on the edge of the bed, covered her legs with the blanket and waited, staring at the clock on the wall.

7:48 am

Green scrubs flung the curtain aside and began efficiently preparing for an IV.

"Lie down on the bed."

The sting was quick, but it burned.

Left alone, she wrapped her arms around chest, careful not to hit the bandage on her arm. She saw the goosebumps and realized she was shivering. Her feet and hands were ice cold.

7:56 am.

Again, she stared at the ubiquitous clock on the wall opposite her curtained rectangle.

Dr. M came, the sight of his familiar face flooding her with unexpected relief. All too quickly he was gone. She watched him at the nurses station in the middle of the pre-op room, joking with the nurses and greeting doctors with small talk. As if this were any other day.

8:02 am

"Hi. I'm Dr. A. I'll be the anesthesiologist for your procedure."

"Why does everyone here call it a procedure?" she wondered. "Is it easier than remembering to insert the name of each surgery while he goes through his spiel 8 times a day?"

"Are you all right?"

"What? Oh, yes, what was that?"

"Can you tell me why you're having this procedure today?"

"Is he checking to see if I'm lucid? Or just making sure I'm not slipping in an optional procedure?" she thought.

"Missed miscarriage. Blighted ovum," she said out loud.

Dr. A left and again she was alone, with a dozen people in sight.

"Missed miscarriage," she thought. "Blighted ovum." Counting the syllables in each word, tapping them repeatedly into the arm of the bed, creating a comforting rhythm with the sterile words.

8:04 am

He appeared in the doorway, following green scrubs.

She simply said, "You're here."

"I couldn't leave."

"I'm glad," she sighed and closed her eyes, her cold hand in his warm fingers.

8:12 am

They wheeled her out of the room and into an operating room. The lights hurt her eyes. Now she was scared.

It was cold. She shivered. Unseen hands piled warmed blankets on her. There was a burning in her arm.

"Count backwards from ten for me."

"Ten, niiiinnnne...."


For everyone who's had to have this procedure and for everyone who has ever dreamed of a miracle they couldn't have. For DD and Julie and Kate and Emily and Jenny and Casey and Joker and Bill (and Mrs. Gunfighter) and Rony and Country Dew and Paula and Lauren and Slouching Mom and Kate and Joanne. And for Bon. Oh, dear Bon. I'm so sorry.

*************
This is part IV of my Baby Chase series. You can read Part I, Part II and Part III if you'd like to get up to speed.

'Tis the Season ... To Be Depressed

This is Part III of my Baby Chase series where I talk about all the fun times T and I had trying to have a baby. And by "fun" I mean not so fun. You can read Part I and Part II to catch up.

When we left off, I had decided that I wanted to have a baby. T said he wanted to think about it for a few months. Well, those of you who know me IRL know that once I make up my mind, things are happening now. Not in 3 or 4 months. So I basically steam rolled over my husband who was simply trying to be the voice of reason, knowing my impetuous ways.

I saw my OB for a pre-conception consultation and he told me we could start trying as soon as I finished my cycle of birth control pills. Dr. G said there was no increased risk of miscarriage the month after stopping the pill, which was my first question considering my history. Dr. G did add a caveat. He said if, "you're the type who will blame yourself if something goes wrong," then you should wait a few months before trying.

Nice foreshadowing, Dr. G.

I got knocked up the very first month we tried. I dutifully waited until day 28 of my cycle and took a test. That's when I was introduced to the gray areas of home pregnancy test results.

Me: "T, is that a line or am I imagining things?"
T: "I don't see anything. Did you follow the directions?"
Me (smacking T in the head with the box): "Look, here in the bright light. Do you see it?"
T: "Ummmm... I think so."

After a few days of some positive and some negative tests (I think I went through at least 4 or 5 tests a day, an early sign of my developing home pregnancy test addiction), I went to my OB/Gyn. Well, Dr. G was going through a break up with his partners. The office was in chaos. I had to wait 75 minutes for a pregnancy test. Which, because they did a urine test, was negative. I asked for a blood test. The staff said "wait a week and test again." Um, I. don't. think. so.

I got a new doctor. They got me in the next day. By this time, by my calculations, I was 21 DPO (days past ovulation). A home pregnancy test should be positive by 14 DPO and a blood test will pick up HCG earlier than that.

The test was positive. My HCG was 63. For the uninitiated, the average HCG at 21 DPO is 1061, with a typical range of 324-4130. They had me in 2 days later for another beta and a progesterone level check. My second beta doubled nicely, so I thought I was safe. I didn't know it at the time, but my progesterone level for that pregnancy never got above 7. Again for those of you who luckily have no idea what I'm talking about, a good progesterone level in the course of your normal menstrual cycle is between 2 and 28. It gets much higher during pregnancy. My doctor later told me he generally likes to see at least a 20 with the first beta. Mine was a 7.

I had my first ultrasound, by my calculations, at about 26 DPO (5 weeks, 5 days). A transvaginal ultrasound conducted with the all-seeing-dildo-wand, put me at 4 weeks, 2 days. They told me I must have had my dates wrong. There was a gestational sac, but they wanted me back in a week for another ultrasound. I did not get a grainy, black and white ultrasound picture to take home, although I desperately wanted one, like all the happy women I saw leaving the office.

Dr. M gave me many warnings about calling if I had bleeding, abdominal pain, or pain (oddly) in my shoulder. A few minutes on Google later that day told me he was worried about a possible ectopic pregnancy if my dates were right.

I spent the next week on Google. I basically couldn't do much else except type in various search terms such as "small sac, gestational age" and "low hcg 21 dpo."

At my next appointment (almost 7 week by my dates, 5 weeks, 2 days by theirs), we again saw a gestational sac, and possibly fetal poles, but it measured 4 weeks, 6 days. Not a good sign, but Dr. M told me we would wait until I should be 8 1/2 weeks, do another ultrasound, and then we would know whether or not the pregnancy was viable if we saw a fetus and a heartbeat.

Any guesses on what we saw?

No heartbeat.

I finally had a D&C at 10 weeks (after several more mentally excruciating ultrasounds) when my body showed no sign of fixing the situation on its own. I had no bleeding at all, but lots of morning sickness. Morning sickness is usually a good sign of a health pregnancy. Ah, the irony.

I scheduled my D&C for July 3rd, rationalizing that I could take the 4th of July off from work (a Friday) without guilt and then be back in the office by the weekend.

After all, I didn't want to inconvenience anyone.

To be continued....

************
Welcome to Day 9 of Wil Wheaton watch. Feel free to stop over at his blog and remind him that I'm still here. Waiting. Patiently.

************
I just heard some horrible news that adds some perspective to my post above. A little girl in my son's pre-school class is in Boston right now having exploratory brain surgery for a tumor in the center of her brain. Apparently our local children's hospital can't do anything for her.

She's 3 years old.

'Tis the Season ... To Be Depressed

This is Part III of my Baby Chase series where I talk about all the fun times T and I had trying to have a baby. And by "fun" I mean not so fun. You can read Part I and Part II to catch up.

When we left off, I had decided that I wanted to have a baby. T said he wanted to think about it for a few months. Well, those of you who know me IRL know that once I make up my mind, things are happening now. Not in 3 or 4 months. So I basically steam rolled over my husband who was simply trying to be the voice of reason, knowing my impetuous ways.

I saw my OB for a pre-conception consultation and he told me we could start trying as soon as I finished my cycle of birth control pills. Dr. G said there was no increased risk of miscarriage the month after stopping the pill, which was my first question considering my history. Dr. G did add a caveat. He said if, "you're the type who will blame yourself if something goes wrong," then you should wait a few months before trying.

Nice foreshadowing, Dr. G.

I got knocked up the very first month we tried. I dutifully waited until day 28 of my cycle and took a test. That's when I was introduced to the gray areas of home pregnancy test results.

Me: "T, is that a line or am I imagining things?"
T: "I don't see anything. Did you follow the directions?"
Me (smacking T in the head with the box): "Look, here in the bright light. Do you see it?"
T: "Ummmm... I think so."

After a few days of some positive and some negative tests (I think I went through at least 4 or 5 tests a day, an early sign of my developing home pregnancy test addiction), I went to my OB/Gyn. Well, Dr. G was going through a break up with his partners. The office was in chaos. I had to wait 75 minutes for a pregnancy test. Which, because they did a urine test, was negative. I asked for a blood test. The staff said "wait a week and test again." Um, I. don't. think. so.

I got a new doctor. They got me in the next day. By this time, by my calculations, I was 21 DPO (days past ovulation). A home pregnancy test should be positive by 14 DPO and a blood test will pick up HCG earlier than that.

The test was positive. My HCG was 63. For the uninitiated, the average HCG at 21 DPO is 1061, with a typical range of 324-4130. They had me in 2 days later for another beta and a progesterone level check. My second beta doubled nicely, so I thought I was safe. I didn't know it at the time, but my progesterone level for that pregnancy never got above 7. Again for those of you who luckily have no idea what I'm talking about, a good progesterone level in the course of your normal menstrual cycle is between 2 and 28. It gets much higher during pregnancy. My doctor later told me he generally likes to see at least a 20 with the first beta. Mine was a 7.

I had my first ultrasound, by my calculations, at about 26 DPO (5 weeks, 5 days). A transvaginal ultrasound conducted with the all-seeing-dildo-wand, put me at 4 weeks, 2 days. They told me I must have had my dates wrong. There was a gestational sac, but they wanted me back in a week for another ultrasound. I did not get a grainy, black and white ultrasound picture to take home, although I desperately wanted one, like all the happy women I saw leaving the office.

Dr. M gave me many warnings about calling if I had bleeding, abdominal pain, or pain (oddly) in my shoulder. A few minutes on Google later that day told me he was worried about a possible ectopic pregnancy if my dates were right.

I spent the next week on Google. I basically couldn't do much else except type in various search terms such as "small sac, gestational age" and "low hcg 21 dpo."

At my next appointment (almost 7 week by my dates, 5 weeks, 2 days by theirs), we again saw a gestational sac, and possibly fetal poles, but it measured 4 weeks, 6 days. Not a good sign, but Dr. M told me we would wait until I should be 8 1/2 weeks, do another ultrasound, and then we would know whether or not the pregnancy was viable if we saw a fetus and a heartbeat.

Any guesses on what we saw?

No heartbeat.

I finally had a D&C at 10 weeks (after several more mentally excruciating ultrasounds) when my body showed no sign of fixing the situation on its own. I had no bleeding at all, but lots of morning sickness. Morning sickness is usually a good sign of a health pregnancy. Ah, the irony.

I scheduled my D&C for July 3rd, rationalizing that I could take the 4th of July off from work (a Friday) without guilt and then be back in the office by the weekend.

After all, I didn't want to inconvenience anyone.

To be continued....

************
Welcome to Day 9 of Wil Wheaton watch. Feel free to stop over at his blog and remind him that I'm still here. Waiting. Patiently.

************
I just heard some horrible news that adds some perspective to my post above. A little girl in my son's pre-school class is in Boston right now having exploratory brain surgery for a tumor in the center of her brain. Apparently our local children's hospital can't do anything for her.

She's 3 years old.

The Baby Chase - Part II

One of my best friends called me last night to tell me that she's pregnant. (Congrats, M! Love you!) We spent almost 2 hours on the phone catching up and talking about babies and motherhood. Hopefully, I didn't overwhelm poor M, but these flood gates opened and I just couldn't stop talking. I really try hard not to bore my childless friends to death with kid and baby talk. So all this stuff we'd never talked about was suddenly fair game!

After we'd been on the phone about an hour, M and I started discussing how each of us had decided it was time to have children. M and her husband J had been adamant for a long time that they weren't going to have kids. T and I had been nearly as adamant. In fact, last night M reminded me of the list T and I once started - 101 reasons not to have kids. Every time we saw a toddler in the throws of a tantrum in Target, we'd turn to one another and say "231," or whatever number we were up to. What had started out as 101 reasons, ballooned up to almost 600 before we stopped keeping track.

It's not as if T and I had never discussed children before. We had. Many times. We weren't really adamant that we didn't want children either. We just knew that we didn't want them now.

When we got married, T was pretty clear that he wanted children eventually. I was on the fence, but told him I could be convinced eventually. As long as he didn't immediately expect me to warp into Susie homemaker and begin darning his socks. We decided we'd discuss it when he hit 30. When T did hit 30, it was the Summer before my last year of law school. We put off the discussion. But that fall, something unexpected happened.

I got pregnant. Equally unexpected was my reaction when I saw those 2 lines on the pregnancy test. I expected to cry, feel overwhelmed and basically freaked out. But as I told T the news, I realized I was smiling through my tears.

The pregnancy did not end well. But T and I weren't ready yet anyway, we told ourselves. If anything, that unexpected and ill timed pregnancy made something very clear for both of us. We did want children. Despite our protestations to family and friends, T and I both very much wanted children.

Still, I can't remember exactly when my biological clock started ticking. I think it was a gradual progression. When my college roommate had a baby and I saw the pictures of her infant I thought I heard a soft "tick tock." I immediately clamped my mind shut and went on with the business of living and making money.

Then I heard that my sister-in-law and brother-in-law were expecting a baby. This time the "tick tock" was unmistakable. But whenever I found myself day dreaming about babies, I began singing to myself, humming, or doing anything I could to redirect my thoughts. It's a great way to stave off the inevitable cognitive dissonance.

My best friend from high school announced she was pregnant.

"Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock."

It was too loud to ignore this time.

So I brought up the subject with T.

T and I have very different decision making processes. I make decisions pretty quickly and once I've settled on a solution, it's hard to change my mind. T, on the other hand, likes to mull things over. I call it procrastination, but he calls it "weighing his options."

I told T I wanted a baby.

T said, "Let me think about it for a few months."

Pre-Hollis me, with my first baby, Sir Hillary

To be continued....

**************
I've decided to keep harassing Wil Wheaton until he comments on my blog. If you have a Typepad account, feel free to go over to Wil's blog and pimp me out tell him how nice I am and how he should acknowledge my existence and make my year. I'm not subtl