I'm a Smart One

It's Not Unusual for Me to be a Nutball

Understandably, it's taken a while for me to be able to post here about my new journey without a) being riddled with sadness about how the last one ended and b) feeling guilty over allowing myself to feel happy again. I'm past that now (mostly), and today because there is something to celebrate, I'd like to finally tell you about my new intended mom, who herself is a fellow blogger.

When we first matched in July, my emotions were raw and she knew that I needed some time and some space to heal. It is uncommon for me to have or need "space" at the start of a surrogacy journey, or at any time at all during a journey, for that matter. I'm all about the bonding and in that respect, I feel that I've somewhat cheated her out of some of the happy-happy-joy-joy sparks that usually fly when you've found the one. She's been patient and kind -- an understanding sounding board as I've made steps towards healing over the past few months. I don't know how I did it, but I managed to luck into yet another great relationship.

I first came to know Miss W more than a year ago via the Lost and Found. A prospective intended mother had questions about the compensation and fees that can be expected for a surrogate. I clicked through to her blog and left a lengthy reply. Soon after I posted a couple of comments on her blog, I found an introductory email from her. Little did I know, she already knew who I was from my blog, but especially from my posts and reputation as a member and moderator of Surrogate Mothers Online (SMO). She explained that she and her husband (who here and on her blog is known as "Mr. W") had a 3-year old son (The Lowercase) who had been born prematurely due to her unicornuate uterus. Because of that and a history of repeat miscarriages, attempting to carry another pregnancy herself was not worth the risk, hence their need for a surrogate.

Mr. W was extremely hesitant to embark on a surrogacy journey. Understandably, the thought of a perfect stranger carrying his child was perfectly strange, especially given how rightfully protective he felt over his unconceived potential children. Miss W was equally hesitant, but initially more willing to explore the idea of trusting a virtual stranger with something so important. She explained that at first, The Uppercase was adamant about working with only a family member or friend. Those options were explored, but nothing panned out the way they hoped. Eventually he warmed to the idea of doing a typical search for a surrogate, and both of them were nervous about taking those steps forward. Advice is what she needed, and advice is what I gave. Advice turned into me finding a potential match for them and when that fell through a few months later, I gave my "thumbs up" for a second surrogate, who was a fellow long-time member of SMO. My support for and approval of those surrogates helped Miss W feel even more comfortable with those matches, as she trusted my opinions. Unfortunately, the second match also fell through. Timing and distance issues were factors in the dissolution of the matches, and those issues continued to make it difficult for Miss W and Mr. W to match. 

Meanwhile, we didn't email often, but occasionally Miss W would ask for additional advice, email to applaud how I handled certain caustic situations on SMO (it can sometimes get very heated on a message board full of women doped to the gills on injectible hormones), and continued to offer support through my journey with Chance and Apollo. When that journey ended in June, I had a new ad posted by July. Within a couple of weeks of that ad being posted, I found another email from Miss W in my inbox:

"...I was wondering if you would consider...because I've always thought so highly of you...let me hurry up and click "send" now before I chicken out again...."

We'd talked about surrogacy-related issues before but never about the prospect of us working together, so we agreed to get to know each other on that level and just see where things went from there. Her emails had always been so formal and her blog even has more of a formal tone to it. It didn't take long for me to learn that she actually is a complete and utter goofball geek.

Like me.

Only white.

And Mr. W is, too. Maybe even more so.

She described me to one of her friends and he said, "She sounds just like you, only Black."

Within days we realized that we have so much in common personality-wise, and we also have all the same opinions on the major surrogacy issues. Moving from "just talking" to "dude, we're matched!" was an easy step to take.

We keep each other laughing with the stupidest of things and I have the feeling that we are going to be nothing but trouble once we finally get to meet in person. 

For various reasons on both of our parts, we've had to wait a long while for anything "official" to happen. They had a phone consult with my clinic about a month ago and that was the equivalent of toeing up to the line, but today marks the first major bit forward motion. There was a bloodletting, and nothing says progress like a needle in vein. Today was Miss W's blood work for the Clomid Challenge test that Dr. Sleep ordered. And so it begins....

A while ago, somehow Miss W and I found ourselves discussing the comical goodness that is The Fresh Prince of Bel Aire. She double-dog dared me to do the Carlton and post it for a Show and Tell. 

Seeing as how it's a special occasion and I have few qualms about making a complete ass of myself:

Who else is standing at the front of the class this week? Check it out with Mel at her weekly Show and Tell.

The View from Here

Frank and I are in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina for the weekend. It's a beachy locale with palm trees and ocean-kissed breezes. Smallish and adjacent to Charleston, it is attractive to tourists and the people here all seem to radiate that familial Southern hospitality which lends itself to describing the city with adjectives like quaint and charming.

We are here because we were lucky enough to stretch necessity into a short, just-the-two-of-us vacation. The large, southeast region VA hospital is located in Charleston and early Monday morning, Frank will have a battery of tests run to assess the current status of his Multiple Sclerosis. Frank is fine and he has been in remission for nearly seven years, thanks largely to the exceptional care that he receives from his civilian neurologist. However, because Frank receives additional medical benefits from the VA, they have to run their own assessments every so often.

Our original plan was to arrive here late tonight (Sunday) and return home tomorrow after finishing at the hospital. Last week when making arrangements with Mom for her to watch el Cinco, she asked, "Why don't you two just leave on Saturday and make a weekend of it?" Well, thanks Lady. Since you offered...

...so Frank and I arrived yesterday evening. We picked up dinner from a local mom and pop diner and holed ourselves up in our hotel room. We cuddled on the bed amidst a turkey club on rye (me), chili dogs (him), and a grease-stained bag of homemade fries between the two of us, watching the still-in-theaters movie that we ordered On Demand. Delightful.

I slept until nine and left a still-snoozing Frank in the bed behind me. I opened the curtains to the morning sunshine. The fronds in the tall palms outside our second-floor room rustled in the breeze, appearing as if the trees were shivering in the weather which is unusually cool for this time of year. I turned and let my eyes scan the well-appointed suite. A chill ran through me, one borne from memory and not weather. The tableaux before me had a deja vous quality.

I've been here before.

Mt. Pleasant, while pleasant, was unpleasant one of the last few times we were here.

My clinic is here, not more than ten minutes from the hotel room in which I now sit typing.

The last time we were at this hotel specifically was the day that it became my safe haven, a place where I could allow myself a modicum of sadness and grief before returning home. 

It was the day that an ultrasound confirmed that the beta hell of my first cycle with Chance and Apollo was a "pregnancy" that was not meant to be.

Eight months removed, this morning as I looked around the identical room, it occurred to me suddenly that if that ultrasound had revealed what we all hoped it would, I would have been due right around now.

And here I sit, due for nothing except breakfast.

I have spent the past several months grappling with the sadness that I still feel, trying to beat it into submission and get it out and away from me once and for all. Somewhere inside, I think I reasoned that I first had to let go of that before I was allowed to fully embrace the surrogacy journey on which I am now on with my new intended parents. Like it was somehow wrong for me to feel as happy and as hopeful as I do about my new journey while still finding a way to come to terms with how the last one ended.

Now this morning, here in this room, in this town where the history of journeys past will soon link with the journey yet to come, I realize that this lingering heartache need not exist mutually exclusive of the mirthful anticipation I have for my new journey. I can embrace hope and yet still carry a weight of sadness behind. There is no crime in allowing myself to be happy despite the pain.

There is room in my heart for both.

I find today's unseasonable weather deliciously crisp and somehow oddly appropriate. Chilly zephyrs will swirl about me while the nearly cloudless, azure sky allows the sun's rays to warm the spaces in between.

When I am here again, it will be winter. It will be with my new intended parents. I will be happy, but if a phantom sorrow unfurls itself and a well of tears prickles in the corners of my eyes...well, that will be okay, too.

With the ghosts of what should have been trailing every step, from where I am today, I have a hope for the future. The warmth is welcome.

B is for Bullets...

... and not just the kind you you use to shoot people. As I'm low on time and high on info, here's a classic drive-by post:

• Kyra, my dear, sweet, budding writer of an 8-year old, whose once before had a narrative posted here, has decided to start her own blog. This has now been bumped to Step One in my quest for world domination. I realized that by starting so early, I could groom her to reach Doocelike proportions by the time she's 18 and then Frank and I will be very rich, indeed. You certainly don't have to, but should you feel so inclined, please stop over to Kyra's Writing Boutique and leave a comment on her introductory entry. She would be tickled pink. (If you are some freaky Internet perv, please know this - her blog is set up through my Google account and all comments come through me first. I may not have achieved world domination yet, but please be assured that that won't stop me from tracking you down and beating the sorry shit out of your candy ass if you even think of trying to cyber-molest my little girl via her blog. Seriously. I will go skraight ghetto and fux you up.)
• Slowly, but surely, things are moving ahead with the next surrogacy journey. I'll have a lot more to say about my current match (love her!) in the coming days. We probably won't get to cycle until early Spring, but last week my IPs (intended parents) had their phone consult with Dr. Sleepy's colleague so the ball is definitely rolling.
• WINNER! Last week I offered a free dozen cookies to the first person who correctly answered my allusion to Chicago's musical number "He Had It Comin'" and listed three pet peeves. The first person to answer the allusion lives in South Africa (Hi, Rose!) and is unfortunately out of the shipping range, so I considered the winner to be the first person who still mentioned the song (even though Rose had already done so) and listed her peeves. So, Baby Making Journey, you win! Email me for instructions on how to place your order!
• Glee - is anyone watching? What do you think of THE storyline? You know the one I'm talking about. Let's discuss it.
• What's the weather like where you are? Are the leaves changing colors yet? These are serious questions here. Where I am in the Dirty South, we don't have Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. We have Warm & Rainy, Hot, Hot as Hell, and Christmas. The leaves might fall off somewhere around November, but they sure as shizzle don't change colors much. I am craving a true Autumn in a bad way - crisp, cool air and a blaze of fiery-hued foliage are what I want. I haven't had that in more than 20 years.
• Has anyone read (or is planning to read) the new Dan Brown book "The Lost Symbol?" I read it on Monday (school freakin' furlough day, so I was home - UNPAID, grrr).

Speaking of cookies: You addicts can get your fix again! Until we decide the best way for us to move forward BIG TIME the way we want to, I'm going to take orders via email only (and not through Etsy or the new Website). All of the information you need is available on this download: Download Big Ones. Check out the new varieties and prices, and if you'd like to put your hands on Frank's Big Ones (heh!), follow the directions provided in the download! You know you want some.

I keep thinking that SOON the school year will slow down, but it just hasn't happened yet. I have some extra work-related stuff on my plate this year which requires a lot of extra planning time at home. My blogging -- especially the commenting aspect --it does suffer. Sniff. For the love of cheese - it took me 12 hours just to write this one lousy post! I will be back to making the rounds soon. I promise.

Bringing it around town so that I can do some commenting tonight:
Blog - read Kyra's
Surrogacy - soon!
Winnner - Babymakingjourney!
Glee - let's talk about it
Weather - I can haz some purty colerz in mah treez, pleeze? You haz got em?
Book - I read one (this is a huge accomplishment considering the lack of time)
Blog again - making an effort to comment more
Cookies - you can order now

This must be the lamest post I've ever written here. Or maybe not, since I'm bringing back more cookies than Timberlake has sexy.

Heartlight

On my birthday in February, we were caught somewhere in the middle of our first of two beta hells. We'd already received the first beta; it was low enough for us to know the "pregnancy" was likely doomed but high enough to warrant a second beta to just to be sure that we weren't giving up too soon. As was the routine for all of my appointments (no matter how small), Chance and Apollo met me at the hospital, this time bearing my birthday gifts.

Chance is not merely an artist, but a true, university-educated artiste, skilled in the ways of crafting something spectacular out of nothing special. She hand-stamped a plain white gift bag with hundreds of hearts in different shades of pink, and painted a solitary word in the corner:

Each gift inside was thoughtfully connected to our experiences together up to that point. Apollo gave me a compilation of short stories by Ernest Hemingway. On the night of our transfer two weeks prior, the two of us had a 2am discussion about authors we enjoyed. He was almost appalled to hear that I'd never read more than two of Hemingway's short stories. Wanting to correct this literary slight, he gifted me with the compilation and bookmarked his favorite story with a note about why it was so. Apollo was right; how I ever managed to overlook Hemingway is beyond me.  

Chance gave me pink pajamas (pink is her signature color) and my very own Reproducina, the rainbow farting unicorn. 

My Reproducina was a twin to the unicorn that Chance had bought for herself weeks before. We used them for fun here on this blog, as they were a light-hearted representation of all the hope we had for our journey together despite the hardships that had brought Chance and Apollo to surrogacy in the first place. As silly as the unicorns were, Chance's act of purchasing a tangible representation of those hopes was a major step for her. Receiving a unicorn of my own also symbolized the connection between the two of us.

The unicorn made cry, but the gift that really brought me to my knees was the jar. It was a simple jar. What once contained jam, now encapsulates our relationship. Small, hand-punched hearts (also in shades of pink) cover the lid. Inside, there is an assortment of larger hearts, and on each heart Chance wrote a word or phrase that related to my life, her life, and our lives together in our journey.

Some of my favorite things or things that reminded her of me:

My family:

Times we spent together:

"You had to be there" moments of hilarity:

Sparkly, Skittle-fart reminders to be gee-golly positive:

Support we relied upon so heavily from both specific individuals and the ALI blogging community as a whole:

All that we held our breaths in prayer for:

When I think of Chance, I often find that my gaze turns to this jar. Now, long past February, the second cycle in May, and the subsequent conclusion of our surrogacy journey, we know that the story does not conclude with the happily ever after that we all hoped it would. The tale which surrounds the jar is melancholy, but within those glassy walls there is the essence of all joy we hoped to have.

Embossed along the top of the jar are the words Bonne Maman. In French, it means "good mother."

She would have been a great one.

Remembering all that should have been.

Who else is standing at the front of the class this week? Show and Tell with Mel.

Travelling without Moving

Having done it twice now while writing this blog, I've found that expressing my feelings over post-surrogacy journey aftermath is difficult for me to do. I devote so much time into writing about my experience as part of a cohesive unit, and then almost suddenly, too suddenly, it's over. Part of my story isn't mine to tell anymore. Ways diverge, and I find myself feeling like a lost child in the dark, groping around blindly for the hand she once held but knowing just the same that she has to find her way out alone.

I'm a thinker, a planner, a doer. I always feel the need to be busy with something, to have some goal that I'm working towards. College. Babies. Grad school (twice). Building a house. Surrogacy. These things have ebbed and flowed and overlapped one another as the years have gone on, but there was always something. In the few months here and there where there was nothing, before too long I find myself feeling unsettled and scattered. I throw myself into a new "project," and then I feel  eased by having something onto which to focus my attention. It is oddly comforting.

Now, that drive to do has evolved into something of a coping mechanism. When any one thing feels like it's going to fly off the rails, I flail to redirect some attention elsewhere, to have something else at the ready grasp a hold of should the other go down in flames. It becomes the next hand to hold in case I have to unclutch my fingers from the other. If I'm focused on something new, then I don't have as much capacity to feel negative emotions from the first failure. Sadness subverted. Anger averted. Depression diverted. There is no time to lie down with those emotions when there are other things to think, plan, and do. 

This time, it's different. I followed my natural inclination to avoid inaction, but what I've come to realize is that for once, I just need to be. My heart is heavy and I am sad. For once it feels better to sit idly with it for a while, to let it go away on its own instead of trying to shoo it away with a turn of the head and a quick flick of my empty hand.

I am no longer looking for a match. To clarify -- there is a very strong possibility that I've already found a couple to work with for the next journey. It's someone who I've known for more than a year and coincidentally, just as I was ready to hit the brakes and pull my surrogacy ad down from SMO, she emailed asking maybe...? And I said Possibly, but.... For all intents and purposes, it might be safe to say that in a few months, we will walk this path together. Waiting is necessary for both of us for different reasons. On my part, I'm just not ready. I need to be still.

It is rainy here today.

I just miss my friend. 

I am sad, and I don't want to take one hand while the sadness of letting go of another is so sharp.

I just miss my friend.

Why I'm a mammal

I don't know what the hell made me think of this tonight, but here is a story from the Jaiden files:

The twins were in Kindergarten when I delivered Sam. Stephanie had induced lactation and was able to breastfeed him, so about a month prior to Sam's delivery, I arranged to pump and donate my breastmilk to my friend Lisa. After a long battle with premature ovarian failure, Lisa finally became a mom via egg donation. She was fairly certain that the hormonal dysfunction which was the cause of the infertility would also cause diminished milk production and it did. The timing of her pregnancy with Jenna and my surrogacy pregnancy with Sam worked out perfectly, because she delivered less than a week before I did.

At any rate, one day about a month into pumping I received this email from the twins' Kindergarten teacher:

Good afternoon, Mrs. SmartOne!

I just had to tell you this story about Jaiden. As you know, we are working on a unit about types of animals. Today I introduced mammals. I explained the attributes of most mammals and when I got to the part about mammals producing milk for their babies, Jaiden threw up his hand and explained to the class that you were a mammal because you use a breast pump and had "tons and tons" of milk in the freezer. I thought it was so cute!

Have a good day and I hope your recovery is going well!
     Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher Who Probably Fell Out of Her Chair Laughing Her Ass Off     During Circle Time

When Jaiden got home from school that day, he bounded into the bedroom and before I could ask him what he learned about mammals, he exclaimed, "MOM! Today was a cool day in school! I told the class all about your breasts today!" 

 
Yes, that's a freezer full of packaged, dated, and carefully organized breastmilk. By the time I stopped pumping a month later, even the top two rows were completely filled with milk and we had to buy a chest freezer to store our food. If you were to call me a cow, I'd not be insulted. Moo. Call me a fat cow, and dem's fightin' words.

You bring the cheese; I have the whine

First of all, thanks for all of your comments on Kyra's room makeover. She absolutely loves it. To use her words, she says that she feels like she's in a "spa boutique." I don't know where she got the girly-girl from, but it certainly isn't me. I'm not really a girly-girl, but it's fun having one, especially one like Kyra who is as much dirt and wrestling as she is frills and lace. One minute she's painting her nails and having tea parties and the next minute she's dropkicking the boys in the playroom.

Now for the real topic of this post(and I assure you, I will ramble)...these days I've been feeling very...WTF!?!? "What the fuck?" is about the best qualifier that I can come up with. Speaking from a surrogacy perspective, the past 18 months have sucked. Big time. Seriously - as surrogacy/infertility is the primary focus of this blog, I'm amazed that anyone sticks around to read about that line because the journey hath sucketh much. In 18 months I haven't moved much further than the starting line. Sometimes I'm surprised that people still show up to read here, because I'm beginning to feel like a broken record. You've seen me through the very start of my journey with M&S, a failed cycle, a chemical, the "end," the matching phase, a new match with Chance and Apollo, two chemicals with them, another end, and now matching. AGAIN. WTF?

I can't help but think of all the things I should have been writing about by now: my IPs' reactions to hearing the heartbeat of their baby for the first time, discussions about the pregnancy side of surrogacy...hell -- had I not had the first chemical this time last year, I would now be 5 months post-partum from Mia and Urs' baby (she's doing great, by the way - having a baby girl in less than 2 months). Right now, I should have morning sickness so bad that I'm barfing my toenails. But no - I'm back at the starting line, and Chance and Apollo are empty-handed at the wrong type of finish line. WTF?

I started this leg of my life as a surrogate at the beginning of November 2007. I matched with Mia and Urs at the end of that month and we had our first transfer in mid-February 2008. There are other surrogates who started looking for intended parents or transferred around the same time I did who have gotten pregnant, delivered, recovered, found new matches, and are already pregnant again. And here I sit, twiddling my thumbs waiting for another match, with the sadness of three losses and a pocket full of broken hearts to keep me company. What. The. FUCK?

On most days I handle the hand that's been dealt to me with a surprising amount of grace (if I do say so myself), but for today, I'm just feeling sorry for myself, and I hate feeling sorry for myself. Someone please stamp the L on my forehead, because I probably won't have any luck with having that turn out right either if I did it myself.

Here again

This is the part that I've grown to hate. Well, it's more like a love/hate relationship, but by now it's probably a bit more hate than love. Matching -- I was in the same place last year. That's what matching does, at least for me. It makes me think in terms of time and realize just how long I've been at this, all that's happened since then, and just how messed up it is that I've been smacked back to the start line again.

sigh

On one hand, there is a certain exhiliration that comes from trying to find a match. The ad goes up and then the inbox stalking begins. It's a bit like Christmas or Forrest's box of chocolates -- you never know what you're going to get, and it's impossible not to feel some anticipation that there will be a new ad reply each time you check your email.

But on the other, larger hand, matching has almost become riddled with anxiety. I'm hard to match for several reasons, so it seems like the replies come few and far in between. Half of those that I do get read something like WE ARE LOOKING FOR A SURROGANT, HOW MUCH DO YOU CHARGE? Instant turn-off, definite no-go. Then for the others that seem like they could be possibilities, I know that I must rehash nearly the entire history of my uterus. I don't mean to cheapen or minimize the importance of having had four healthy pregnancies, but when you weigh the good of my fertility history against the bad, the Gee, You're Screwed Up side of the list reaches much further than my uterus' list of accomplishments. In the past 18 months alone I have had one completely failed IVF and three chemicals. When you add in PCOS/IR, a slightly elevated BMI, and my own wonky hormones and lady bits, I can't help but feel like a washed up, rusty tin can when compared to the sleek and sliver vessels that are other surrogates.

I know that my personal (sub)fertility history isn't so bad that it precludes me from being a good carrier. There isn't an RE who in his right mind would have ever approved me if I wasn't. Still, there is this bag of insecurities that I carry around, knowing that my infertility is a factor that needs to be considered. Hell, if I was an intended parent looking for a surrogate and all other things being equal, it came down to Surrogate A who needed Clomid to get pregnant and Surrogate B who washes her husband's underwear and gets pregnant, I'd probably lean more towards Surro B, too.

So, there it is. Remnant sadness and wonky ovaries and all, I'm trying to find intended parents. Again. This time next year, I hope I'm writing a post of a different, much happier persuasion.

Biology 101

Last Monday my beta was 460-something and there was talk of a D&C if the number continued to go up or didn't fall much further than 300 or so. Today my number was just 3, so I've bottomed out and don't need to return for any betas. I wasn't surprised to hear that my number had tanked so rapidly, as I've been testing once or twice a day with cheapie strips (BTW - Wondfo, found on eBay at $20 for 100, are quite reliable and sensitive for internet cheapies) and the lines faded dramatically each day. Two days ago there was nothing, and I confirmed yesterday with a leftover FRER and that also was stark white.

Now that I've bottomed out, I'm clear to start BCPs again. My nurse coordinator said this: You're good to start your birth control pills now, because now that your hormone levels have tapered off you're completely back to normal and you could get pregnant, so you'll want to be careful. I had to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. My normal is not normal-normal. Get pregnant without BCPs? That's still funny.

~~~~~

Right this very moment, I'm in this house alone, with no one but my snoring dog here to make noise. Frank is at school and my sister just left to take el Cinco out to play softball and then to get ice cream. When was the last time I've been in this house alone? Uuumm....hmmm. Have I ever been in this house alone? This might be a good time to mop the floors, but instead I'll go do something really productive like take a nap.

~~~~~

A few nights ago, I helped Frank take notes on the crusty-but-cutting-edge-for-its-time video The Miracle of Life for his Human Biology class. Was that documentary supposed to be a comedy? Because between the overuse of simile (and I quote: The egg waits in the folds of the Fallopian tubes and is seen just ahead, with warm, reddish tones like a sun peeking just over the evening horizon or Seminal fluid, seen here with the appearance of pancake batter on a hot frying pan) and stupid couple ballet scene which represented sex, I could not stop laughing.

~~~~~

There is a drainage ditch which marks the boundary between my house and the neighbor's and leads into the lake behind my house. The geniuses who constructed the ditch didn't assure that it was angled properly in a slight, downward grade towards the lake. There is a bit of a dip in the middle, so there is a stretch of about ten feet that always has a couple inches of standing water. Apparently, some frogs thought that this might make for a fine location to set up their personal fertility clinic. A couple of weeks ago, the kids noticed that there were THOUSANDS! OF TADPOLES! RIGHT NEXT TO OUR HOUSE, MOMMY! COME SEE! "Surely," I quipped, as I was being dragged by the hand out of the house, "there aren't thousands of tadpoles in the ditch."

Oh, but there were. I leaned over to peer into the gutter and THOUSANDS! of tiny, black, overgrown sperm-things were jutting around all through the water. I could not believe how many tadpoles there were. The inner science geek/teacher in me got all giddy. "This is a GREAT chance for us to witness with our own eyes the life cycle of a frog!" At once, they all chattered excitedly all that they already knew about the metamorphasis of frogs and how excited they were that we get to watch them grow.

Kyra, Jaiden, Jordan, and TJ each are keeping "Frog Observation Logs" in which they are drawing pictures and writing descriptions of the changes they see in our tadpole friends (their idea, not mine). I haven't been out there to see them myself in about a week, so yesterday they dragged me out to see them. Natural environmental hazards like birds and survival of the fittest and wayward basketballs have dwindled the THOUSANDS! down to a few hundred. What once looked like slender, black sperm are now about twice as large and have swollen, elongated heads and slightly shorter tails. They're also now green, with all the mottled markings of your average toad.

Where the science nerd in me was once excited, the inner nutcase is now also somewhat creeped out. I am equal parts Smart One and Complete Fucking Idiot, because it only just occurred to me yesterday that those HUNDREDS of tadpoles will grow into FROGS and they will eventually grow arms and legs and will SEEK LIFE ELSEWHERE. Like, in my yard. On my sidewalk. On my windows (every summer, we always have a few visitors who like to plaster themselves to the windows at night). The marvel I first felt about observing the changes in the sperm-tadpole-almost frogs dulled into a slight chill when I imagined opening my door in a few weeks and seeing my front yard overrun with slimy frogs. I couldn't help but think of the Stephen King short story called Rainy Season. Below, the WIki synopsis:

A young husband and wife on summer vacation rent a house in a small town called Willow, Maine, only to be warned repeatedly (if vaguely) to leave by the local inhabitants. They do not comply and, having purchased groceries, return to the house. They never learn the price for prosperity the citizens of Willow must pay: every seven years a husband and wife will come there from outside and will stay, despite protests, to become sacrifices during the rainy season. When the "rain" starts, the couple does learn the nature of the precipitation: an army of grotesque black toads the size of footballs, armed with needle-sharp teeth, and able to chew through doors and walls...

Is your skin crawling? Mine is. Now, I once caught a couple of bullfrogs when I was around the twins' age, placed them in a brown paper grocery bag, and asked my mom if I could keep them as pets and I don't mind catching frogs with the kids (Kaelyn likes to find little ones when I'm working in the yard and she brings them to me in her cupped hands like they were little gifts) and then kindly send them on their merry froggy way, but the thought of a freaking horde of frogs living JUST NEXT DOOR is spooking me out just a bit. If I go quiet all of the sudden and you hear one of those "News of the Weird" reports that a couple in southern Georgia was eaten by mutant, killer frogs, you'll know what happened to me.

~~~~~~~~

Speaking of sperm (sort-of) and life cycles and whatnot, I have not yet had THE TALK with my kids. My mother had THE TALK with me at such a young age that I don't remember ever not knowing how babies were made. Out of curiosity, yesterday as I was curling my hair I asked Kyra if she knew how babies were made. She brightened right up with her I-know-the-answer-to-this-one-because-I'm-a-smarty-pants-and-I-remember-everything face and she explained, with intelligent gesticulations, "Well. The doctor takes the egg from the woman and the sperm from the man and he mixes them in one of those dish things in a lab. And then he lets them grow for a few days, and then the doctor takes the embryos and he puts them back in the mom where they might grow or they might not grow. Kind-of like when we plant flower seeds, sometimes they grow flowers and sometimes they don't. So if the embryo keeps growing, then it grows into a baby. If two embryos keep growing, then they're twins, like me and Jaiden are twins." Then she crossed her arms and sat down on the edge of the tub with a crooked, aren't-you-so-impressed smile on her face which communicated the idea that she knows she's the shit.

And clearly, I have some explaining to do.

Dirty hands, kindled hearts

A couple of days ago, Tash left me this comment:

Kym, this is gonna sound all shades of wack, but in a way I'm jealous that you had an opportunity to actually help. Sometimes I feel when I stare at these stories, and go in the comments and cuss and swear and offer hugs and condolences, that it's just . . . . so little. so meaningless. And here you actually had a role to play and a job to do and rolled up your sleeves and while I'm heartbroken it didn't turn out the way *I* wanted it to, I'm just so grateful you tried.

I understand how Tash feels. There have been many times when I, too, have felt like the mere words I leave in the simple, four-sided comment boxes do little to combat the complex feelings of grief, loss, sadness, and anger that others are enduring. But having been on the receiving end such comments of support for more than a year and a half, though I empathize with Tash's feelings of verbal impotence, I respectfully have to disagree.

These words, which might seem so little, mean so very much. It takes a lot to sit on your side of the screen and tap into someone else's struggles, even if only for a moment. Whether you commiserate in the comments or only lurk and never say a word, it means everything to know that you are there, sending all your hopes and wishes and good thoughts out into the universe on the behalf of those you read. I may have "rolled up my sleeves" and gotten my hands dirty, but I think that each of you do the same every time you tap into the blogosphere. You also make a choice to to dirty your hands and try on someone else's troubled shirt for a while, and you wear your hearts on your sleeves and warm the hearts of others when you are here to support. Don't underestimate all the good that you do by simply just being here.

So, to the 90-something of you that have been here to lift me up in the past couple of weeks, I give you this small, but heartfelt token of gratitude. You're all my personal superheroes. It's little, but I know so very well how little things can mean a lot.

href="http://smartone.typepad.com/smartone/red-cape-award-supercrew.html" target="_top"> <img  alt="RedCapeAward" src="http://smartone.typepad.com/.a/6a00e54ff452948833010535b4a5bc970c-pi">

This award is for all of you to pick up and take back to your blogs if you so choose*, but I hope you won't mind if I single out a few ladies specifically:

Tash, JuliaKB, niobe (Rock Band + niobe: I've seen it and she doth rock much), Charmed Girl, MM, Kristin (who has a voice that's every bit as genial and kind as her on-screen words are), Calliope (who is a firecracker² more animated in person than she already is on her blog), Heather R (who's spoiled me rotten with gifts, the latest of which is a 6-month subscription to Pogo, which then I used to whoop her ass at Scrabble), Coffeegrl, and Miss W, WhichBox, and Kimmy (my surrobuddy) all either sent emails of support or posted support on their own blogs. I apologize in advance if I missed anyone who belongs in this category. My brain hasn't had the most clarity in the past couple of weeks.

To Nishkanu, who generously donated practically all of the meds I needed for this cycle. Charmed Girl donated the bulk of the meds that Chance needed. The two of them made the cycle possible and gave us that one last shot (no pun intended, though it definitely works here).

To Carrie, who obsessed over peesticks with me, dragged my ass through post-planning and ran errands around the school when I couldn't do it myself, and with whom I will soon get ripped on margaritas and sangria.  

And finally, to Chance, who though she doesn't feel like it, is most definitely the ballsiest woman that I've ever met.

*******

*You surely aren't obligated to do so, but if you want to pass on the Red Cape Award to another blogger, here are the steps:

1. On your blog, copy and paste the award, these rules, a link back to the person who selected you, and a link to this post: Red Cape Award SuperCrew (http://smartone.typepad.com/smartone/red-cape-award-supercrew.html). This is a running list of awardees.
2. Check in on the SuperCrew post by leaving a link to your blog and a comment to let Kymberli of I'm a Smart One know that you were passed a Red Cape Award so she can add you to the list.
3. Select as many award recipients as you would like, link to their blogs (if they have one), and explain why you have chosen them. 
4. Let them know that you have selected them for an award by commenting on one of their posts.
5. If you find that someone you want to nominate has already been selected by someone else, you can still honor them by posting a comment on their award post stating your reasons for wishing to grant them the award.
6. You do not have to wait until someone nominates you to nominate someone else.

If you do pass it on, at the very least, please come back and let me know who you've given it to so that I can link back to them on the SuperCrew list of honored recipients.

I think I lost my funny

Dude.

Check me out.

See how I walk into this room all boss and whatnot?

Lemme get my music flowing. That's my jam.

I'm feeling better, or at least I think I am.

So maybe I'll dance a little, cuz no one on the corner has a swagger like me.

Oh, snap! It's in my bones now! Jump back, homie, cuz you can't touch this.

Feeling so good that I'm on my feet so fast, cuz I'm the shiznit, y'heard?

I'm feeling so good that I'm feeling froggy now, so maybe I'll jump.

*jump*

I'mrunningI'mrunningI'mrunningWHOAmuthafarkinfastWHOA!!!

*thump*

On my aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaass again.

NoI'mnot!

YesIam.

But I gots that shwagga, so I'll get up and keep right on steppin'.

It's okay. You can laugh.

In which I ramble...

Mentally at least, I'm pretty sure that I'm back on the other side of the break point. I had to say goodbye to Chance and Apollo Saturday afternoon. We did okay through lunch and managed to part ways without shedding a tear (opting for "see you later" vs. "goodbye), but I admit to breaking out into an ugly cry the moment I got back in my van and I bawled most of the way back home.

I gave myself a week to wallow in misery (and snot), and then forced myself to get up yesterday and make the first real steps towards moving on. That's how it goes...I have to disconnect from the sadness over things gone wrong and the goodbyes, and then re-engage more deeply into the goings on of everyday life. So, on that angle I know that I've come through the worst of it...my main concern of course is for Chance and Apollo and how they are coping with needing to move on to the next stage in their life.

To continue in the vein of the parable that niobe recently posted (it's a must-read if you haven't read), it's not my bag of troubles. I don't mean that flippantly, apathetically, or uncaringly. That is only to say that as a surrogate, I choose to pick up someone else's bag of troubles labeled "infertility and loss" and try to help shoulder the burden for a while. No matter what I must personally endure while carrying it, the bag doesn't belong to me and there comes a point when I have to give it back, even though I wish like all hell that I could still help somehow.

And of course, there is that touch of survivor's guilt that I even have the choice to set that load down, to regretfully have to push it back entirely on their shoulders and then turn around and have the shameful, yet reflexive audacity to feel at least a small sense of relief that I have the option in the first place, when they don't. After working so intimately and so in sync with with them for so long, it's a complicated untangling of my mindset from theirs, but this realignment of my mind is necessary and leaves me where I know I need to be -- taking a step back to a place alongside those of you who support Chance and Apollo by proxy of supporting me,  and alongside those of you who also know Chance personally and have supported her for the past couple of years. We all try to support them best way we possibly can, hurting for them but still knowing that we have our own lives to lead. I know we all wish that the joys of parenthood could be known to Chance and Apollo, and we all hurt that their road can no longer be on a path in attempt to get them there. 

I hurt terribly for Chance and Apollo, but as far as I personally am concerned, I know that I'm over the hurdle and I'm trying to look ahead to brighter things and new opportunities. As moving on goes, mentally -- I'm there. Physically, not so much, apparently. Betas:

 

May 22 = 50

May 24 = 46

May 30 = 355

June 1 = 460-something

 

In a nutshell, this isn't viable and wasn't to begin with. TMI - I bled from Friday-Sunday. Yesterday it tapered off into nothing. With the other chemicals I bled for 1-2 weeks. Dr. Sleepy said that I will likely restart bleeding within the next few days and will "fully miscarry" (his words, not mine). Next Monday I will have another beta. If I have not started to bleed and/or my beta continues to go up significantly by then, I will be scheduled for a D&C and possibly a shot of methotrexate, depending on what the D&C yields. *sigh* I can handle this...it's just exhausting. I mean, hell -- at least we could have caught a break on the resolution of this cycle, but even that can't be easy for us. Like I said -- I can personally handle this without it leaving me a deep emotional rut, but Chance and Apollo just do not need anything else added to make that bag of troubles any heavier. I hate that they have to go through this. I completely hate it.

 

So, that's where things stand as of now on that front. I have Stubborn Undropping Beta Syndrome, otherwise known as Some Unnecessary BullShit (SUBS).

 

exhale

 

This is also where things start to feel a little...odd...around here in my personal blogland. Yes, the surrogacy and the cycling and the betas and the loss are a part of me and a very large part of why we're all here reading, but it is not all of me or even most of me, at least not right now. This is that transitional time, where the balances both in my life and in this blog shift again. I can't help but feel a little schizo and...I guess weird about writing about some of the the things I want to share. There are lots of good things going on here, too. Blogger friends to thank for keeping me afloat through phone calls, emails, hugs, and comments of commiseration or comments which simply said something to the effect of "this sucks monkey ass" -- which it did, but I laughed my ass off through the tears just the same. Funny children who are dazzled by the splendor of summer and all the potential that it holds. A husband who as of today, is now a kolidge stoodent. You should have seen him with his bookbag. Actually, you will see him with his bookbag, because I totally took First Day of School pictures of him. For the next couple of weeks, there will be days in which one post will bemoan the aforementioned SUBS and how much emotional havoc that might wreak and me and C&A, but then the next moment I'll jerk hard in the opposite direction and write about something stupidly hilarious that el Cinco did. So, yeah...for a little while it will feel just...weird and awkward to post about all that is happy joy and sunshine in my life right now, but at the same time, I know that it is right that I should, and that it is okay that I do.

 

Because after all, Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da...

 

 

...which is as it should be.

Things I know too damned much about

1. A  newly refilled bottle of 800 mgs Motrin can sometimes be my best friend.
2. It always takes exactly five days from "stop meds" to start bleeding. The fact that I knew that I should put pads on yesterday morning (yes, more than one) before I left for work (and before any bleeding started) just speaks to how used to this shit I've grown.
3. I know how to overlap the pads just so to avoid embarassing leakage.
4. There's a different arrangement for being up and about during the day than there is for being flat on your back in the bed.
5. Let a friend drive to lunch if you plan on downing a 22 oz. margarita with your fajitas during your lunch break.
6. An alcoholic beverage is a good complement to the Motrin.
7. Baby wipes are a must-have for heavy duty clean up. Fucked up, isn't it?
8. Use OSOM card tests (only found at medical supply sites online) to detect hCG at the earliest point possible. It was 3.5dp5dt this time and last.
9. OSOM test lines are as dark as the control lines with a beta of 50. FRERs are about half as dark as the control with a beta of 50.
10. FRER will show a faint line with a beta of 13. OSOM lines are fairly dark at that point. FRER lines should be as dark as or almost as dark as the control to indicate a beta around 100.
11. CBE digital will show PREGNANT with a beta of 13.
12. I think it's fairly stupid that those damned things say PREGNANT.
13. The presence of hCG does not necessarily mean PREGNANT.
14. I can tell what my hCG levels are doing by judging the darkness on tests.
15. Lines on pregnancy tests mean everything and nothing.
16. Lines that don't get darker mean everything.
17. Lines that get fainter mean you're fucked.
18. Judging from the state of my lines, I wasn't altogether surprised to get the first beta of 50 or the second beta of 46. I even told niobe, "The lines aren't any darker, I don't think. But they're not any lighter, either, and that's a good thing because then I'd know for sure that it's over. But I think it should be darker. I know we only need at least a 60% rise to be able to keep going, so I'm hoping for at least a beta of 80. But these lines...I think I might have stalled. Hopefully not...hopefully it's gone up enough to make a difference but maybe not enough to register on the test."
19. I'll be fucked if I wasn't right about it stalling.
20. I hate that I can see a chemical coming from a mile away.
21. I usually know what the results are before I get the phone call.
22. No, maybe it's a twisted gift of sorts...it gives me time to prepare for the actual results so that I don't get sideswiped out of left field with bad news.
23. I know too much about bad news.
24. I know too fucking much about saying goodbye and having to move on.

Tomorrow, tomorrow...

...is not only a freakin' day away. It's a lifetime away. Despite waking at 4:45 a.m., leaving at 5:30, arriving at 6:30, and having the needle in my vein by 6:40, we apparently have to wait until tomorrow to get my beta results. "Get there early and hopefully we'll get the results to you before Monday."

Damned Sunday blood work.

Do you see what I see? (for real this time)

Today's beta, taken at about 8.75dp5dt is 50.

Those of us who know anything about betas know that plenty of REs like to see at least 50.

Those of us who know anything about what Dr. Google says about betas would like to see at least 100.

Our RE specifically said that today's beta of 50 gives us about a 60% chance of this turning out right.

I look at it like this -- at this point last time, the beta was only 13. I'll take 50 and a fighting chance over put your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye any day. My tests look stronger than last time and have been getting steadily darker. I have to hold onto whatever fibers of hope that I can muster.

Whatever I can't muster, I know that you can and will.

So, umm...now would be a good time for you to send prayers, light candles, burn chicken feathers while dancing naked in the moonlight, or do whatever it is you do for hope and luck and good results.

We need to see some magic this time.

Watch how I bust some funky Zen

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'M GOING NUCKING FUTS!!!!!!!!!!! I'M GOING NUCKING FUTS!!!!!!!!!! I'M GOING NUCKING FUTS!!!!!!!!!! I'M GOING NUCKING FUTS!!!!!!!!! I'M GOING NUCKING FUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Blasted

Two blasts in - one grade A expanded blast and one grade B blast. Two other grade B's are still growing and will be frozen tomorrow morning if they make it.

After transfers, I always feel somewhat groggy for the remainder of the day. Adrenaline, meet crash.

Later (probably tomorrow), Reproducina and Fertie the Fuzzy Fertili-Bunny will be back for their glitterylovefest story of today's transfer.

For now, I will leave you with this picture of Chance and me. I was going for squeezy tenderness, but Apollo was all, "No, make a face like THERE'S SOME CRAZY WHITE LADY TRYING TO HUG ME!"

So there you are.

Free association on transfer eve

PIO is being especially mean to my ass this time around.

I should get Frank to rub my butt so that I can relax.

Oooh! I get to pop a valium tomorrow!

I'm sleepy. Usually I have killer insomnia leading up to transfer, but I've been sleeping like a rock. Escapism, anyone?

My dog is snoring.

I snore when I'm sick. Or pregnant.

*sigh*

Earlier today I realized that next Friday is a day of plenty. The last day of school (for the students) is next Friday. A blogger buddy is flying in to visit with Chance and me next Friday. Jordan's sixth birthday is next Friday. *insert sudden and dramatic piano chords here* BETA is next Friday. I'd like to say that three outta three ain't bad, but I'd rather score on all four counts.

I feel like a total fatty watching The Biggest Loser finale. If I can't rightfully wear maternity clothes this summer, then it's nothing but low-fat, organic air and diet water for me. And Frank's cookies.

What the shit is up with a few people (non IF-ers, I promise. IFers can complain about whatever they want to because, well, I think we've EARNED it) crabbing about maternity clothes and giving up certain activities per doctor's orders until the second trimester? HELLO!!! Are you pregnant? Then shut the fluckashit up. Nothing to bitch about.
GOOD KARMA   --------->-------->      BAD KARMA

Oh, how I doth love fuzzy bunnies and puppies and rainbows and wish that I could give them to all of my friends and even to people who annoy me, because they need love too!
GOOD KARMA <----------<--------- BAD KARMA

*singing* Go, Jeeeerry! It's your birthday! He lost the weight! He won a hundred grand! 

(_(_) ~~ (_)_) ~~ (_(_) ~~~ (_)_) <--- that's me shakin' mah bootay.

Not really, because mah bootay hurts. 

Frank is snoring. Is he pregnant?

**********

Transfer is at 11. I'll be home to update by 5. Feed Reproducina all the beans you can. We are long overdue for rainbow glittler, Skittle-scented farts.

No clever titles here

We're going to day 5. The embryologist said that there are so many excellent quality, 8-celled day-three'ers that he couldn't distinguish two stand-outs to transfer today. He said that we might even end up with a few to freeze. From his mouth to God's ears.

Good again. Good again.

And now, I'm going to play hooky from school and spend the day pretending like I'm actually going to get some work done around here. Hey - it's the thought that counts, right?

Fert report

Of the 15 eggs retrieved, 14 were mature.

Ten fertilized. exhale

No word yet on whether we're definitely on for a 3-day transfer or if we're going to push to day 5. At some point in time today, our nurse will call us with Monday's tentative transfer time, but we still won't know for absolutely sure about pushing to day 5 until the lab calls again at the buttcrack of dawn on Monday morning (day 3).

You'll know more when I do.

Frankian slip

Reclining in the post-op room and huddled under warmed blankets, the semi-high Chance introduced us to the nurse:

"This is the Uterus of Steel - my friend Kym - and this is my husband Frank," she explained, as she rested her hand on the shoulder of the man sitting next to her.

"Actually," I interjected, "that's Apollo, and my husband Frank is out in the van."

Drugs are good, I tell you. Whatever she had, I want some, too. She looked pretty damned jolly on that buzz.

We got 15 eggs, and we are happy. We'll get our fert report sometime tomorrow afternoon.

Keep the prayers and wishes coming. Something seems to be working this time around.

Retrieval

...is Friday.

Frank and I are driving up tomorrow so that we can be with Chance and Apollo. Then we're driving back to spend the weekend at home with the family for That Day (for which I'm so loaded with a blend of polarized emotions that I can't speak about here).

Transfer is either Monday or Wednesday.

Follicle check # 2

Today's email from our nurse coordinator:

Hello Kym,

 

I wanted to provide you with Chance’s progress.  She will be back Wednesday for blood work and U/S.  It looks like the retrieval may possibly be Friday.  I will let you know for certain after we review her results with the doc’s tomorrow.  Don’t change any of your meds in the mean time and I will talk to you Wednesday.

 

Take care,

~Chyrl

Chance's ovaries are on and poppin' in there. Keep the prayers coming, ladies. I'm sure I'll have something intelligent and of substance to post soon. For now, I'm just doing what it takes to maintain my zen. 

 

Follicle check # 1

The left ovary has 11 follicles and the right has five, with one possible. One measures 12 x 13, several measure anywhere from 9-12, and there are a couple which measure 6-7. In the last cycle, Chance had 15 follicles after a full 14 days on stims, and so far we have sixteen measurable follicles on day 8 of stims. Chance's next appointment is Tuesday morning.

My uterus is behaving and Chance's ovaries aren't in tortoise mode.

It's hard to keep my zen in check when hope is standing there flailing her arms and throwing little positive pebbles at me to get my attention.*

*But I'm not complaining; all looks good so far.

Seen and heard

Upon my arrival, the same mismatched couple that I saw a couple of weeks ago had this loud conversation as they reentered the waiting area from the back:

She: That was fun, wasn't it?
He: Yeah, it was flipping around all over the place!
She: It's great, being pregnant.

My first thought: Good for them! (sincerely meaning it)
My second thought: Bad infertile. (sincerely meaning it)

****************

Dr. Deadfish: (flatly, as usual) Okay. You can get dressed now. I'll send this up to Dr. Sleepy.
Me: ....... Well? What did my lining measure?
Dr. Dipshit: (half out of the door) It's a 12.
Me: Any fluid?
Dr. Dingleballs: (from the hall) Not this time.
Me: Thanks, you fuck.
Dr. Dunghole: (from his office across the hall) I didn't quite hear that last question?
Me: I said, "Thanks so much."

*****************

In the hall, waiting for the elevator, a soldier spoke loudly into his cell phone while pacing frantically:

"Hey, Mom? No, it's not good. April's water broke and it's too early and they don't want her to deliver yet. They're taking her over to be admitted. Can you pack some things for us and bring them? We'll be somewhere on the maternity floor, I think. No, I don't know for sure how long we'll be here but it seems like maybe for a while. Mom? I'm really scared."

****************

Downstairs in the lab:

Nurse: Good to see you again, Mrs. SmartOne!
Me: Good to see you, too! How much longer do you have left to go?
Nurse: Next month. Just about five weeks left to go! (fiddling with the needle in my arm) Hmm...it seems like this vein has grown some scar tissue on it. It must get poked a lot.
Me: Yeah, pretty much.
Nurse: Hopefully this time everything will work out and we won't have to keep seeing you here.
Me: Thanks...I hope so, too.

Sentences

Thank you for the outpouring of support the past few days; we're okay.

I'm sleepy, but happy.

There are T-minus 16 days of school left.

Today in class we are reading one of my favorite kiddie-lit short stories - "The All-American Slurp." It's below the 8th grade reading level, but whatever. It's short, cute, entertaining, the students always love it, and it's a good narrative tie-in to the international culture and customs research project that they have been assigned.

If scheduling permits, I'm going on a field trip next week with the twins' 2nd grade class to a bamboo farm and to pick strawberries.

Jordan wrote a cute story in his kindergarten class about how he wished he had a jumping casaw (castle). He would bounce with his Daddy and thow (throw) balls at Jaiden it would be SUPER GRATE and AWSUM!

TJ is now obsessed with powers of ten multiplication problems. I made the mistake of teaching him the trick of adding the zeroes and tagging them to the end, so now, of course, he's a mathmagician: "Hey Auntie Kyyyyyym - I know what 700 times 800 is. (pause to allow room for me to be impressed) It's FIVE HUNDRED AND SIXTY THOUSAND! Yeah, I'm so smart, I'm so smaaaaart! Hey Auntie Kyyyyym - I know what 6,000 times 600 is...." and on and on and on and on.

Jaiden and Kyra got straight A's on their mid-term progress reports. They told me that they were going to work in a laboratory together to find a cure for the Swine Flu when they grew up and I couldn't help but think of them as Pinky and the Brain. Kyra also told me that she was going to be a freelance writer on the side.

Quote from Kaelyn: "Eeewww, Mom. I got snot on my hands! See? What does snot start with? It starts with S! S says ssssssssssss, like a snake! And booger starts with B! B-b-booger! Can you wipe the b-b-b-BOOGER and the sssssssssssssssss-SNOT off my hand?"

Frank has been fully accepted, has submitted all necessary paperwork to get his VA educational benefits rolling, and starts class on June 5. I'm totally going to take a First Day of School picture of him with his book bag when he's on his way out the door. 

We hope to do a full launch of Frank's Etsy bakery by mid-July. We've added in some cookies and changed a couple of names thanks to many of the awesome suggestions given to us last week. Winners *might* be announced next week.

My lining check is this afternoon. I've been on both Vivelle and estrace, so hopefully I won't have any of the slow-growth nonsense from the last cycle.

Transfer is in approximately two weeks. 

*******

And from the Files of What the Fuck?, China, with its longstanding one-child policy, quite naturally prohibits surrogacy. However, surrogacy is quietly practiced there without much sanction, until now apparently. Authorities from the Chinese city of Guangzhou forced the abortions of three surrogates. Appalling.

How do you hold your hope? Revisited

A bit more than a year ago when I was on the brink of my first transfer with Mia and Urs, I wrote the below which I have copied and pasted. There is a question contained within that I have found myself pondering with increasing frequency. I do have hope for this cycle, but how do I hope for this cycle?

Yesterday Niobe wrote a short, but powerful post on the topic of hope. Will she hurt less by proxy of hoping less? How can one have positive hopes that the struggle of infertility will eventually lead to a baby when all evidence points to the contrary?

In its best light, hope is lovely, the subject of cross-stitched pillows, greeting cards, and mass-produced decorative wall prints. "Hope for the best," people say, and conveniently leave off the completion of "but expect the worst." The worst - the metamorphosed reciprocal, the rotten thing that writhes beneath Hope's fair skin, like ominous thunder in the distance of a tranquil day. Hope is as dangerous as it is beautiful; the lion is a gorgeous creature to behold, so long as it is contained within its cage.

Hope is multifaceted and the side you see is dictated largely by your past experiences. I have come to believe that hope is something borne from desperation. People don't hope for something unless there is an idea that that something might not come to be. I started not with hope, but with the ingrained expectation that I would get pregnant not too much longer after trying. After six or seven months, the expectation turned into the hope that I would get pregnant before the 1-year line in the sand. Line crossed, I then hoped that I would be able to achieve pregnancy without help, because it had become glaringly apparent that something wasn't right. When my sister got pregnant after my second year of trying, hope was a bitch that I'd grown tired of entertaining, and I approached each cycle with no expectations, or hope, at all.

Since then, I've had hope rebuilt and shattered and back again, and my previous waltzes with her determine how I approach the dance floor. This time, I'm willing to tango. But I know there are others who prefer to sit on the sidelines with their eyes squeezed shut and fingers pressed into their ears. Some don't even want to hear the music, and who can blame them when all they hear is an incongruous dirge?

So I ask - how do you hold your hope? Is it something you keep close to you, holding on to it fiercely because it's all that you have left? Or do you lock it down and turn away from it, fearful of the crouching beast and its ability to swallow you whole? If you feel comfortable sharing, what are the past events that dictate your perspective on hope? My personal view is blended, shaped a bit more by my experience with infertility than it is by my experience as a surrogate.

Hope is shifty, an amorphous mass which often changes before you've realized it has. This time, I have no desire to take hope by the hand for a spin across the floor. Her lullaby does not soothe me to sleep; instead it is the seed of night terrors. I don't want to let her melody carry me. I hear her, but I'm too afraid to listen. When -- no, if -- hope decides to curl herself around the throb of a heartbeat within, then maybe I'll lend her an ear. For now, it's just enough to know she's there, even if I don't care to acknowledge her.

I throw this question out to the blogosphere again; how do you hold your hope?

You smart cookies, you!

Can I just say that in the last post, you guys have been cracking Frank and me the heck up? You guys are brilliant and hi-freakin'-larious. From the comments that have been posted so far, there are a few cookie names and cookie variety suggestions that Frank has absolutely fallen in love with and will most certainly play around with. There is also a big winner for the bakery name. The winners are....

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.........................

.........................

.........................

.....not going to be announced for a few more days. HAHAHAHAHAHA!

I know -- I suck. We have the bakery name solidified and my surro-friend Kimmy is working up a graphic, but I want to leave some more time open for cookie name and variety suggestions. You guys are rockin' with the suggestions, and I don't want to squelch anyone's creative energies by announcing winners too early.

Question -- now that there are so many "Naughty" cookie suggestions, Frank is thinking of dropping the basic "Nice" cookies and going with only the premium, can't-get-anywhere-else varieties (if you have no clue what I'm talking about, click that link up there at the top of this post to get caught up). What do you think?

Chance has her baseline ultrasound tomorrow and also starts Lupron. She starts stims on Sunday.

Distraction by cookie is a good thing.

I welcome April ICLW'ers with a contest

Hi. I'm Kym, and this is my blog.

*Hi, Kym.*

The super-short story: After 2.5 years of trying to conceive naturally without the slightest bit of luck, I hit the infertility lottery and conceived girl/boy twins on Clomid. I later conceived two singletons on Clomid. Somewhere in the middle of that, I received a full and proper diagnosis of PCOS with Insulin Resistance as the cause of my anovulation and inability to get pregnant without a little ovarian ass-kicking. Now, I'm the proud mother of four bright kiddos plus one: Kyra and Jaiden, age 7; Jordan, age 5; and Kaelyn, age 3; and my nephew TJ, age 8. Read The Rundown for extended information about The SmartOne family.

I'm not your average mommyblogger, though (I actually shudder at the term). I blather on about my five (known here as el Cinco de Mio) and sometimes about my work as an 8th grade English teacher, but the primary focus of my blog is continuing to bitch about infertility in my role as a gestational surrogate. I've helped bring one family's child into the world, and I'm currently cycling for a mid-May transfer with my intended parents Chance and Apollo. We suffered a chemical pregnancy in February, but prayerfully the next cycle will be THE cycle. I hope you stick around for the long ride. You and the embryo/s, that is.

Enough about me - this post is really about my sexy man Frank. I'm totally going to brag here:

• high school sweethearts
• married for almost 13 years, together for 16 years
• medically retired from the Army following his 1998 diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis
• blessed with remarkably good health despite the disease
• the bomb-diggety stay-at-home-dad since the twins were born
• starting college in the summer for a degree in Physical Education
• cleans the house
• does the laundry
• does homework time
• chases el Cinco around the house for tickles and body slams and karate
• cooks 95% of what we eat (the other 3% is fast-food and the other 2% I microwave)
• bakes as a hobby, and if all of the above isn't enough to get you hot, here's another:
• now aiming to open an Etsy cookie shop

Long-time readers and Frank-lovers, did you catch that last one?

FRANK IS GOING TO OPEN AN ONLINE COOKIE SHOP!


A man who cooks and cleans and is great with kids and feeds me homemade, ginormous cookies? Rrrrraaawwrrr.

Don't be jealous, ladies; be helpful. I'll share (but no pinching of his butt. That's all mine).

We have many of the cookie variety, packaging, pricing, and design concept ideas worked out, but what we need is a name for his bakery. It needs to be something that reflects Frank. He has a schmoove, Rico Suave kind-of appeal. He's quiet, laid back, more of a casual observer than an active participant. He's the candlelight and rose petals in the bubble bath type, the gentle giant with solid, silent support. He's also quirky with a killer sense of humor. His bakery name should reflect that.

We'd like for the name to have some sort of inclusion of his name or nickames: Frank, Maestro, BarneyMac, B-Love, or any derivation thereof. (Those nicknames were all earned from his Army days; he was the casanova that all the girlies flocked to, but he was taken already. *insert evil laughter here* Sucks to be them.)

For further inspiration and so you can get a better sense of Frank's vibe, below is the general concept of his shop and cookies. Which, it should be known that I'm the brainchild behind much of this. It goes something like this:

Me: You know what sounds good? A big assed cookie with an overload of chocolate. Chocolate batter, chocolate chunks, and maybe white chocolate chips.

Frank: (tapping chin with finger) Hmm. Sounds good.

Me: And it needs a sexy name, because it's a sexy cookie.

Frank: A sexy cookie?

Me: Yeah, there's something kindof naughty about it. You should call it the Menages Trois.

Frank: (sexily swiveling his hips around) Oooh, you mean like me, you, and the cookie doing naughty things in the bed?

Me: (flatly) Uuummm, no. I was thinking more like the marriage of those three types of chocolate in the unholy, sinful, and fattening but oh-so-delicious circle of baked goodness.

Frank: I can do that. Can I do you, too?

Me: Chocolate first, Mister Cookie Man. I have my priorities.

But I digress, sort-of. Where was I? Oh, yes - the bakery concept:

All cookies will have Frank's signature compact disc-sized porportions. Size matters (heh), and it is the size of his cookies that will be the major selling point. Click here for a picutre of one such cookie.

There will be "Nice" and "Naughty" cookies. We're not sure if Nice/Naughty will stick, but there will be the involvement of seductively opposite words like "Innocent/Sinful," etc. We're open to suggestions.

The "Nice" cookies will be your basics: chocolate chip, chocolate chip with walnuts, sugar, peanut butter, and oatmeal raisin.

The "Naughty" cookies are the premium varieties, the special recipes that were born in either my mind or his:

1. The Menages Trois: chocolate batter, chocolate chunks, white chocolate chips
2. The Monkeyboy: banana, chocolate chips, and walnuts (this one sounds like a naughty name, but it's really named after Jordan)
3. The Aristocrat: dried cherry chunks, chocolate chips, chunks of Skor candy, and toffee chips (Chance thought of this one)
4. Wake Me Up Before You Cocoa: coffee-flavored cookie with chocolate chips and chocolate/mocha icing drizzle (still working on this one)
5. Get Lei'd: pineapple chunks, coconut, and macadamia nuts
6. Appleholic's Anonymous: apple chunks soaked in amaretto, amaretto-infused batter, pecans, extra cinnamon and nutmeg (this title isn't exactly PC, but damn, it's funny)

His packaging colors will be brown and teal. His tagline will be "These ain't your Grandma's cookies." Get it? Grandma's cookies? As in, not the brand name Grandma's cookies? I slay myself.

So, here's the contest: leave some suggestions for his bakery name in the comments. You can enter as many times as you'd like to. We'll pore through all of them and select the one we like the best.

You can also leave suggestions for either sexy/quirky cookie names (and we'll develop the recipe), recipe ingredient ideas (and we'll develop the name), or both.

We're open to any and all other ideas for marketing, packaging, etc.

The name contest winner will receive a six-cookie sampler and anyone else who suggests some ideas that we end up using will recieve a two-cookie sampler.

There is no time limit; this contest is open for as long as it takes us to land on the right name.

Okay, creative people of the Internet; gimme whatcha got!

Gold star for my uterus

For once, my uterus wasn't two steps behind and was actually ahead of the game. I haven't started my period because my lining is already super-thin, measuring barely 2mm. My ovaries were quiet and were surprisingly relatively normal in appearance, given my PCOS.

I even lucked out and didn't have the pleasure of having Dr. DeadFish's hands up my hooha; his nurse practitioner (who is a sweetheart) did my ultrasound.

A few hours later, Chyrl, our nurse from the main clinic, called to say that all looked good and that because my lining was so thin, I didn't need to have a period and that I was cleared to drop the demon piss down to 5 units and begin Vivelle patches and estrace today. Score one for me.

This afternoon, my mom is kidnapping el Cinco for a couple of days away. A trip to Jacksonville, the zoo, a hotel with a huge indoor pool, and Dave & Buster's is on the itenerary. While the children are away, the adults will play. Chance and Apollo are coming over later today. On our itenerary is grilling steaks and chicken, an air mattress in the living room, and tons of blankets and pillows. Heads out of the gutter, people. We're going to rent some oldie but goodie movies and load up on popcorn and candy for a movie night. Hey - it's as good of a distraction as any.

Tomorrow morning Frank and I are going to me the rest of the family in Jacksonville for the zoo trip, then we're going to return home to squeeze out a day for just the two of us.

That's what I call a good weekend. Good family. Good friends. Good husband. Good uterus.

What's on your agenda for the weekend?

Cheers

The medical professional building where Dr. DeadFish's office is located is also the home of several other doctors of various branches: cardiologists, obstetricians, oncologists, psychologists, and so on. The other three people who boarded the elevator with me could have been going to any of the many practitioners there.

"What floor?" I asked the other three, as I pressed the button for the third floor. "Third," said one woman, and "Us too," said the masculine half of the other two passengers as he gripped the hand of who I assumed to be his wife.

After the short vertical ascension, the elevator doors opened with a bing and we filed out one after the other. We could have been ducks in a row, as all of us made the left turn down the hall and into Dr. DeadFish's office. We lined up at the window to sign in, all of us at once coming to the realization that we were cut from the same infertile cloth.

The receptionist (who is as kind and bright as Dr. DeadFish is...well, fishy), sat up with a start behind her glass window and exclaimed, "Oh, my! You all just came in at once! You all don't have to worry about signing in! I know all of you by name and can get your files!"

We all sat down at triangular points from each other and pretended to do other things while casting furtive glances at each other. The couple seemed mismatched, not because they were interracial, but because she appeared ready to pluck tomatoes or pull weeds and he seemed moments away from catching a plane to New York to shake down a multi-million dollar business deal. The woman who came alone was Maybellined to sunkissed, caked perfection, her French manicured nails tapping away feverishly at the screen on her Blackberry.

"Kym?" the receptionist called. "Here's your lab slip. I'm going to send you down to have your blood work drawn first so that we can stagger you guys out a little bit, since you all came it at once."

Downstairs in the lab, three of the four nurses present shouted (yes, they literally shouted) various greetings along the lines of, "Hey, Mrs. SmartOne!...You're back again, huh?...It's good to see you again! Hopefully everything will work out this time!"

As I sat there having the first blood of this cycle drawn, I couldn't help but wonder -- is it a good thing or a bad thing when your fertility clinic becomes a place where everybody knows your name?

Straight from the bowels of hell

I find that I'm throwing myself into reading and obsessing over all of your blogs, but when it comes to writing over here in mine, I can't brain cuz I have the dumb. Seriously - my mind goes blank and my fingers go numb, that panicky feeling threatens to tighten my throat and mental clarity goes all fuzzy.

For some reason, it feels more comfortable to keep a low profile on this cycle. I don't know how much or how little I'll write about it. Today I might not want to say much, but tomorrow I might be freaking the fuck out about something and will need you all to calm me down.

Speaking of freaking out about something -- where the flip is my period? I'm not talking about the one at the end this sentence, ether. I swear -- I can't even stay regulated on freaking birth control pills now. Tomorrow morning I'm supposed to have my baseline lining check, but it will completely defeat the purpose to pony up to the stirrups without having started my period.

The Lupron is being especially bitchy to me this time around. I think that stuff is really repackaged demon piss. Somewhere there is a secret, dark, dank cave where there are rows of trapped demons, their slimy skin burning fluorescent red with rage. Their pointy little peepees are suctioned into tubes, and their boiling hot piss is whisked away down chutes into the Holy Room. This is where it's mixed with a byproduct created from the pee of nuns. Some genius thinks that this is what will exercise the demonic residue, but oh no! No holy nun pee can combat the demon juice that I inject into my thighs every night. There is a reason why Frank's term for Lupron is "Bitch in a Bottle;" that shit makes my head spin. He just might smack me with a Bible and ward me off with a silver crucifix. Amen.

So anyway, I don't want to not say anything here, either. A few people really dug my video blog and suggested that I do some others. But uuuhh...WTF should I talk about? Nancy did a kick ass Q&A video blog session a few weeks ago. You ask the questions and I'll answer. They can be about surrogacy or me or el Cinco or something totally random. Anything that's a good distraction and gives me something to fill the blog space will basically work, because I don't want to go totally quiet in between bouts of freakoutedness.

That's all for now. I'm going to shoot up tonight's demon piss and play Rock Band with the fam. Y'know...anything to NOT wonder about where my freakin' period is.

How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news (Romans 10:15)*

Kym,
thanks for arranging this exchange...so fun!
I gave you three pair of socks for extra thanks; you deserve it!

Ballerina socks for grace, spa socks for relaxation, and kokopelli socks for luck in your infertility endeavors!

Enjoy! And thank you again from all of us!

         Jessica

PS: You completely do kick infertility's ass...good luck in your coming cycle and all you do! God bless!


*Scripture imprinted on the bottom of the card Jess sent to me.

By nothing more than pure coincidence, Day One of Sock It to Me Week is also Day One of injectibles. It seems fitting and appropriate to have these two events occur in tandem. I've never had a shot feel like a hug, but it did. Socks from the beautiful Jess warmed my feet and the donated Lupron (you know who you are!) warmed my heart.

All of you out there warm my spirit. When I started writing this blog a bit more than a year ago, there was no way I could know how far your support would reach. You will carry Chance and me through this cycle. I will need you and the good news of your support that you bring.

For all of my verbosity, any words of gratitude that I could ever create would only feel clumsy and inadequate in comparison to the swell my heart feels when I think of all of you, my friends inside the computer.  Try as I might, I'll never get it right...

...but know that for everything I can say, my heart feels infinitely more.

Thank you all.

Cloudy with a chance of disquietude

I know that I'm supposed to be saying something.

I owe you pictures and commentary about Sam's birthday party. I will get to that, I promise. But it just so happened that Chance's cycle day 1 fell on that day, too. Cycle day 1 - the official green light. The GO button on this cycle was pressed on that day. The fact that Sam's birthday party and the start of this cycle coincided in some sort of odd cosmic collision felt...weird. Not exactly ominous, but not exactly fortuitous, either. It felt like something, though. An indecipherable omen, impossible to tell in the moment whether it was indicitive of something to look forward to or something that may never be seen.

If this were a movie, this would be the point at which the skies suddenly grey, the wind speeds up enough to lift the hair from your shoulders, and everyone glances nervously at the sky when the foreboding thunder rumbles from afar.

I'm scared.

Take-off

We're going to Sam's birthday party today.

Chance's cycle started today.

I start Lupron in five days.

Neuroses, mood swings, crying jags, and a general state of freakedoutedness also to commence in five days.

Here we go.

Play it again, Sam

Notice: this post is laden with pregnancy, c-section delivery photos (semi-graphic) and baby photos. If today is one of those days, you might choose to pass on this post. I understand.

This post is long, too. Butt, be warned.

Two years ago yesterday, Frank and I spent some time in the backyard. He was busy putting together el Cinco's new swing set. I was busy posing for a few full-term pregnancy pictures. In less than 12 hours, I'd be headed to Savannah to deliver Sam, my surrobaby.

Samuel Anthony. My intended parents -- Stephanie and Terry -- and I had spent the entire pregnancy calling him Tony. With a feigned, dramatic Italian accent, Stephanie had professed several times through the pregnancy that her son's name was Samuel Anthony. She'd say it with flair, bringing the tips of her fingers together and accentuating each syllable of his name with emphatic flourishes of her arm, in much the same manner that a gourmet chef might describe the courses of a delicately prepared, 12-course dinner.

Blond-haired, blue eyed Stephanie, born and bred Georgia girl (pronounced JO-jah gurrl when given the proper Southern drawl), and Terry, straight from New York (New Yawk) and made from dark-haired, olive-toned Italian stock, were just one day away from finally holding their Tony in their arms. Terry preferred Sam. Stephanie preferred Tony.

Which name used on a regular basis would depend on what he looked like when he was here. If he took on Stephanie's fairer traits he'd be Sam, and if he leaned more in the Italian Stallion direction, he'd be Tony.

Tony. Sam. I just called him Meatball. He'd measured at least a week ahead the entire pregnancy, made me crave pasta (especially ravioli), and gave me gas.

The next morning, March 26, was almost ordinary. Frank and I woke up and got the kids ready for school. We kissed them and walked them to the bus stop, waving as they were driven away. They knew that we would not be there when they got home from school because today was the day that Baby Tony was coming. They couldn't wait until I would call them on the phone to tell them all about it. Frank and I walked home hand-in-hand. I had just enough time to write what would turn out to be the last real post on my old blog. I went over the daily schedule and list of emergency numbers with my sister one more time, then she all but pushed me out the door, reassuring me that she'd do just fine with holding down the homefront while Frank and I were at the hospital.

Check-in is handled through the ER, and it looked like an odd sort of family reunion taking place there in the lobby. We were immediately caught in a swarm of hugs when we walked in. Stephanie, Terry, Steph's mom Angie, Steph's older daughter Lauren, my aunt Karon, and my 2-year old second cousin were all there. At least among the women, the tears were already flowing.

Stephanie and Terry presented me with a beautiful diamond journey pendant. All of us chattered excitedly about the delivery that was just moments away. We were loud and rambunctious, and we could see the other people in the waiting area trying to figure us out. Pregnant Black lady swarmed by a bunch of White people feeling all over her belly? WTF?
 

When the orderly came with the wheelchair to take me up to L&D, everyone followed like an ebony meets ivory parade.

Some time during the eighth month of pregnancy, Steph, Terry and I, with our attorney, met with the head nurse of Labor and Delivery. She was a sweet, grandmotherly type and took us on a personal tour of L&D on the third floor and the Special Care nursery on the fourth floor. Due to insurance billing protocols and Stephanie and Terry's need to have a room of their own once Sam was born, they would be given a large room on the 4th floor after the delivery. L&D on the 3rd floor and Special Care on the 4th were connected by a long, tunnel-like breezeway and an elevator that ran only between the two floors. She had reassured us that on the day of delivery, the nurses will have been briefed on our surrogacy and that the "rules" would be different for us.

Frank, Terry, and Stephanie would all be allowed with me in pre-op instead of just one support person. My OB had already arranged for both Steph and Terry to be present during the c-section. Again, having only one support person is the norm. Once up in their room on the 4th floor, the new family would not be held to the same security and sterile-procedure protocols as other Special Care babies, unless Sam was actually sick and had a real medical need to be there. We would be allowed to travel between the two floors at will for visits to each other.

The nurses assigned to us in Labor and Delivery were phenomenal. We'd been on the books for a while and they were anxiously anticipating our delivery. We all felt welcome and they made the process very easy. Some surrogates have horror stories where the nurses were obviously uneasy, handling the intended parents and surrogate with fumbly kid gloves. I was relieved that the staff seemed comfortable and even shared in our joy.

As soon as I was properly gowned, shaved (there's something yo' mama won't tell you about having c-sections), and catheterized, Stephanie, Terry, and Frank came back to finish waiting out the required monitoring and last pre-op procedures. We took a pre-delivery group shot.

Before too long, it was finally time. Frank and I kissed, passed I'll see you later to each other, and I waddled over to the operating room right across the hall.

It was surreal. It was routine but not. Hop on the table. Don't fall off, because that sucker seems twice as thin as my ass is wide. Talk to the anesthesiologist. No, I'm not allergic to anything that I know of. Yes, I itch like a sonafabitch and feel like vomiting out my kidneys from nausea in reaction to the spinal, so have shots of phenergan and benadryl ready. Ms. Nice Nurse says to bend over as far as you possibly can; lean on my shoulders. From behind, Dr. NumbYoufromtheLegsDown explains what he's doing as he administers the spinal. I hate this part. The thought of that big needle going in through my back and into the spinal column is freaky. *POP* I both hear and feel it (no pain, more like a small tap) when the needle goes into the spinal column and whoooooaaaa duuuuuuude....left leg feels hot and heavy whoa...there goes the right one and WOW...can't feel anything down there and awwwwww yeah...I'm feelin' kinda nice, now. Thank you, morphine. Long time, no high, my good friend Mr. Morphine.

After I'm buzzed off my rocker and can't feel anything from the boobs down, the next few steps always seem to happen fast. I'm laid down with my arms stretched to the sides, the blue curtain goes up just under my chin, and my OB seems to mystically materialize from the walls. But this time, instead of Frank coming in and being seated at my right shoulder, Stephanie and Terry come in. They're garbed in blue scrubs with white masks. I giggle, because for some reason they remind me of the marshmallows that used to come in Smurf cereal.

Stephanie took my hand. Her piercing, clear blue eyes never left mine. As my OB began the surgery and dictated his steps, she constantly asked if I was okay or if I was in any pain. "No pain. I can't feel anything but pressure." After what feels like only a few minutes, Dr. Edwards said, "Here he comes! His head is out! Dad - come up here and snap a picture if you want to!" Then suddenly, gloriously, we hear a gusty, angry, healthy cry. He's not even all the way out yet and he's already crying. I could hear both the laughter and the tears in Terry's voice as he rose to see his son -- his first child -- for the first time.

As Sam was pulled out and his wails grew louder, Stephanie's hand gripped mine tighter and the tears that until then only welled in her eyes finally spilled forth. Her son was there, but she kept her eyes firmly on mine. "Thank you, Kym. Thank you, thank you, thank you." Her voice was barely above a whisper but even with all the other commotion in the room, I only heard her words with the sweet sound of her son's screaming voice in the background.

She couldn't take her wide, grateful eyes off of me and I could tell that she was torn. "Go," I urged. "It's okay. He's here! This is what you've been waiting for. Go meet your son." The intensity of her eyes tightened into a deeper, bluer thank you, and she finally released my hand then turned to be with her husband and new baby. 

From my vantage point I couldn't see anything but I heard everything. As he finished the surgery, Dr. Edwards told me what a wonderful thing I'd done. As expected, I started to feel itchy and nauseous, so the anesthesiologist administered the phenergan and benadryl. The meds immediately alleviated the side effects and cranked the dial on the FuzzyBrain Meter a few notches higher. I heard someone call out, "He's HUGE! He's 8 lbs, 10 oz!" I noticed that my nurse was teary-eyed. Everyone seemed to be talking about something. Then suddenly, they were there, and it was as if the rest of the world faded away and there was only us. He was beautiful. They were beautiful.

He was Sam, not Tony. And he was perfect.

A few minutes later, Steph and Terry went with Sam to the nursery. Relishing my high, I promptly annouced to the whole world and to no one in particular that I was taking a nap and to please wake me when they were finished putting me back together.

I eventually made it back to my pre-op/post-op room where Frank was waiting for me. I blathered about the delivery then shooed him away to go to his yearly neurology check-up, which coincidentally had been scheduled for that afternoon. He made it back just before I was transferred to my recovery room less than an hour later.

Through the rest of the day, there was a steady stream of visitors. Members of my family and of Stephanie and Terry's extended families came to see me. One of the most special visits was from "The Grandmothers." Stephanie's mom (who'd also come to every, single, solitary RE and OB appointment), Terry's mom (who'd come to several ultrasounds through the pregnancy), and Terry's grandmother (who lives in New York; I'd met her earlier in the pregnancy when she was visiting) all came together to see me. They collectively gifted me with a beautiful card with a message from each of them and a huge Bath and Body Works collection of Japanese Cherry Blosssom products. That scent now always reminds me of Sam and is a "lucky" scent. Phone calls from family and friends poured in. I was buzzed from the drugs like a mofo, so I have more of a general memory more than a specific, clear set of post-delivery memories. I just know that I felt overjoyed, and I could feel everyone's joy around me.

I couldn't even be dampered by the behavior of the Special Care 4th floor nurses, who seemed to have missed the message that Sam was not your average Special Care baby. I can't blame them so much; they were just doing their jobs and wouldn't take Stephanie's word about the exceptions that should have been allowed. They wouldn't let Stephanie bring Sam down to see me no matter how much she argued. Finally, Steph whipped out every ounce of Southern sass that her skinny body could muster: Don't you THINK for a second that I'll let you keep me here. She CARRIED MY CHILD and whether you like it or not, I'm taking Sam down to see her. Now either I wheel his bassinet down there myself, or you can come with me if that makes you feel better. But I'm going, and you won't stop me. Finally Nurse Ratchet escorted Stephanie and Sam down to visit. Later, Stephanie would tell me that on the way down, the nurse suggested to her not to let me hold Sam for too long because I might want to keep him. Whatthehellever.

Even Nurse MegaBitch's hovering and suspicious eye couldn't detract from the joy I felt seeing Sam, Stephanie, and Terry again. It was after 9 pm and some of the cobwebs had cleared away. I was more lucid and Sam was calm. He already looked different than the baby I'd seen just that morning.

I think that that was when it finally felt real to me. In my mind, I could see the similar picture that the five of us had taken that morning, with Sam still on the inside instead of out. I exhaled. In that moment, I truly exhaled.

The next day I went upstairs to visit. Steph and Terry were exhausted, but happy. The Grandmothers, who had taken over the waiting area of the Special Care nursery, were amazed that I was up and walking.

Downstairs in my room, most of the in-and-out visits slowed to a trickle, which allowed me some time to rest. My surrobuddy Catherine came in to visit. I'd been to visit her at both of her post-surrogacy delivery recoveries, and she was overjoyed that she finally got the chance to return the favor. One surrofriend -- Stephanie -- had absolutely sinful chocolate-covered strawberries delivered to the hospital and another -- Rebekah -- sent flowers. I had a breastpump brought in, as I was donating my breastmilk to my friend and fellow Surrogate Mothers Online moderator, Lisa. She was finally q mom via egg donation. She had delivered her beautiful little sprite Jenna just five days before.

Ancient Smart One wisdom says, Vicodin and morphine effin' ROCK!

The next afternoon, Sam was discharged. I went downstairs to see the new family off. Almost suddenly, it was over. A few hours later, I was also discharged. I was ready. The journey was a great ride while it lasted, but I was ready to go home and let my life settle again, back into the familiar rhythms of life before cycling and appointments and breath-holding. Only it was a life more enriched, one in which I could say with pride that I did something that really mattered.

He is growing so fast and his personality seems to be growing even faster.

The first time seeing him again after delivery - June 2007:

 

Another visit, January 2008:




Sam's first birthday and two of my favorite pictures:

He's two years old today. He's bright and funny and thriving. Now when Stephanie calls, she's not the only one who does the talking. "Where Kym? Kym at school? Kym at work? Hi! Hi, Kym!" Unbelievable.

And Stephanie - she's there every step of the way. She's in the wings of this blog, lurking in the background and calling to pick me up when I am down. "Don't you forget," she says...rather, fusses, in that twangy Southern lilt, "don't you forgot what you did for us and that we're always grateful. I know that it's rough right now and I know how differently it could have gone for us. I'm always thinking of you and the couples you're working with and wishing for and praying for them. Don't you forget that. I'm always here wanting my history with you to repeat itself with someone else."

Happy 2nd birthday, Sam, my Meatball.

I hope and pray to have what I had with you once again.

Well that was fun

Trish, who is both my coworker and high school classmate, pretty much summed it up in a comment on my last post: I never knew you had it in you. Contrary to the crazy inyourfaceitness displayed here, I'm very quiet at work and was most certainly quiet in high school. There were no instances of wild drinking  or raucous parties from me. Ever. Even on the rare occasion that Frank and I have alcoholic beverages in the house, I might drink three wine coolers or a similar fruity drink MAX before I feel soft around the edges and I end up falling asleep before finishing the next drink.

I must say that it was some kind of a thrill to have continued to drink through The Sleepies and straight into The I've Lost All Common Sense and Everything is Funnies.

We all woke up at various intervals between 7:30 and 8:00 this morning. Dani seemed to have forgotten about falling asleep for a few minutes in the middle of the kitchen floor and Chance and Apollo nearly laughed themselves to tears AGAIN about me falling out of the chair. Apollo had a bit of a headache. I didn't feel what could be classified as a hangover, but I definitely felt The Dizzies and Numbies. Still, I managed to cook breakfast (I KNOW, right!?! I cooked and not Frank) without torching the eyebrows off my face.

Last night was most certainly worth the brain cells that I'll never get back. Apparently I lost more than a few, because this morning when I read my HELLO, WORLD -- I'M DRUNK OUT OF MY MIND post I was amazed. I mean, I distinctly remember proofreading that post before I published it. What you read is the EDITED version. Can you imagine what a clusterfuck it must have been before I "fixed" it?

Six double shot glasses -- two for a buck at the Dollar Tree.
8 bottles of brightly colored alcohol -- $70
Getting shitfaced with your family and making and ass of yourself in front of the whole world while in the midst of a drunken stupor -- priceless.

Share a priceless drunken stupor moment of your own. I've all given you the gift of letting you laugh at my inebriated expense. Now it's your turn!

Welcome, IComLeavWe'ers!

Welcome, March ICLWers! I think that many of you have probably already visited my blog, but here's a fun little introduction for you newcomers to SmartOneville.

The alphabet a la Smart One:

Apollo, my intended father, earned his arsonist badge. Last week he torched a meadow. Seriously.
Bacon - I'm eating some right now. Pork rules.
Chance and Apollo are my intended parents, but even better, they're family.
Dishes - I don't do 'em.
Eighth grade English teacher
Frank is my husband. He cooks and makes delicious desserts like a mofo.
Georgia girl by default, but born in California.
Hater of assclowns who think they know everything.
IVF#2 is coming up mid-May. Most of our meds were lovingly donated by our bloggy friends.
Jaiden, age 7 and Jordan, age 5 are my sons.
Kyra, age 7 and Kaelyn, age 3 are my daughters. All four were conceived on Clomid.
Love cookies. Probably too much.
Military brat; I lived in 8 different places by the time I was 12.
Not really as smart as I profess to be.
OMG! Fuckernuts and manbiscuits and pricksicle and fucknuttery are some of my favorite words.
Procrastinators like me, let's unite! But let's do it later, okay? I also have PCOS. Good times.
Quizno's spongmonkeys crack me the freak up.
Rugrats - Frank stays home with them and he kicks ass as stay-at-home dad.
Sam is the name of my surro-son. He'll be two in just a few days!
TJ is my 8-year old nephew who we're raising. He's a funny kid.
Unicorns that fart rainbows might be roasted come May or June.
Very much in love with Steely Dan.
Wondering almost non-stop if this next (and final) cycle will work.
XXX-rated movie of me would probably blind you.
You soooo totally don't want to see me naked. *I* don't want to see me naked.
Zzzzz...I just put you to sleep with this boring introduction, didn't I?

Happy Whatever Day

Did you know that today is lace oatmeal cookie day, Pillsbury Doughboy Day (his birthday), and Goddess of Fertility day?

Sheesh. You infertilies.

Today is your day! Celebrate Aphrodite and all those other Greek gods and goddesses of fertility! Burn some incense in honor of her and then go get freaky with your dude (or thaw out that sperm) and you're sure to get knocked up today!

Oh, wait a minute -- I forgot who I was talking to. You're one of those people who do those acronym things ... those IUIdoohickies or IVFamabobs or you pop those pills because you can't get pregnant like the normal people, right?

Ooh! You better watch out with that stuff, because I heard that my girlfriend's cousin's brother and his wife did that in vitro thing and they implanted four embryos but one split or something because now she's pregnant with FIVE babies! It's something like that, that chick out in California! How 'bout this joke - I heard that a restaurant in the hometown where she lives is serving up a new breakfast special. You get eight eggs, no sausage, and the person in the next booth pays for it.

HAHAHAHAHAHA! I crack myself up. Royally.

I have an idea! Maybe since you can't get pregnant, you can just adopt one of hers! I mean, she has enough to go around and adoption in general is easy, isn't it?


***crickets chirping***

What, did I say something?

It's also National Awkward Moment Day.

I'll just shut up and go eat some cookies now.

***************************************

Have an awkward moment to share? Here's one from me - yesterday one of the lunch ladies felt the need to get all nostalgiac about how small I used to be before I "had all those babies." That was ten years ago, woman. Why does it seem like she misses my non-flabby stomach and smaller stature more than I do? Then she proceeded to ask me about "that white baby" I had and whether or not I wished I could have brought him home. I spaced out for a moment amidst the fantasy of shoving a stalk of celery up her nose and following that with a carrot stick in the ear.

Owo foro adobe

See that Superwoman up there, in all her ebony might and strength?

That's not really how I view myself, but it is how I view who I want to be. I want to be the badass superhero who steps in, saves the day, and kicks infertility's ass into shameful submission.

"Kicking infertility's ass for myself and others since 1998."

Ha. Ha-ha. HA-motherflippin-sarcastic-HA-HA!

It seems as though lately, I've been the kickee rather than the kicker.

When I'm feeling small and defeated and insignificant (like now), I imagine myself with that fierce expression and flexed muscles, the crimson cape flowing down my back. I even have a theme song. Madonna's "4 Minutes" (featuring Justin the Timberlake, who consequently activates Chance's gag reflex) makes me want to go out and smack some villain ass in tempo to a funky groove. Someone blasted that song on repeat all the way to work this morning, but I swear it wasn't me.

I digress...what I really want to draw your attention to is Superwoman's tattoo.

It is a West African Adinkra symbol which means dwennimen or "ram's horns." According to the Adinkra Symbol Index, the full explanation is thus:

symbol of humility together with strength

The ram will fight fiercely against an adversary, but it also submits humbly to slaughter, emphasizing that even the strong need to be humble.

Hmm. I am humble. I think I am strong. Given that my current arch enemy is the Infertilibeast, I can't ever see myself submitting humbly in the face of slaughter by infertility. Maybe the humility comes from being able to admit that you just got your ass spanked, to be able to lay down and know when it's no longer worth it to take the Dylan Thomas approach of raging against the dying light. Is true acceptance the ability to let go gently? Somehow I think that for most of us, that level of "humility" is the equivalent of nirvana; we all strive to get there, but the journey is long and rough and many of us will never actually achieve it. I feel like I will always scratch and rage in one way or another, and if that excludes me from being humble, then so be it.

I think I like the definition of dwennimmen on this website better:

Symbol of strength (in mind, body and soul),
humility, wisdom and learning

It is a more modern translation, with just enough of a nuance that it feels like it fits me better. My mom has a tattoo of the dwennimmen symbol, and I think it is fitting and appropriate for her. She's one hell of a kick ass and take names kind of woman.

Mommy Lady and my sisters are addicted to tattoos. I think they each have more than ten now, with most of them being African symbols. Chanel and Dani each have Adinkra symbols which represent them also, and all three of them have been after me to choose a symbol and also have it permanently-inked-into-my-skin-by-the-jabbing-of-a-thousand-painful-burning-pokes (read, I'm too chicken shit to do it). Mom eventually wants to get tattoos of a "family" symbol with the symbols representing me, Chanel, and Dani surrounding it.

 The symbol that actually feels like it fits me best is

Owo foro adobe: "snake climbing the raffia tree"

Because of its thorns, the raffia tree is a very dangerous challenge to the snake. His ability to climb it is a model of persistence and prudence.

Traditional meaning: persistence and prudence

Modern meaning: used as a symbol for performing the unusual or the impossible

This road might be thorny and I might get pricked along the way, and I might be moving in a direction that would otherwise go against my natural instinct, but I'll be damned if I let the challenges I face keep me from striving to keep moving in that upward direction.

Here is the Adinkra Symbol Index and another list of Adinkra Symbols. The former link is a bit easier to navigate and has the more traditional translations and explanations behind the symboles. The latter has the more modern definitions.

Which symbol most appeals to you, either for who you are or who you are striving to be? Share here in the comments or if you feel so inclined, write a post on your blog and leave the link here.

Tragic syllogism

This is different.

For each of my prior three journeys, attempting surrogacy was a middle step and not the final resort. There were other possible options ahead -- Plans B and C -- just in case.

In retrospect, I didn't realize the level of comfort I took in the knowledge of the implied if-thens: If this doesn't work, then at least there's still a chance for them. If this doesn't work, then I just want them to become parents whether or not I am their surrogate. I will see them through that.

But, this is different.

For the if of the next cycle not working, there is no then other than this is the end.

How do you reconcile your heart with the idea that all there ever will be is all there ever was? 

If there was an answer to that, then we wouldn't all be here throwing such rhetoric out into the Universe, pleading for understanding.

Sunday's To Do List

1. Wash the orange marker scribbles from Kaelyn's face despite the fact that she said her make-up is sooooo pretty.
2. Go to Savannah with Chance and Apollo to have last beta drawn.
3. Get coffee on the way there because Daylight Savings Time has us all draggin' ass.
4. Come home and eat the delicious barbecue food fares (namely, Tequila-Lime spare ribs) that Frank will prepare in our absence.
5. It will be over 80^o today, so perhaps we'll spread a bunch of blankets outside and have a picnic.
6. Email the last few entrants of the sock exchange. 
7. Search online for socks to send to my sock buddy.
8. Write lesson plans for the week. Debate on whether or not the objective "After being connected to remote control shock collars, the students will be able to exhibit proper behavior 100% of the class period and will also be able to demonstrate understanding of appositive, adjective, and adverb clauses with at least 75% accuracy" will be grounds to have me fired.
9. Wash the girls' hair.
10. Get Frank to cut the boys' hair.
11. Eat more barbecued chicken.
12. Watch Big Love and Flight of the Conchords.
13. Either fall asleep at a reasonable time or stay awake to start the first edition of the Chronic Insomniac Theater here at Smart One.

What's on your Sunday To Do List?

The inbox monster ate my homework

I think my email inbox has a monster that is a distant relative of the sock monster. You know the one that hides in your dryer and eats 2 out of the 5 socks that you put in there, so it seems like random socks just go missing? Poor Tash tried to email me over several days and there is no record of her contact. They didn't get filtered through to my junk mail and I didn't accidentally delete them. They're just not there. I also had a situation where a kind person who is donating meds didn't receive an reply which I sent to her last Friday. Thankfully, she followed up today and sent along her Skype name, so we were able to make arrangements through a short chat this morning.

So to be safe, I have to assume that some of you may have emailed me about participating in Sock-it-to-Me and I haven't received the information. Therefore, I'm extending the sign-up period to this Sunday, March 8. I will still send out the matches through the weekend, but I want to give everyone the chance to sign up. If you've already posted about the exchange on your blog, can you please post about the extension to help the word get out? Thanksabunchamillion.

Good things for you to know:

1. I have sent a return email to everyone that I actually received an email from. If you sent something and I haven't written you back, it's likely that your email was chomped by the inbox monster, too.

2. Alternate methods of contact:
        a. you can email again at kyrajaATyahooDOTcom

        b. hit me up on Skype -- my username is kymberli78. If you add me, please send a message    letting me know who you are so that I don't think you're a psychofreakstalker and deny               the request.

3. Here's the list of participants thus far:

Mommy in Waiting
Life in the White House
Angry Infertile
Dragondreamer's Lair
I Married Barney Rubble, Now What?
Bella and Her Fella
ISO and the Golden Egg
Eggs Benedict Arnold
All Grown Up
Ny New Reality
Geek by Marriage
3 of a Kind Working on a Full House (today is her birthday, so please go wish her a happy one!)
Kelly (non-blogger, but avid blog reader!)
Not So Newlywed
Mojo Working
Parenthood for Me
The Johnson's Have Angel Wings
Childbearing Hips
The New Life of Nancy
Baby Smiling in the Backseat
I Won't Fear Love
Scared and Scarred
Life Induces Thoughts, Mostly Random
Dead Baby Jokes
Jubenvilles (private blog)
Life and Times of KimboSue
Can You Imagine
My So-Called Life
Contrary to Popular Belief
Isn't TTC Supposed to Be Fun?
Tales of a Brown-Eyed Girl
Were You Looking for Me?
I Want to be a Mommy
Letting It Out
A Little Hope
Awful but Functioning
Lilly of the Low Plains
The Happy Hours
Live, Love, Give
It's Just Me
Wrong Turn to Babyland
Learning to Accept My Infertility
Who Shot My Stork?
Schroedinger's Zygote
The Problem with Hope (private blog)
Sell Crazy Someplace Else
Embracing Happenstance
It's Either Sadness or Euphoria
Our Life
What a Long, Strange Trip I'm On
Reproductive Jeans
So It Goes
Do Without Doing
Staying Above the Water
Alexandra (non-blogger, but avid blog reader!)
Okaasan Mommy and More
Life Goes On
Arpac's On the Move
Wendy
Vanilla Dreams (private blog)
Quiet Sanctuary
Cat's in the Cradle (private blog)
Wishing, Hoping, and Praying

The ghetto-sexy Io of Who Shot My Stork called me a biznatch in the comments and said she was participating, but I still need her info. So hit me up, ho!

If your blog or name isn't there and you should be there, please contact me via one of the aforementioned avenues or you can always try to email me again by clicking on the link up there under my picture.

Everyone, be on the lookout for your sock assignments through the weekend! If you haven't heard from me by Monday morning at the latest, please leave a comment for me somewhere on my blog!

In other random news....

The lady that Chance and Apollo are renting from has grown increasingly psycho in the past month. So...as of yesterday they are "homeless," as they like to joke, and are now shackin' up with me and the Crazy Crew. Apollo DEMANDED that he be given the sheets with the poo smeared on them, but much to his dismay, Frank had already laundered said sheets. Boohoo. Or maybe Boopoo. Their dog is running around trying to hump my dog, so we have our own little canine freakshow going on. Hopefully Chance and Apollo will be able to find a new place to rent soon, but in the meantime, it's nice having them closer. But so help me Cheeto and for the love of Spam, if my dog AGAIN manages to get knocked up before I do, I will lose my flippin' mind. Someday I need to tell you that story.

Even better proof that I'm raising them right....

This morning Jordan woke up wailing about a stomach ache. His 101.3^o fever confirmed a day home from school with Gatorade and chicken soup (if they don't have Gatorade and chicken soup when they're home sick, they insist that they will be sick forever). He crawled into my bed and made little weak whimpering noises through SpongeBob.

Kaelyn said to Jordan, "Are you sick? I will take care of you, Jo-Jo. You're my big brother. You need some medicine? You want some grapes?"

"No," he replied, "but could you lay down with me and watch cartoons?"

And so she did.

And he stopped whimpering.

Three things...

Spinning off of the Sock-it-to-Me Exchange, Baby Smiling in the Backseat has an interesting and thought-provoking post up for today's installment of her Thoughtful Thursday series. If you haven't been reading along on her blog regularly (like me, because aye eeemmm stooopeeed for reasons which I will explain below), you have been missing out on some brilliant writing.  When I do make it over to her blog, without fail I am given reason to laugh (see her uterus cookie Show and Tell post) or pause to think, and those are the type of posts I enjoy the most. Please make a point to stop over and respond to her post today, because I'm looking forward to reading others' responses.

As for my stupidity, it's actually better described as pure laziness. I'm missing out on lots of good blog reading, especially from bloggers who I've read before simply because sometimes it seems too much like work to open up Google Reader and copy/paste new addresses to add blogs to my list. See what I mean? LAAAAZZZZYYYY. I'm much more inclined to add a blog to my reader if there's a handy little ADD ME TO YOUR READER or FOLLOW THIS BLOG link somewhere in the sidebar. So starting today, I'm taking off my lazy pants and putting on my hot damn, I'm efficient AND sexy pants and I'm updating my Google Reader and my blogroll.

If you're not on my blogroll and want to be and/or you want to be added to my reader and/or you think I should be reading you regularly and I'm not, please help me out by commenting here, being sure to include the link to your blog.

**********

Need Menopur or Bravelle? My sweetie-pie surro-friend Kimmy is donating some meds to me, but she also has 6 vials of Menopur and 7 vials of Bravelle that she'd like to donate to someone who needs it. Kimmy is another post-infertility surrogate like myself. You wanna talk about a superhero? She and her sister did a shared IVF cycle in which she was the ED. Her sister delivered twins and Kimmy delivered triplets. Kimmy went on to become a gestational surrogate and has delivered two sweet boys (a couple of years apart) for the same family. Simply amazing. She's still passing on the love by way of donated meds, so if you're in need of either Menopur or Bravelle, please comment or send me an email.

********

Semi-side note here: did anyone else other than me notice that last night's season premiere of America's Next Top Model was peppered with pregnancy/infertility/loss comments here and there? Twice someone asked if they planned on "having children" or "procreating," one contestant was hit with an unexpected prick of grief when asked if she had any children and had to explain that yes, she had a daughter but she had a seizure and died when she was a baby, and another contestant emphatically expressed that NO! she's not having children because the world is going straight to Hell.

My mindless television half-failed me last night, because my mind was regretfully half-refocused on the things from which I had tried to be momentarily distracted.

I probably am the only nut who noticed those things.

Yet another drive-by update

Cycle and med donations update: We are waiting to receive our calendars for our next cycle. I can't believe how much of a blur the last two weeks have been. I think I sort-of went into a type of brain-dead state when it came to the resolution of the last cycle. When our nurse coordinator called on Monday to give me the results of Sunday's beta (down to 7.1, not quite totally negative, repeat on Saturday), she asked how many days I bled. In my mind popped "five days," but when I did the math it came out to be 11 days. 11 days? What the hell did I even do on those 11 days? I hardly remember them from a uterine point of view. But yes -- it was 11 days and now it is done. Chance's CD 1 was yesterday, and now our cycles might be too close together for us to use this cycle as the starting cycle. Our nurse, Cari, is going to discuss the plan with Dr. Sleepy and get back to us hopefully today, because if we use this cycle I'll have to be completely negative by tomorrow, which means I'll have to go for another beta tomorrow instead of Saturday, because Chance has to start BCPs tomorrow if we're going to use this cycle. How's that for an unnecessary run-on sentence? So, we'll see - we'll either start now or at the beginning of April.

On the meds donation front: overwhelmed with gratitude ----> Chance and me. Here's how it went down: we need at least 4500 units of Follistim. Sweet Kate had 900 units to donate, but when she went to mail it she saw that it was three months expired. Dr. Sleepy is against using meds that far gone. So sad. (But Kate, please send me your address because we're still so, so very grateful.)

Then, several people said something to the effect of "Damn! No Follistim, but I have some Gonal-F that I could send if that's what you needed." Then someone put the bug in my hear that Follistim and Gonal-F are practically identical and might be able to be used interchangeably. Too impatient to wait until Monday to get the answer from our nurse, I cross-posted my question on each of the regional SIRM message boards and all of the REs -- the great and powerful Dr. Sher included -- said that the two meds are identical and if we had access to "free" Gonal-F, then it made no sense to pay for Follistim. One RE even compared the two to choosing between Ghiardelli and Godiva chocolates. Hmmmmkay.

So all of THAT being said - things are looking good on the meds front because Dr. Sleepy agreed with the SIRM docs. Dr. Sleepy said that to be safe, we should have enough for 14 days of stims at 450 units per day, for a total of 6300 units. We have been blessed to be given 4500 units from one blogger (THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!), so that leaves us with 1800 units of Gonal-F still needed. If you are able to donate, please comment or email me.

From other bloggers or surrogates we're also being sent: a total of 66 Vivelle patches (out of 70 needed), a complete 2-week Lupron kit, about 50 estrace pills, and 3 vials of PIO.

It's amazing, and we are humbled. When I started this blog over a year ago, I never would have guessed that it would result in a heaven-made match with Chance and Apollo and so many hands and hearts of support lifting us up. I must stop now. I might cry. And then my students will think that I've finally gone off the deep end. But we thank you all, more than my clumsy words could ever fully express.

Sock It to Me: Thanks to those of you who've signed up already! There are almost thirty participants thus far! If you'd like to participate and haven't signed up yet, be sure that you do so by this Friday, March 6. If you've emailed me to sign up and you haven't heard back from me yet, please either leave a comment here or try to email again. Sometimes my inbox eats emails, and I want to be doubly-sure that I don't miss anyone who wants to join in.

A couple of clarification points:

1. The exchange is open to ANYONE! I've had a couple of people tell me that they were hesitant to participate because they didn't feel "in" the community enough. ALL are invited to join in - everyone from those still in the struggle to those who moved on to other paths, to those who are now parenting after infertility. I even have a few surrogates on the list, as like me, they've placed themselves in the line of fire to help others achieve their dreams. So if you've been hesitating up to this point, hesitate no more - SIGN UP!
2. The person you send socks will not be the person who sends socks to you. This way, instead of making one new connection, everyone will make two new connections. I think it's more fun to have it jumbled up that way. 

Sock buddy information will be emailed to everyone after sign up closes and by this Sunday at the latest. I'm so excited about this!

Do you have no idea what Sock it to Me is? Click on that button over there up on the right to find out.

Georgia lawmakers are ready to lay down a heavy hand on IVF, thanks to Octomom:
I was determined not to say anything about the utter clusterfuck that is the Octomom and her nutzoid RE, but I'm being forced to do so. In a kneejerk reaction to the huge medical costs incurred by the state of California and its taxpayers for the care of the octuplets, a Georgia Senator has drafted two bills that will be presented on Thursday that if passed, will severely limit IVF procedures, gamete donation, and embryo adoption here. I first heard about this on Murgdan's blog last night and I am outraged. I'm sure she won't mind if I copy and paste the information directly from her site:

The Georgia Senate Health & Human Services Committee will hold a hearing on two bills: SB 169 and SB 204 this Thursday, March 5, at 9:00 AM in Room 450 of the State Capitol. At the hearing, the committee will hear testimony on the bills.

Georgia Reproductive Specialists along with other Atlanta fertility clinics, RESOLVE and the American Society for Reproductive Medicine (ASRM) oppose both of the bills. The hearing is open to the public and you are encouraged to attend the hearing and send a letter to the Committee members before Thursday. Senate Bill 169 would restrict doctors' ability to perform IVF in accordance with best medical standards.

Here are the key provisions:

• No more than 2 or 3 eggs could ever be fertilized in a cycle; if a woman produced more eggs, they still could not be used.
• Only 2 embryos could ever be transferred to the uterus, unless the woman is age 40 or over (then a max of 3).
• No extra embryos could be cryopreserved. If they are created, they have to be transferred.
• No financial relief, such as insurance coverage, is proposed to help with the added financial burden of using less effective treatment. Patients will still have to pay out of pocket for less effective treatment.
• Bans all financial compensation for donor gametes, such as egg donor, sperm donor, or embryo donation, which would reduce the pool of available donors in Georgia.

SB 204/HB388 is an embryo adoption bill. It would subject embryo donation to all the same provisions as required by law for adoption of a child. This would subject infertility patients needing an embryo donation to go through the judicial proceedings, home visits, and other procedures required for an adoption. We do not believe that such treatment is appropriate or needed for embryo donation.

If you care about open access to the best care possible to let the Committee members know before Thursday that you oppose these two bills.

If you live in Georgia and you want to contact the members of this committee, you can send a letter through this RESOLVE site. Click here for more information.

Georgia citizen or not, PLEASE consider sending each of the committee members a letter in opposition to the two bills TODAY. We have to do what we can to keep some assclown politician from further limiting already limited childbearing options in infertiles.

Drive by to the Drive by: I thank ALL of my bloggy friends for the love and support shown to us, we still need 1800 units of Gonal-F if you are able to donate, Sock-it-to-Me is open to everyone and the sign up ends on Friday, March 6, and please email the assclowns on the Senate committee so that Georgian infertiles aren't limited any more than they already are.

Over and out.

Burned through the fire

When I set out to find intended parents (IPs), I did not seek to find someone who could qualify as "best friends." I have friends, and I was not looking for my intended parents to fill some sort of friend-void. I did seek to find a couple who I felt that I could consider friends and people with whom, when everything was said and done, I could continue to have at least a friendly relationship, that if I emailed just to say hello, those emails would not go unanswered. Before agreeing to match, I needed to feel that my IPs cared about me as a regular person and not only me as means to have their child.

My overall surrogacy journey has been anything but easy:

• 1st IPs (Sarah and Paul): 1 FET, chemical (positive tests, negative beta)

• 2nd IPs (Stephanie and Terry): 1 IVF resulting in Sam

• 3rd IPs (Mia and Urs): 1 IVF - negative, 2nd IVF - chemical (2 good betas, then downhill from there)

• 4th IPs (Chance and Apollo): 1st IVF - beta hell again, u/s shows nothing; 2nd and final IVF coming up soon.

Despite the grim track record, I've been blessed to have had four wonderful, amazing, caring sets of intended parents with whom I am honored to have lasting, ongoing relationships. I can truly call them all my friends, which is a word that I don't use lightly. Baby or not, good times or bad, I know that I'm am so lucky to have been matched four times over with IPs who didn't discard me the way some surrogates painfully have been discarded. Was I expecting to have developed such deep, ongoing relationships? No. Not to this level. I did think that we'd remain on friendly terms, but developing new extensions of my family was not expected, and I know how very blessed I am to have that.

As I thought about it more, it begged a question that I posed to my fellow surrogates on Surrogate Mothers Online - as a surrogate, what is more important to you - the ability to have a baby for your IPs or the ability to have an ongoing relationship with your IPs?

I realized that it was a difficult question, as when you get right down to it, no baby brought into this world is ever not worth the effort it took to get them here. Also, as surrogates, we idealistically hope and expect that we don't have to have one over the other. No surrogate should ever be in a position to have to pick and choose between the two factors. We hope that our relationships with our IPs is symbiotic and smooth, in that we can work together cooperatively as a unit and are able to deliver a healthy child or children. One should not be exclusive of the other.

However, unfortunately we know that that is not always the case. Looking ONLY at my situation, do I wish that I would have been able to achieve a healthy pregnancy and carry it to term for each of my IPs? Yes. Of course I do. I can't help but view my relationships with all of my IPs as my silver lining: I may not have been able to have their babies (except Sam), but at least I had and have wonderful relationships with my IPs. There is that, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

And I can't help but view the converse of that and wonder - would I rather have had it the other way around? What if I HAD been able to achieve healthy pregnancies but was discarded before or after delivery? I'm sure I'd think, I may have had terrible relationships, but at least I was able to bring those babies into the world. There is that, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

So holding the two frames of thinking side-by-side -- if given the two options as a choice,  if there was no in between, no happy, symbiotic medium - what would I choose? Which would I prefer? And resoundingly, I can't help but know that in my heart, I'd rather have walked my path of having had 1 out of 5 transfers work and come out on the other end with just one surrobaby (so far, prayerfully), but be richer with 4 sets of intended parents that I can truly consider family.

I also posted a poll in the thread in which I asked my question. The poll is still open and people are still voting, but there is approximately an even split between which of the two extremes surrogates would prefer if only given those two options on the type of journey to experience. The people who voted to have delivered a baby but end up with a terrible or non-existent relationship with their intended parents are generally of the mindset that they came into surrogacy to help a couple have a baby, not to make friends. It is a point that I agree with wholeheartedly even though for my situation, I personally voted for the other option. Many of the people who voted have a baby/no relationship wondered why anyone would rather choose to be left with a good relationship but no child delivered via surrogacy. I can't answer for the other surrogates who chose alongside me, but here is my personal rationale:

Given the fact that I have experienced my own infertility journey, I view being a surrogate as going back into the flames when I've made it out. I'm choosing to return to the world of uncertainty, of fear, of pain both emotional and physical. Even though I knew what I was getting into, after my first attempt at surrogacy ended in a chemical, it damn near killed me. I wasn't just dealing with the too-familiar feeling of failure again; I was also dealing with a thick, cloying layer of guilt. That aspect was new to me, and it is also no stranger to other surrogates who find themselves in similar unfortunate situations. It took a while to rebound mentally from that, and I returned to surrogacy only after I knew I could better compartmentalize my experience with infertility from the voluntary infertility that one accepts when she assumes the role of surrogate. Most surrogates don't know enough to view it as a type of voluntary infertility, and some surrogates never do learn enough to make that connection. It is only after failed transfers, miscarriages, preterm deliveries, and other tragedies happen that that knowledge is gleaned. It is no lesson anyone should have to learn, but painfully, we all know that there are those of us who have learned far too much.

Given all of that, there is no way in hell I would consciously choose to go through all of that, to go willingly back into these hellish fires for someone who would in the long run, would choose to discard me like used tissue. Perhaps it is selfish of me to think like that, but it is what it is. I wouldn't put myself through this for just anyone.

Sadly, there is no way for a surrogate, or intended parent for that matter, to know at the start of a journey how the relationship will evolve through the journey and beyond. We make the best decisions we can at the start and hope that our first impressions of our counterparts are our true impressions. Unfortunately, there are many surrogates and IPs who are mislead. The person they matched with is not the person they end up with at the conclusion of a journey. Speaking now only from the surrogate angle, there are surrogates who had wonderful relationships before and during pregnancy, but as soon as the baby was in the arms of its parents, the surrogates were shut out completely. It is understood that the relationship changes drastically after the delivery. The need to communicate as often isn't there and there is always an adjustment period as everyone settles into their new roles and the way things will be now that the baby has arrived. But to not receive an answer to a friendly email? To never see even a picture of the child they carried? To never even get so much as a thank you? It happens. Sometimes it happens at great cost to the surrogate.

Theirs is a side that needs to be heard, because unfortunately, not everyone has been as blessed as I've been to have relationships which grew far beyond the bonds of a typical intended parent/surrogate relationship.

Sock It to Me

Today while I should have been paying attention poetry project presentations (if I hear one more kid pronounce "hyperbole" as hyper-BOLE instead of hy-PER-bo-lee my head just might explode, ha!), but instead my mind just kept getting sidetracked. You see, all I could think about was this blog and all the people and support who are just a few clicks away.

I am in bloggy love with you. There. I said it. You have my heart and I think about you all the time.

There are several times a day when I think to myself, "I am soooo blogging this." No matter how hard and cold this path sometimes is, there is this part of me that always feels the love that emanates from this here 'puter, sent through cyberspace from you to me. I carry you with me each and every day and I am strengthened by you.

So, here's how my free-association-I-should-be-paying-100%-attention-to-the-projects-but-I'm-not-because-I'm-in-bloggy-love-like-a-sappy-little-teenager-thought process went:

Ohmigosh! Kate just donated 900 units of Follistim! Do not let these students see you start tearing up. -----> Gee, I love my bloggy friends. ------> They give me the warm and fuzzies, just like a cozy pair of socks. ------> Just like those crazy socks I bought for Chance and me for our transfer ------> I wish I could send a pair of crazy socks to all my bloggy friends so that they could feel the love, too-------> LIGHT BULB!

It's The Great Sock-It-to-Me Exchange. The warmth you feel from your bloggy support is a warm and fuzzy pair of snuggly socks (metaphor!). Take the support with you for a trip to the stirrups. Wear them when you're chasing around your battle-won little person. Put them on when you have something to celebrate or when you need a hug. Wear them as a physical reminder of all the people inside your computer who you know care for and are thinking of you. 

Here's what to do:

The sign-up deadline has been extended to Sunday, March 8! Sign up now! Please email me at kyrajaATyahooDOTcom to sign up because I've been having some trouble with my regular email link. All buddies will be matched up by 11:59pm March 8.

1. Sign up runs from now until Friday, March 6. Email me (the link is under my pic up there on the right) with your snail-mail address, blog title, and blog address by then to participate.
2. I'll will send you the information for your "sock buddy" by Monday, March 9.
3. You have until Saturday, March 21 to send the socks to your sock buddy.
4. The week of April 6 is Sock-It-to-Me Week. Post a picture of your socks (worn or not worn) with a link back to the blogger who sent them to you. The topic of your post should be about what the support of this community means to you and how it has helped and is helping you. It's a week for warm and fuzzies. Like ummm...the socks.
5. When you post, come back here with a link to your post and I'll keep a running list of the entries.
6. Optional - help promote the Sock-It-to-Me Exchange by posting about it now with a link to this post. Here's the code to a badge:

<a href="http://smartone.typepad.com/smartone/2009/02/project-sock-it-to-me-.html" target="_top"> <img  alt="SockItToMe" src="http://smartone.typepad.com/.a/6a00e54ff452948833011168968b16970c-pi"></a>

Who can't use a little extra support? Consider your Sock-It-to-Me socks your "support hose."

Duplicitous leap

It is a rare occasion when Frank pisses me off to the utmost of pisstivity, angered to such an extent that I feel the urge to whack off his manbiscuits, saute them, then serve them to him for dinner. Saintly spirit be damned -- even Frank the Fantastic has moments here and there where just as with any man, a stack of Bibles and vat holy water does little to exorcise the pesky demon that sometimes crawls into hidden crannies of their cranial spaces and tugs on the lever labelled PULL HERE TO SAY SOMETHING STUPID TO MY WOMAN FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN I'M A TESTOSTERONE-LADEN ASSHOLE. So, I did what any other hormone-sensitive woman would do: I pushed the TAKE A RIDE ON THE GUILT TRIP RAILROAD button and reduced him to his bony, shameful knees, where he is currently grovelling for forgiveness. *ahem*

Also, the business of This Is Over is now mostly over. Saturday hung like a kryptonite albatross from my neck, not a burden of guilt, but one of regret. It is impossible not to weaken when feeling your or your friends' shouldhavebeen flow into the neverwas.

By way of weeks, this last one sucked.

But, that is the past.

What lies ahead is a cliff. There are no next steps. No forks in the road. No options, no alternatives, no divergence in the yellow wood with one worn path and one less travelled. For Chance and Apollo, there is only this precipice, this last move more leap than step. This is it. It either works or it doesn't. Of course, there's no way to tell which of those endings will come to be, but one thing we do know for sure is that good or bad, this cycle will be the last cycle.

It is a heavy thing indeed to know either the end of something or the beginning of something is in you, but not up to you. Heavy, indeed.

It's even heavier knowing that this cliff that our toes are edged on is one carved from the end of financial reserve. I don't know much about anything, but it seems to me that ending the quest to have a family is even more painful when the heart is still willing but the logistical ability isn't anymore. It is begrudgingly grinding to a halt when the inertia of your movement still pushes you forward.

As such...we need help. The cycle will proceed without it, but every little bit makes it that much easier. In Chance's own words, "I am not even embarrassed about it anymore, because this will be it. The end, and that kills me, the thought of it. But I'll just have to accept that this is it, and my life is what it is, but without any kids. It's pretty brutal, but I'll have no choice but to accept it. Embarrassment pales in comparison to that." It sure as hell does.

So, assistance with the procurement of meds is something for which we would be eternally grateful. Just spreading the word if you would be so inclined to do so would be immensely helpful. What we will need:

4500 units Follistim
Lupron (to total two 2-week kits)
70 (seventy) 0.1 mg Vivelle dots (at least)
20 cc progesterone in ethyl oleate (at least)

Everything else we need for cycling is either relatively minor in cost or we have meds remaining from the last cycle. Chance will also take Saizen this time around, the same growth hormone that seemed to improve Mia's response in her last cycle with me. As Saizen isn't widely prescribed yet, it isn't likely that anyone has any extra sitting in the fridge door just waiting for the expiration date to pass.

If you have any leftover meds that you are able to donate, please email me at the link under my picture with what you are able to give and in what amount. A la Bleu, I'll put the list in my sidebar and will update as the offers (hopefully) come in.

With all of your words of support and comfort and much needed humor (you guys seriously crack me up when you sprinkled FUCKS! of disappointment in the past couple of weeks), I feel that I have received far more than I have given. I thank you greatly for that. All of your emails and hugs sent through the divide have meant so, so very much to me. You are the wind beneath my red cape, and I give a shit how utterly corny that sounds; it is the truth.

And with that, I'm off to take a long, hot shower and run out the hot water before Frank comes home from the gym. My own demon has nestled its way into the revenge section of my brain and is jumping on the PETTY BITCH button. Oh, me so evil. :)

Humor me - What have YOU done when your Petty Bitch button is switched into the "on" position?

"Not to be" is the answer to the question

It just wasn't to be this time. There was some evidence of placental tissue in the uterus, but not much more than that. Thankfully, there was nothing to indicate an ectopic pregnancy. However, there were also no indications that this has any chance of developing into a normal pregnancy. No gestational sac. No yolk sac. No baby.

I stop meds today and will have another beta drawn in a week. If I have not started to bleed by then or if my levels are still going up, I will be scheduled for a D&C.

Chance and Apollo are doing about as well as can be expected. There are decisions to be made, and there is a game plan already established if they decide to proceed with another cycle. Dr. Sleepy took great care and spent extra time with the four of us (Frank the Fantastic included). We reviewed the previous cycle, he explained his plan for tweaking a future cycle, and gave us about a 40% chance at achieving a healthy pregnancy.

So, that is that. I'm sure I'll have more to say on the finer points of the post-nogo powwow in the clinic conference room later, but those are the basic details. I am glad and highly appreciative that Dr. S made it such a priority to speak with us immediately after the ultrasound. One thing I hate is having to wait for questions to be answered. I process the present better when there is already a plan for the future. Having unanswered questions hanging around makes it impossible for me to begin to move past something, so I am grateful that Dr. S made sure that we left with the answers that we needed before we left. I heart him.

After leaving the clinic, we did what we do best after appointments - we ate, and I think we're all now at least five pounds heavier than we were this morning. We had a long lunch at an exceptional Gullah/soul food restaurant here in South Carolina and talked some things through, already working towards putting this cycle to rest and shaping our thoughts and hopes around what might come next. Chance and Apollo are headed back to Savannah. Frank and I decided to stay here in town overnight. We left Jekyll Island at 5 am. Frank always does all the driving and he's zonked, considering the fact that we didn't got to bed until after midnight. And me -- well, I need some time to fully process and destress, or I won't be any good for el Cinco. I don't want to fall to pieces when Kaelyn looks at me with that eye flutter that's all hers, or when Jordan and Jaiden crack up into their characteristic maniacal laughter, or when Kyra -- the observant one -- puts her hand on my cheek, tilts her eyebrow-furrowed head, and asks, "What's wrong, Mommy?" It would be too much, and I know that.

As odd as it sounds, I just need to be an infertile right now, not a mother after infertility. I need to cry for Chance and Apollo without the complication of what I can only describe as survivor's guilt. Tomorrow. I will be okay tomorrow, and el Cinco's bright faces will be a much-needed salve.

I thank all of you for the warmth, the kindness, and the flood of support that you have shown to us through this cycle. I have no qualms about being a support hog or beggar, so I hope you haven't used up all your energy on this cycle. We're going to need so much more of it when we make another go of it. I wish that I would have had better news for you today, but I'm so, so very grateful that you're here to help us through.

Superbad

So. A long, long, loooong time ago when Chance and Apollo were here at my house and we were freaking out about the slow rate at which her follicles were growing, Frank had on a shirt that says, "I am McLovin." It sounds completely irrelevant, right? Well, that shirt spurred a conversation about the highly inappropriate but oh-so-sophomorically funny Superbad, the movie from which came the quote on Frank's shirt. Oh, how Chance loves that movie, so before she and Apollo left, Chance rubbed her hands all over Frank's manly chest in effort to channel the power of McLovin. "Let me have a good ultrasound with better follicle growth tomorrow," she quipped as she continued to rub McLovin on Frank's shirt.

The next morning she had a lot more follicles and the ones that were already there showed significant growth. Ohhh, McLovin, how I love thee.

Frank wore his McLovin shirt to the transfer. It seemed to be good luck, after all, and we needed every bit of it possible. That night at Chance and Apollo's rental cottage, Chance and I took a picture of our feet (clad in the wacky good luck socks I bought for us) in Frank's lap.

Frank and I use our TV as our alarm clock. I usually fall asleep before Frank does. Before Frank turns the TV off for the night, he changes the channel to CNN Headline News. We're usually awoken by Robin and Company. This morning when the TV came on at 5:30 (when I should have been leaving the house at 5:30), it was not Robin that I heard. I heard some funky 70's music, and it was apparent that I was hearing the opening credits of some movie. I woke up all the way when I heard the music end and the crude, teenage humor begin. Well I'll be damned. It was Superbad. 

This morning when waiting to be called back for my blood draw, I told Chance that that had to have been a good sign.

It was.

My beta today was 330. To recap:

11dp3dt = 13
13dp3dt = 25.

Dr. Sleepy said he would have been happy with 100, which sounded a good bit low to me, but hey - he's the one getting paid the big dog bucks and I just teach 8th grade. Figuring out the doubling, I would have thought that 300 would have been a more appopriate number, but I trusted Dr. Sleepy's judgement and today was praying for at least 100. In my heart, I wanted the number to be between 250-300. So to hear that the number was 330...well, that was just icing on my Superbad cake.

We've been told to continue to be cautiously hopeful. They are mostly concerned about the risk of ectopic, but my guts tell me that the Skittle has snuggled in exactly the right place. I have an ultrasound with Dr. Sleepy at our main clinic in South Carolina on Sunday morning at 10 to make sure of that. 

We have more time. We have today. We have this chance.

I am happy.

Next post  --  tune in tomorrow to read about amazing birthday gifts that Chance and Apollo gave to me, and also about the general awesomeness that are Chance and Apollo.

Speaking of cake...I know how much you all love food porn, so here's a pic of the birthday cake Frank made for Chance. It's a hot water chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and buttercream frosting. I previously posted the recipe here.

 

I wish I could send you all pieces of cake. When it comes to supporters, I have the best. I gotz mad love for you guys.