I haven’t posted in a while.  I haven’t really felt like continuing my story.  I don’t really want to think about that last miscarriage just now, I guess.  My due date for that baby is quickly approaching.  I’m not pregnant again – I haven’t even had the chance to try yet.  (That’s a story for a later post.)  We’ve been thinking about adoption (another story for a later post) but not really getting anywhere.

Mostly, what I’ve been feeling is fear.  Fear that I’ll never be able to have a baby, or be able to adopt a baby.  That there is something fundamentally wrong with me.  That I’ll get older and older and it’ll just be me and my husband.  Fear that that won’t be enough for us.

I’m scared that it’s never going to work out for me.

I always like to read the Timeline of Despair on other people’s infertility blogs, so I thought I’d summarize mine:

April 2007 – Married!

June 2007 – Pregnancy scare – HA HA HA.  I briefly went off birth control due to a glitch with my mail order pharmacy, and my period was nowhere to be found.  I was not pleased about the possibility of pregnancy, as I was training for my first marathon, and was perhaps a bit obsessed with running.  Tested negative repeatedly, then failed Provera challenge.   Went back on birth control pills and decided not to think about it too much.

April 2008 – Officially started trying!  No more birth control pills.

June 2008 – Again, no period, no postive pregnancy test.  This is not shocking; unfortunately, this time I need to think about it.  Failed Provera challenge again.   My probable diagnosis: Hypothalamic Amenorrhea.

July 2008 – Sister-in-law informs me that I need to go see an RE and not waste my time with my OB/GYN.  Tried 50mg Clomid, and cycle was cancelled due to no response.   Decide that it’s time to get serious, and that if I want to have a baby, I need to start gaining weight and quit running.

August 2008 – Tried Menopur since the Clomid was a bust.  I stimmed for 10 days before cycle cancelled due to vacation.  (I told them about the vacation before we started, and the nurse said there was NO WAY I would stim more than 7 days.  HAH!  My ovaries are super underachievers beyond the scope of her imagination.)

September 2008 – Menopur cycle, stimmed for 18 days, triggered and did not time intercourse correctly.  (Don’t even get me started.  This $2,000 disaster is a whole separate post.)  First ovulation since 2003, though!  BFN (Big Fat Negative).

November 2008 – Consultation with new RE, talked her into trying extended Clomid protocol.  She rolled her eyes but humored me.  Cycle cancelled due to no response.

December 2008 – I refused to spend the holidays crying in the RE’s changing room about my uncooperative ovaries.  Decided to take a break from treatment.

January 2009 – Surprise BFP!  (Big Fat Positive!)

February 2009 – Missed miscarriage at 8 weeks.  Baby died at 6 weeks.  Convinced RE to get me a D&C the same day.

April 2009 – No period yet, induced one with Provera.  By this point, I have gained about 15 pounds since August.  (Woe!)

June 2009 – Natural ovulation – CD27!  BFN

August  2009 – Natural ovulation – CD16, no sex anywhere near that  because I thought I had another ten days or so before ovulation.  Body is shockingly … normal.   BFN

I don’t handle pregnancy announcements very well.

Within the past couple of months, three good friends have told me that they’re expecting a baby in the winter. Each time I heard the news, I felt panic, anxiety, jealousy, and most of all, a sense of failure.

My husband and I have been trying to conceive for the past year and a half. Initially, I wasn’t ovulating due to hypothalamic amenorrhea, which means that my body had decided to shut down its reproductive duties because it thought I didn’t have enough body fat to sustain a pregnancy. (I strongly disagreed with my body on this matter, but my ovaries didn’t seem to much care.) I went through a couple of difference treatments to force myself to ovulate, including one cycle of Menopur, an injectible drug (I like to think of it as Red Bull for the ovaries), and Clomid. At the same time, in an effort to convince my body to start working again on its own, I stopped exercising, gained about 15 pounds, and bought a lot of new pants.

After those two cycles failed, I had decided to take the month of December off of treatment. I didn’t want to deal with the near-daily ultrasounds and blood draws during the holidays. Then, of course, I became a cliché by becoming pregnant by accident after I’d (temporarily) given up trying. (As much as you can call it “an accident” when you’re having sex without using birth control and are hoping to became parents.) I had no idea that I was ovulating at all, and was shocked, thrilled, and scared when I saw the positive pregnancy test.

About three weeks later, I had an ultrasound, and we discovered that the baby wasn’t viable. I had a D&C a week later.

Now, whenever someone tells me that they’re pregnant, I can’t even see past my own situation to be happy for her. All that I can think about is that I should be pregnant. I should be due in this month. I should have a cute belly now and not be able to drink this glass of wine that’s in my hand.

But I’m not.

And that makes me feel like a failure. Because I failed for so long at getting pregnant, and then when I finally managed that, I failed at staying pregnant. I know, intellectually, that it wasn’t anything I did that caused the miscarriage, that there was most likely a chromosomal problem with the embryo. Still, at some level I wonder things like, was it the yoga that I did that one day? Or that one Diet Coke that I had because I was so tired at work? Or maybe it happened because I drank alcohol (once, on New Year’s Eve) before I knew I was pregnant.

Seeing friends that are pregnant when I’m not feels like a rebuke, somehow. It feels like they’ve succeeded at something I haven’t. That they’re ahead of me, and I’m behind. That I can’t figure this out. That there’s something wrong with me.

I know that five years from now, it’s likely that I will have a child, or even children, and it won’t matter that some of my friends had theirs six months or a year before me. Every time I see a cute, pregnant belly, I tell myself that. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes I need a margarita.