Moseying on down to Texas, ya’ll!

First thing in the morning, I’m flying down to Texas for a few days. It’s where I’m from—so when I go, I divide my time between Austin (where my friends are) and San Antonio (where my family is). Although I would rather have a “real” vacation somewhere far-away and exotic with my husband right now, usually, once I’m there, I kinda get into it. The first thing I always notice is all the wide-open space. Sky! Trees! Wow! Then there’s the pick-up trucks, the searing 100-degree heat. And the food. BBQ, cheese enchiladas… mmmm. Oh wait, I’m trying not to eat crap like that. We’ll see how that goes.

Hanging out with my family is not the most relaxing thing in the world, but I guess that’s typical for a lot of people. Me and my dad are okay—but it’s hard knowing what to say about my mom. She’s only in her early 50s, but has been in a nursing home for a few years now, severely brain-damaged, kept alive on a feeding tube and is pretty much gone to the world—no awareness at all. I only saw her in that state one time, and it was so upsetting, I have not been able to go back. But each time I visit Texas, I know she’s there and I feel this gnawing guilt about it. It’s extremely complicated, especially with my painful history with her.

On a positive note, I will be seeing my sassy almost 90 year-old grandma—who’s always been very good to me. It’s sadly comical trying to explain IVF to her… especially given that she can’t even grasp the idea of infertility (“What?,” she says, “I kept trying not to get pregnant when I married your grandpa, but I just kept having more and more boys!”).

I’ve also got a spa visit booked, will be seeing a tarot reader, swimming in my awesome new red-with-white-polka dot vintage-style Esther Williams suit that makes me feel like a goddess even in my whale-like state. AND I plan to hit every single thrift store in the state—I love hunting for funky old clothes and weird-ass knick-nacks at dirt-cheap prices! You can’t quite find that in NYC.

Last but not least, as I always do when I fly (since I am totally a wuss and get all trembly and panicky about flying), I’ve got a massive pile of fresh, trashy magazines to look forward to in the sky. Including—are you ready for this? The new Us with Brangelina on the cover, proclaiming, in gigantic letters: “It was In-Vitro!!!!” Now, as much as that crap makes me gag, I just couldn’t resist.

Anyway, take care, ya’ll… and I’ll post again next week!

IVIG… WTF?

Wow—I loved reading all your comments. Thank you for making me feel a little less crazy. It’s good to know I’m not the only one capable of sobbing into my spinach at the very-fertile farmers’ market!

This morning I started working with a trainer at my gym. Yay, me! I really, really like her—she’s apparently got other clients going through IVF, as well as pre- and post-natal clients. So she seems to “get it”. My plan is to see her three times a week until things really heat up with my upcoming IVF, though I’ve asked her to also teach me ways to keep gently exercising during those times when I need to take it easier.

It’s totally a huge investment. I almost fainted when I dropped my credit card for a 12-pack of pre-paid sessions (Three sessions a week? I mean, who do I think I am? Madonna?!). But I think it’s worth it to be both physically and mentally at my best as I approach this cycle. To know I’m truly doing all I freaking can.

Speaking of that, I’ve also been trying to get things in place with Dr. Fancypants (the miscarriage expert)’s office regarding the immune protocol part of my upcoming cycle. It is incredibly confusing coordinating protocols from two doctors, at two offices. I mean, I’m just one me here! But I have confirmed that with my weight gain, I’ll have to take a larger dose of IVIG—which means the cost (already astronomical) will be even higher. Ugh. But glad I asked, though!

The immune stuff is kinda maddening—it’s so experimental, not really understood and on the fringes of the fertility treatment world. Even in NYC, there seem to only be maybe a couple doctors who even touch it. So while I’m pretty confused about what I’m doing, sometimes Dr. Fancypants seems to be, too—or at least his office is.

Every time I call his assistant to ask a question or try to confirm something, I find a mistake (“Oh,” she said today, “We’re now doing IVIG before retrieval instead of before transfer—that’s changed since you were last here.”). When were they thinking of telling me this? That’s a pretty big freaking deal. Not to mention the simple fact that I’m totally fucking with my immune system here. You’d think people would be sensitive to that.

Boy, I sure hope I’m doing the right thing here. If ya’ll were in my shoes, would you be dabbling in this immune treatment for recurrent loss stuff? My thinking is we’re limited financially in terms of how many IVF cycles we can pursue—a couple more fresh cycles will probably be all we can swing. So while most REs—who tend to be opposed to immune stuff—would probably just encourage us to keep going and going until we hit the jackpot (especially considering I’m “still young”), I’d like to do everything I can to maximize my chances with fewer tries. But maybe this immune stuff is all just voodoo nonsense.

It’s so strange having a gamble of such a large magnitude (not just for me, but for my husband, our family, etc.) taking place right inside this body of mine.

In case anyone’s interested, here are a few links that provide info on the immune role in reproduction—as well as info on treatment like IVIG:

• A nice, user-friendly Q&A-style article that’s a good introduction >
• Another easy-to-read overview, includes interview with Alan Beer, the father of reproductive immunology >
• Science-y article Dr. Fancypants gave me (lots of numbers and big words) >
• Here’s an interesting first-hand account of the IVIG experience by a blogger who appears to be pregnant now. That’s encouraging. >
• And if you’re really looking to learn more, this book is a must-read >
• Yahoo’s Reproductive Immunology group: best board I’ve seen so far on the topic, but navigating for what you’re looking for will make your eyes bleed >

Grumbles from Mrs. Grumpy McGrumpersons

Argh, I’m feeling grouchy today. At the risk of being boring, or rude, or whatever—I just gotta vent. Grrrrr.

Gripe #1 - That promotion I was promised at work? Well, it’s not looking quite like it’s happening after all. Or at least, not any time in the next year. My boss says that while he’s recommending I get promoted and agrees I’ve already been excelling at doing the job I should be promoted to—there’s some corporate red-tape BS preventing it that’s out of his control. Supposedly.

In the meantime, I’m “allowed” to keep doing the work and keeping up with the responsibilities of someone two levels above me. Without the title or pay. Nice. Also, this boss (who aside from this has been awesome and extremely compassionate and understanding about my IF issues/treatment) has just announced he’s resigning. So not only did I lose the only person who’s been at least attempting to advocate for me career-wise, but I’m going to have to explain my mysterious “doctor visits and procedures” all over again to some stranger who might not be anywhere near as understanding. Grrrrrr-ahr!

Gripe #2 - I weighed myself last night, and I haven’t lost an ounce (though on the bright side, I did not gain any either!). Now it’s not like I’ve been going out of my way to officially diet per se—but I’ve been making a huge effort to eat very healthfully and almost vegan-like, avoiding sweets, meats, cheese, alcohol, take the exercise up a notch.

Hell, I even said no to so many wonderful things I was totally drooling over last week: a frosty watermelon margarita (had water instead!), workplace birthday cake, even throwing away the damn free roll that came with my vegetable or lentil soups at lunchtime. You’d think I coulda shed a half pound maybe? Graaaaghhhh!

Gripe #3 - What is it about fertile people and farmers’ markets? I’ve got a really nice one by my office, and try to go there often. But it’s always sooooo packed with pregnant chicks, or gals pushing strollers. Often they’re pregnant and pushing a stroller (and sometimes with a toddler struggling to walk alongside them on top of that… just punch me in the gut, why doncha?!). Then there are the cute, sensitive, hip farmers’ market-going dads with their funky hats and Baby Bjorns, which are the absolute fucking worst.

Everyone’s just flaunting the hell out of their fertility—blocking my access to the blueberries with their bumps or Bugaboos. Same with Whole Foods, where I had this showdown with a definite 8 months-along bump in front of the yogurt last week. I’m like, Outta my way, bitch! My barren ass needs this nonfat Greek shit more than you!

It all just annoys the hell out of me for obvious reasons, but I also get annoyed that parents today are also so damn goody-goody and perfect when it comes to their kids (like what, isn’t simply being fertile enough for you people?!). You know, with the forcing organic kale down their kids’ throats and banning cupcakes in school and such. When I was a kid, we all guzzled Kool-Aid and Little Debbie snack cakes. Sometimes green beans from a can with our meatloaf, but generally the only “green” we ate was those lime popsicles.

I also frolicked freely in lead paint, rode seatbeltless in backseats, inhaled endless plumes of cigarette smoke on my grandpa’s lap (and God knows what else I was exposed to in utero with a 15 year-old birthmom). And look how well I turned out! Oh wait…

Whew! Someone needs a vacation soon. Lucky for me, I’m getting outta here for a short one later this week.

Believing… or not

At this risk of sounding new age or self-helpy (or something), I often wonder if the only reason I haven’t yet conceived easily and carried a pregnancy successfully is the fact that I’ve never really believed I can. Like even from the start—before things began to look really bleak on the basal thermometer/charting front of those early TTC days—I just kinda had this feeling that it wasn’t in the cards for me. Or, at least, that it wouldn’t come without quite a fight.

I’m not sure how much of that is due to some deep-seated “not good enough” insecurities, or actual medical realities. I’d always had violent, painful periods and suspected endo for years—and on top of that had been through the abnormal pap smear/colposcopy ringer a number of times, which scared the crap outta me and made me realize things might not be so peachy down there.

Giving birth, holding a baby in my arms—I just have a reeeeeaaaally hard time envisioning it. Even when I try super-hard. Today, while I was at acupuncture (no pregnant ladies there today, thank God), I focused really closely, attempting to will pleasant baby-thoughts into my mind. At one point I caught a brief flicker of being in an operating room, having a C-section, and imagining my husband there and making it through this nightmare. Funny how even in my rosiest of fantasies, I now imagine a highly medicalized situation (say, as opposed to crunchy granola “orgasmic birth” in a candle-lit pool of water blessed by Tibetan monks).

Also, when I’m bombarded by pregnant ladies and babies while walking around the city, one of the only ways I can deal (and not totally feel like shit and want to disappear) is if I can force myself to look and think “that could be me someday.” And really believe it. But that rarely, rarely, rarely happens.

Next week I’ve actually got an appointment with a tarot reader—to hopefully get some insight. Some little nugget of a clue to hang onto. Will I ever have a baby? Or am I destined to become a mom some other way? Will it happen? Soon? Ten years from now? I’m pretty sure I don’t believe in stuff like tarot. But… I kinda feel the same way about acupuncture. And hell, half the fertility treatment I’m doing at this point. So I guess really it’s not so far-fetched to give it a shot. When I saw this same tarot reader about eight years ago, she predicted that I would find love with a bearded man—and my husband is goateed. So maybe she’s onto something?

Anyway, I’m curious how much you’ve all been able to believe in this process—in what’s going to happen in the end. Do you think it’s possible to be successful, despite believing it’ll never work? To be honest, my default approach to fertility treatment has been “do it all, get it over with, just so I can prove to everyone that I am, indeed, hopelessly infertile.” I’m not really in it to actually succeed. Is that weird? Maybe part of me believes, somewhere deep down, but I just don’t know it? And I prepare to fail so I don’t get as hurt, like so I feel I’m still holding on to some control over things (BFN? Well of course… I knew all along.).

Clueless musings on motherhood

Things were pretty funky in the home I grew up in, and I was kind of an odd, solitary child. One way I coped was to spend hours pouring through magazines, catalogs—anything glossy I could get my hands on. All those pictures of “normal” people, things and situations really soothed me somehow. I even drew and wrote my own versions, filling mountains of sketchbooks.

I especially enjoyed really mundane stuff like the Sears Wish Book or Family Circle, probably because I liked seeing what “normal” moms did. You know, making casseroles and grappling with ring-around-the-collar. Instead of being carted away in an ambulance for OD-ing on pills again like my own mom.

Eventually I ended up going to school for advertising, and now I create that stuff for a living. Right now, one of the products I work on most is a very popular grocery item that moms buy their kids—so I’m often in meeting after meeting trying to figure out new ways to “understand” and “talk to” moms. Which is becoming more and more ironic, the further I fall down the infertility rabbit-hole.

Usually, I’m surprised by how well I deal. When I’ve got my “professional” hat on, it’s just another target audience—like 20-something males or teenage girls. When it’s all theoretical, I’m fine. But often, those working with me who are parents will pipe in with their “parent” perspective, and I just want to bang my head against the wall. Especially when people start talking about how hard moms have it—how it’s the world’s toughest job, moms make more sacrifices than anyone on earth, oh it’s agony, blah blah blah.

Today I actually had a client, who’s a mom, laugh at me (not in a mean-natured way, but infertile me of course took offense) for suggesting moms might go to the gym. “Hahahah!” she said, “I don’t know any moms with time for that!”

I mean, I know there’s a lot of truth to what they say. I’m not saying mom-hood is at all easy. And I admit, I’m clueless about much of what the experience is actually like. But hearing about what saintly, suffering martyrs all moms are just annoys me. I mean hell, I’ve been sacrificing my health, happiness and just about everything else to try to just start a family the past two years. You don’t hear me complaining—except on this blog of course… ha!

Stab me in the heart with an acupuncture needle, why doncha?!

I’ve just started going to this new acupuncturist. He’s less than half the cost of the guy I used to see—and he’s also an MD to boot. He seems to be a real “cult hit” with the uptown infertiles, although he offices in a very no-frills space in Chinatown (Perchancetodream warned me, there would be no whale music and blissful waterfalls). Which, I suppose makes him seem even more authentic and possibly effective. I like him—he’s no-nonsense, yet soft-spoken and nice. Seems to know what he’s doing. And at his rate, I can afford to go more often and not stress out as much about the money (infertility is totally not a poor woman’s sport!).

Aaaaanyway, this time I got a treatment room with two tables separated by a screen. I lay there a while with my eyes closed, waiting for the doctor. The assistant brought in this other lady and got her situated in the room too. Seemed like no big deal. Finally, the doctor came and loaded me up with needles, said “relax” and moved on to the gal behind the screen. Turns out she was The World’s Most Talkative Pregnant Lady.

As I lay there, helpless and covered in needles, she proceeded to go on and on and on about the anatomy scan she’d had today. “Oh such cute little toes! Hee hee, it looks more like me than my husband!” she squealed, then went on and on about every detail seen on the scan—which took an hour and a half, she said. “Oh the bladder was just perfect! And the brain! And the heart was beating so strong.” And then she went on to say she doesn’t want to know the sex. And oh should she stop taking the herbal pills, because they’re making her throw up? And on and on about her upcoming OB appointments, should she use acupuncture to help prepare for delivery? And on and on.

I wanted so badly to scream. To rip the needles out of my tummy and go shove them in her eyes. The “relaxing thunderstorm” music I was listening to on my iPod was doing nothing to drown her out. It was just pure torture—until finally the doctor left her to “relax.” Of course, by that time I was just laying there seething in anger. I kept imagining her all blissful and pregnant and smug and happy with herself on the other side of the screen. And knowing that will never be me.

A Year? Really?

Geez, tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of this blog. I recall that when I first started it, I’d hit “publish” and then freak out and password protect my blog—terrified that someone might read my embarrassing “secret” thoughts. Then I’d make it public again, then freak out again. This went on for a couple months I guess until I started getting comments and realized okay, no one’s going to bite me. Now I’m like whatever… who cares what people think? I simply have no shame left.

I think I’ve calmed down a bit regarding the weight (it helped when I treated myself to a few new items of bigger-sized clothes so I can at least try to look decent). It definitely has motivated me to really—for real—pay closer attention to what I’m eating. I mean, I think I’m all fabulous for eating a salad for lunch… but did I ever mention that I work at an ad agency where one of the biggest clients is a major maker of chocolate candies? Yes, I would be made of wood if I did not succumb to the company “candy trough” (just one on my way to the copy machine… oh wait, one more on my way to the bathroom) more often than I’d like to admit.

It’s not like I’m gonna write in a food diary and count my carrot sticks, though, but I am hoping to make a few adjustments to—at the very least—keep more weight from piling on. I’ve also ditched booze, which is something I’ve been meaning to do before my next cycle. While I totally loves me some wine after work, I admit that it also makes me kinda loose about food. And I think it sort stokes my depression somewhat. Overall, probably just not helping much. I’ll save it for the next miscarriage (yikes, did I say that?! sorry… but I think this way all the time).

Some good news today—I don’t need a hysteroscopy after all. Dr. Rockstar repeated the saline sonogram (you know you’re a veteran when you find yourself kind of enjoying the cool, refreshing feeling on a hot summer day) and apparently the mysterious thing in my uterus was gone. It’s possible I bled it out with this period I just had, which featured frighteningly large clumps. Yay me!

Afterward, I asked him about this protocol he’s putting me on for IVF #2. This time I’m doing the overlapping Pill/Lupron, while last time I did a no-Lupron protocol. It seemed to me I could not have had a more fabulous cycle (errr, except from the not-pregnant part, I guess): 27 eggs, plenty of awesome blastocysts—including 6 to freeze. Just perfect, right? So why the change? Well, Dr. Rockstar says a “quality over quantity” approach might be better. Maybe I made too much last time? I’m not quite sure I’m getting it, because the embryo quality was excellent. It’s just me that seems to be messed up.

As I pressed for info, he said that hey, I can do the old protocol again if I want. It’s up to me. I hate it when he throws the choices back at me like that. Like I have a fucking clue. He’s the expert, dammit. I just like to understand why I’m doing what I’m doing. But I guess there’s often not really an explanation with this stuff. It’s just gut feelings, hunches. Throwing the dice and seeing what sticks or whatever.

While we talked, I stood next to Dr. Rockstar as we consulted my file on the computer outside the exam room. And I noticed, for the first time ever, he was basically the same height as me (e.g. short). I totally was laughing inside at this realization—I mean not at him; he’s still hot as hell. But that, in all this time I’ve spent with him in so many physically and emotionally compromising positions, I’ve always been laying down, feet in stirrups, on an exam table or operating room. Or in his office, sitting in a chair under all his fancypants diplomas, as he’s all determining my fate from his big imposing desk. I dunno—in my mind he’s been like 8 feet tall. But there he was, so small and harmless. Human maybe.

Fattypants Freak-Out

Please bear with me here. Today, at my pre-surgery checkup at the hospital, I confirmed that I’ve gained 22 POUNDS since February. That’s in just five months! It’s the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life—which, considering I’ve struggled with my weight and have been on and off diets since childhood, is saying a lot.

Now all the lovely body-acceptance mantras I’ve been feeding myself have flown out the window and I am freaking the fuck out. I mean, I’ve always heard thin women complain that fertility treatments make them gain weight. But I figured since I was already overweight to begin with… well it wouldn’t happen to me. Which now I guess makes no sense.

I’m just not sure what to do. While there have been the occasional post pregnancy-loss Velveeta binges, overall I really do not think I have been eating dramatically different than normal. Certainly not enough to warrant a gain like that! Plus, I’ve been exercising regularly like I always do—though there have been short breaks here and there because of bleeding, procedures. And I walk like crazy. Hell, I even walk to and from my clinic—which is a 45-minute walk each way.

How much of this could be my meds? Aside from breaks for miscarriages and surgery, I’ve been on fertility drugs of all kinds pretty much continuously for over a year. Then I’ve been taking Zoloft, which is rumored to cause weight gain—though the makers of the drug claim that’s not true. And, topping it off, I was on Prednisone (a steroid) for about six weeks as part of my FET protocol. I’ve heard that one can really pack on the pounds. Still, I’d assumed if I was careful to just not eat more, I’d be fine…

I know I sound ridiculous carrying on like this. In general, I firmly believe women should love their bodies and stop wasting so much time hating their thighs and giving Weight Watchers all their hard-earned money. BUT… this just hurts. To go through as much as I’ve been through to try for a baby and end up with not just disappointment, humiliation and dead babies—but a bulky, cumbersome body that I just don’t know what to do with.

It’s something I’d like to bring up with Dr. Rockstar—is this temporary? Should I put off IVF for six months or so and go on a serious, crazy drink-the-shakes kinda diet? Or does it even fucking matter? But I’m embarrassed because my RE is rather cute (make that pretty hot actually), and looks like he gets Botox and takes very good care of himself. Will he just laugh and think God, do I really have to look at this fat bitch’s vagina today?

Recently on one of my favorite body-acceptance websites, I was reading as some of the women struggled to like their “post-baby bodies”. There’s even a very intriguing website where women post photos (many of them nude) of what they look like post-pregnancy and encourage and celebrate each other, no matter how “bad” they look. I used to think that was very cool—and I recall years ago actually worrying about what pregnancy would do to my body.

Of course now, I feel ridiculous for ever being that presumptuous. And just sad, sad, sad. I mean, not only am I not allowed in the pregnancy and parenting club—but I also don’t get the “post-pregnancy” free-pass to be fat, at least for a little while. My bulging Follistim belly is not considered beautiful like a pregnant belly, though I’ve been working at trying to bring life into this world longer than most women who’ve already got kids who are starting to crawl by now. Just un-fucking fair.

Ugggh. As if it weren’t enough of a “crime” to be barren in this society—to be fat on top of that? I really am pushing it.

Once upon a tent, at a campsite far, far (well about 150 miles) away…

This weekend, Infertile Cinderella and Prince Charmingly Fertile Yet-Infertile-By-Proxy hopped into an outrageously overpriced rental pumpkin car and headed away from their clinic, their disappointments, their needle supply—to the magical Land of Forgetting (conveniently located in Eastern Pennsylvania).

There was camping, marshmallow-roasting and hiking. Exploring caves and waterfalls. Roadside pancakes—with stops for kitschy attractions…

Including a charming indoor miniature village with zillions of little buttons you can push to make the trolley go and such. There was even a fake “nightfall”, which brought on an intriguing musical slideshow combining patriotic images, Jesus and angel babies. Infertile Cinderella was so excited, she even got a souvenir mug afterward.

Indeed, it was a wonderful and relaxing trip. Until, of course, Infertile Cinderella started spotting. Hmmmm, she thought, My period is still days away. And I never spot. Plus, my boobs have been sore as hell for days now. Mayyyybe, dare I hope, maybe I am pregnant? This is that “implantation bleeding” that I hear normal women talk about, but I’ve never had with any of my pregnancies? So maybe this means this one will be a keeper?! Oh golly how great that would be right before my next Super Crazy IVF with IVIG! That would show ‘em all!

So all night, Infertile Cinderella leaves her Prince and their cozy campfire again and again to do a blood-check in the scary, spider-webby campground bathroom—pointing a flashlight into her undies to make sure there was no more blood. And she sees none all night and thinks Oh my God! Maybe! Maybe! How magical this would be! Oh my God! I knew that Liberator ramp would do the trick!

Oddly, she never bothers to consider how strange it would be to get pregnant naturally after two IVFs couldn’t even knock her up. Hmmm. Still, she ends the night hopeful. Even has some joyful, festive and enthusiastic tent sex—waking up to this beautiful view from the ceiling and already calculating due dates in her head. No doubt the fresh air was making her delirious.

Because the second she checked, her period had arrived—all nice and messy in the sleeping bag. Not a tampon for miles. So Infertile Cinderella shoved some wadded-up paper towels in her undies. To make sure her dignity really suffered, they had festive prints of chef hats and vegetables on them. Yum-o!

Packing up camp and nursing a crampy ute atop a wad of bloody Brawny, Infertile Cinderella suddenly really started to mind the campsite next to theirs—the one with at least six kids running around and playing while the parents chattered. Strange how for two days she barely noticed them, and even thought herself lucky to be alone with her Prince, enjoying the quiet companionship. But then just like that, she was back in the Trance of Infertility, more ashamed than ever of her barren-ness, her tiny family of two, the giant space where a kid should be—leaving her glass slippers hiking boots far behind as she went back to the city to start counting the days until the next fancy ball IVF cycle.

Emotion explosion

I’m so embarassed re-reading my past couple of posts—and really hope I have not offended anyone or come off as some horrible, pregnant-lady-hating ass. I’ve just been on really shaky ground lately. Last night, for example, I went to get my hair cut at this cozy little salon I go to. And in walks a couple with a brand-new baby. They’re there the entire time, passing the baby around to everyone in the salon—everyone ooing and awwing and just talking baby stuff like crazy (”He’s got his grandpa’s nose… yes he does!”). But what really topped it off was when the mom sat on this bench literally one foot away from me in the haircutting chair and breastfed for what seemed like an eternity.

So as my hairdresser snip-snipped my mane, I was treated to an earful of suck-sucks and coos—and the mom going on and on about all the usual stuff people talk about (”Sooo tired… oh gosh! Have another one? Hopefully not too soon—haha!”). I practically grinded my teeth down to nubs trying to keep from crying, thinking about my lost pregnancies perhaps more than I ever had before. I was seriously soooo about to bolt out of my chair—half-cut hair, poncho and all—and run out the door.

Anyway, I’m guessing all of this will get a lot easier once I’ve closed down shop on my uterus and we’re done with treatment. Which (I’ve got my fingers crossed) will be by the end of this year. When I imagine being free from that—and of being focused on a clear goal of pursuing adoption as THE way we’re going to have a family—I feel a lot more at peace, less freaked out by fertile people. But, of course we’ll see.

Happy July 4th, everyone. We’ll be in the Poconos—sleeping in a tent and roasting marshmallows (though one day I would love to hit one of these fantastically cheesy champagne-glass-hot-tub “couples’ resorts“). Thanks again for your support, and for not being scared off when I hit my low-points. Hopefully the fresh air will lift my mood and rekindle even just the tiniest little flicker of optimism.