insanity.

As time has passed, in many ways, I feel more and more insane.

Just when I think I'm good -- so normal -- I lose it.

I read online that due to the hormones from an IVF cycle, when it fails it's very similar to enduring a miscarriage.  I don't mean to compare my experience to the experience of anyone who has been through a miscarriage, because I can't know if that's accurate or not.  But I will tell you that I have felt a devastating loss, a sense of insanity, an unpredictability in my mood and emotions, and an intense feeling of grief.

Last night I had a long phone conversation with my baby sister who lives in LA.  I told her my stories of devastation and all of the instances of insanity I have experienced.  Moments when I truly wondered if I was stable -- if I could go on with normal things and not reveal how crazy I am.

I shared a specific story with her from this past weekend, and we laughed about it.  Which felt good.  We laughed because it was so pathetic, and because it really is funny, but only because I'm a couple of days past it.  She said I should write about it.

On Friday, I got my hair cut.  I woke up and put makeup on.  I got dressed in my favorite jeans and heeled boots, and I felt kind of pretty.  This hadn't happened in a long time.

I had randomly gotten a last minute appointment because I felt like I needed it.  My new hairdresser was cute and sweet, and I soaked it all in as she washed my hair and I felt a little pampered.

I came home and did dishes.  I cleaned the bathroom and picked up the kitchen.  I played with my dogs.  I felt normal, and I was proud of myself.  I started to believe that I would be okay.

On Saturday I woke up feeling fairly good.  My husband and I made breakfast and watched a little morning television.

I told myself how normal and awesome and strong and impressive I am.  I really focused on how well I was doing and thought, God -- you are a fucking rock star right now.  Keep it up.  And then at some point I started crying.

And I guess that opened up everything, and I cried and I cried.  I cried for hours.  I couldn't stop.  J suggested I get in the hot shower and just sit there if I wanted.  So I did, and it felt good, and I got out tear-free and calmed down.

I had lotioned my body and put on my fluffy robe.  I made my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water so I could just chill out.  Our dogs were running around, and Walter jumped up on my bare legs, scratching me.  I told him No.  I told him Off.  And he got down.

And then he did it again.  Jumped up and scratched my legs.  And I turned and out of nowhere -- I'm not even convinced that the thoughts entered my mind before the words flew out of my mouth -- I screamed "GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU FUCKING DOG. FUCK YOU!"  Literally screamed.  So loud and out of control.

I calmly set my glass of water on the counter and turned around to leave the kitchen.  I walked to my bedroom and just stood there.

Obviously J had heard this whole thing go down, and he came in to find me.  And I collapsed in tears again, and the tears didn't leave me for another few hours.  I felt out of control and awful.  Again.

Some days I am me.  And some days I am terrible.  And I just want to be me again.

{Side note to anyone who might be worried about my dog -- He's fine.  I immediately felt badly for yelling at him, but he's fine.  We love him and spoil him, and he has a wonderful life (at least when I can keep my shit together).}

all the days after.

The next morning I woke up to spotting.  Already.

My nurse said in her awful voicemail message that my period would start within five days.  Then I was to call the office to schedule my consultation, and they'd get me back on birth control.

But I truly wasn't expecting for my body to physically expel everything I had built within mere hours of finding out the worst news.  I wasn't ready for it.

And it made me angry.

I had to go about my day.  I woke up early and drove to this high school to observe this teacher.  I acted normal.  I almost had forgotten what happened.

On my long drive home, I started to cry.  I started to feel pissed off.  I started to wonder what the fuck was going on.

But this wast the easiest day, and I don't know why.  Finding out was the simple part.  It was everything that came next that sent me over the edge.

On Saturday, I began bleeding heavily.  J found me in the bathroom crying hysterically.  I was naked from a shower, and my emotions were out of control.  I couldn't even dry off without blood running down my thighs, and I couldn't help but notice how cruel it felt.  How mean and awful it was that my body did this to me -- so boldly presenting my failure.

A couple of days later I called to schedule my consultation, but what do you know -- they can't get me in for more than a month.  They're all booked.

This offended me because I knew if I had gotten pregnant, they would have time for me.  But I didn't.  I failed, and so I would have to wait again.  My importance was expired, just like my hope and possibility.  They made the appointment for March 4th.

The next several days were hard.  It's still so unexpectedly hard.  In fact, I'm not even two weeks out yet.  But it feels like weeks and weeks -- months and months, even.  Not that I'm healed, but that time has been creeping by.  And I hate it, and I feel defeated.

finding out.

I got home a little after 10:45 p.m. on the night of the 29th.  The night J and I would learn if we had achieved what we wanted more than anything in life.

As soon as I stepped in the door, I dropped my bags and hugged him.  It had been so hard to concentrate through class, to keep my stomach settled, to know that this most-anticipated message was in my pocket.

We looked at each other and decided to listen -- even though I think we almost preferred not to.

I hit play on the message, and my nurse didn't sound joyful.  I knew she wasn't delivering good news.  She said, "I wish so badly I had better news to deliver."

And it was over.  It was all over.

I started nodding my head quietly, tears starting to form.  I had prepared myself for this because I "didn't feel pregnant," whatever that means.  But I didn't feel it.

J put his arms around me, and the tears started to fall.

The message ended, and I just kept nodding.  And it was over.

It was over, and I had to go to bed because I had to leave the house at 6:30 the next morning to observe a high school teacher in another city.  Life was going on as usual, even though I wasn't ready.

It was over, and that was all.

transfer day.

We went to Oklahoma City Sunday night, even though our transfer time was 1 p.m.  We could have made it Monday morning, but we just wanted to relax.  To get settled and comfy and not worry about anything (yeah right!).

Monday morning came quickly, and we got some breakfast, showered, got into our comfy clothes.  We arrived a little earlier than we were asked to, but what else were we going to do?  And I kind of thought maybe the earlier we got there, the earlier we'd get some information about our embryos.

We didn't wait long before they took us back, but once we were back is when the real waiting began.  They gave me a blanket to wrap my bare lower half in, and J and I sat on the same bed I was in during my retrieval process.  I had done a pretty good job of keeping my shit together until this point.  But that's when it all started to hit me.  We would really get the biggest information of our lives, up to this point, in a few minutes.  I just needed to know.

I had to take deep breaths, and there was no way I could think about anything else.  J and I would make eye contact periodically, and I could tell he was experiencing a similar torment.

Finally the embryologist came back.  It was all very, very matter-of-fact, which really kind of felt offensive in some way.  She explained that all three were behind.  They were moving slowly, more slowly than they would have expected.  She asked for permission to perform assisted hatching on them to maybe improve their chances.  We gave her permission to do what they needed to do to help them out.  I asked, as she was leaving, why our embryos might be so slow, and is it a bad thing.  She said it could be because they fertilized late, it could be because they were of poorer quality, it could be for all kinds of unknown reasons.  I decided to cling to her first explanation.

My heart was pounding this whole time, and it didn't stop.

A different doctor, who I had never met, was set to do my transfer.  He came back to introduce himself and was really quite personable -- more so than my own doctor.  But he quickly said, "Well, these embryos aren't that great."

My heart sank.

He asked me how old I was and then told me that he would give a healthy 27-year-old with three embryos of this quality a 30-40% chance of achieving pregnancy.

My heart sank again.

I just wanted him to leave.  I just wanted to cry.  I just wanted to wake up and start over.

The doctor assured me the procedure would be fine and that they'd get started in a few minutes.

An assistant to the embryologist brought back a photo of our three embryos.  I wanted to cry.  They were real, and I could see them, and they "weren't that great" according to everyone around me.

The photo also had their new grades next to each.  Two IVs and a III.  And none of them were blastocysts yet.  At day 5.  It's bad news.

When we were alone, I turned to J -- totally fighting back tears -- and said, I just wish I didn't know.

They took me back to the OR and had J change into his "scrubs."  He sat behind my head, but I couldn't even really tell he was there.  The procedure was fast and efficient, and everything went "perfectly" according to the doctor.  Everything except that I had these not so great embryos that I had willed so hard to become my babies.

They transferred me from the tables to a bed quickly, but I of course didn't want to move a muscle.  I stayed there for one hour, and then they had me use the restroom -- which I really badly did NOT want to do.  Then they sent us on our way, nurses telling me to keep us updated, and good luck, and hopefully even more than one would take!

I just wanted to cry.

So, yeah, I should've turned to the positives in this situation, and eventually I did.  But it once again felt like another instance of bad news, less-than-ideal news.  I just wanted something at some point to go perfectly.

J got me set up in our big king size bed at the hotel, and I was comfy.  But then I cried.  I was stuck in my situation, and it wasn't what I had dreamed it would be, and no one had ever given me really good news.

My husband and I eventually talked about the fact that we've never, ever had a 30-40% chance of getting pregnant.  I agreed that the prospect was exciting, and at least we had that.

I stayed on my back in the hotel for 24 hours, and then we drove home.  The drive home was miserable.  I couldn't see anything, it was bumpy, I was cramped and uncomfortable.  At about an hour into our drive, I started feeling cramps.  It truly felt like I was getting my period.  I didn't know if I should be excited that I was feeling something, anything -- or if I should be afraid that it wasn't normal.

I didn't say anything to J; I just hoped it was a good thing.  And so the calculating began.  They hadn't even been blastocysts, so could they really be implanting already?  What else did I feel?  Should I tell someone?

The cramping didn't stop that evening.  And even at times, it almost felt intense.  Then the cramps would calm down, and I'd almost not notice them.  I texted my nurse about it, because I didn't know if it was worrisome or not.  She didn't really tell me one way or the other, but she instructed me to take two Advil.

I did.  And then J googled Advil, and we read that Advil impedes implantation.  I wanted to vomit, I wanted to cry, all of the blood drained out of my body.  Why would she tell me to do that?  Why had I done what she said without reading about it first?  I was panicking.

I finally fell asleep that night, but when I woke up in the morning and was still having some cramps, I decided to call my fertility institute and talk to a different nurse (my nurse and doctor work in partnership with this specific institute, but I only went to the institute for my two procedures -- retrieval and transfer).  I got a nurse immediately, and she eased my mind.  She said they don't want my uterus to expel the embryos, but that the cramps could also mean good things. She said to stay away from the Advil but that it wouldn't prevent implantation -- it's just not recommended during pregnancy.

I knew there was nothing I could do, so I chose to kind of let go of it -- at least as best I could.

I remained in bed for another 24 hours, and on Thursday I got up, took a shower, and went to my RE for a blood draw to check how I've been absorbing my progesterone.

Did I mention that when I got home Tuesday night from OKC, I felt like I had a scratchy, irritated throat.  This is absolutely always my first symptom of a cold.  I tried to will it away, but I knew it was coming, and at just the most perfect time.

By Thursday, I definitely had a sore throat and was coughing, but I knew it'd get worse.  Because I could have been pregnant, I couldn't take anything, and in the next 4-5 days, I became so miserably sick that I couldn't believe my luck.

I went back to school and work feeling like absolute shit since I had missed so much for all of my appointments and procedures lately, but I was miserable.  And the days moved along, and I wanted so badly for January 29th -- the day of my pregnancy blood test -- to arrive, and I wanted so badly for it  to stay away forever.

That morning, I drove the hour and a half to my RE's office.  I waited a few minutes, and then my nurse took me back.  She drew the blood and told me about what was next -- either way.  If I was pregnant, I would come back on Monday for my second beta.  If I wasn't, I'd stop the progesterone, my period would start within five days, and I would call to schedule a consultation to discuss the cycle and my future options.

I didn't want to find out the outcome without my husband, and I had to be on campus an hour and a half away that night for a class.  I wouldn't be home until 10:30 p.m.  I asked my nurse to call and leave the outcome in a voicemail that J and I could listen to together later that night, once I got home.  And she agreed.

I was sitting in my office when my phone rang around 4:30 that afternoon.  The caller ID said it was her, and my heart stopped.  I had to let it ring and ring and then go to voicemail.  And then my phone alerted me to her message, and I just stared at the notification.  The answer was there, right there where I could reach it.  But I didn't.  I didn't want to know without J, and so it remained there for another almost seven hours.