Category Archives: The Sister-Wives

Serenity NOW!!!!

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When I was little, my Dad used to get fed up with my incessant fidgeting and offer to give me a quarter if I stayed still for five minutes. I don’t remember earning a single quarter, and not because I didn’t try. ‘Still’ just isn’t something I do with any grace. I am fundamentally un-serene.

We’ve known from the beginning, when I got pregnant using the same donor we used when Penelope carried Hank, that preeclampsia might be an issue. Preeclampsia, aka pregnancy-induced hypertension, or PIH, is a prenatal disorder usually marked by high blood pressure, proteinuria (protein in the urine), elevated uric acid, edema (water retention) especially in the hands and face, abdominal pain especially on the right side, headaches, and blurred vision. If left untreated, it can worsen and develop into eclampsia, the seizure disorder that (spoiler alert) killed Lady Sybil in a recent episode of Downton Abbey.*

Our doctor said there is some chance that the risk of developing preeclampsia might have some genetic link to the donor sperm. She wasn’t at all surprised when we learned that some of the Sister-Wives had also developed preeclampsia during their pregnancies, and so she’s been watching for it all along. (Penelope and I also suspect she’s a little bit hypervigilant about it because she feels bad about missing Penelope’s diagnosis until her pre-e was so severe, but in Dr. Dalton’s defense, Penelope’s condition had a very unusual presentation in its early stages: she was vomiting and had severe heartburn, but she didn’t have high BP, much swelling, proteinuria or headaches until just a few days before she delivered Hank, at which point she was already dangerously sick.)

At almost every prenatal appointment so far, Dr. Dalton has frowned worriedly as she noted the presence of protein in my urine. Last week (32 weeks, 5 days gestation), I had a slightly-higher-than-usual (but still normal) blood pressure, but I had not had any of the other symptoms (except the proteinuria): no unusual swelling or chest pain (some swelling and heartburn are both typical in late pregnancy), no blurred vision, and my headaches have actually improved with pregnancy. Doc was worried enough to order a 24-hour urine collection (yup, that’s just what it sounds like: I peed in a jug for a whole day), and when the results came in, they only worried her more. More than 300mg protein in a 24-hour urine test is considered high; my results last weekend exceeded 750mg.

But, yeah, enough about my pee. Anyway, Doc’s office called and asked to see me ASAP, and I went back yesterday afternoon. I knew from Penelope’s go-round with it that preeclampsia can be ‘managed’ with medication, diet, and bed rest, but it only has one cure: almost always, the condition resolves itself once the baby is delivered. Penelope was diagnosed at 36 weeks, almost full term, so they skipped the treatment and went right for the cure: induction of labor. I was, yesterday, only 33 weeks, 4 days, so I knew if they diagnosed me with pre-e, the rest of my pregnancy would take a very different course than that which I’d planned — I’d probably be on bed rest until delivery.

I spent the last few days at work trying to get my work load in order so that my colleagues could take over if I had to leave suddenly. It’s funny: looking back over the last few days, I had a rational understanding that I might be put on bed rest, but I also had a contradictory confidence that this wouldn’t happen to me. I feel much better than Penelope did at the end of her pregnancy. My BP is fine. I don’t have any symptoms except for proteinuria, but I’ve had that since the first trimester, and so maybe that’s just some quirky personal trait.

Yesterday, Dr. Dalton ordered more labs. My uric acid is elevated, too, so that’s another symptom of pre-e. Doc says that’s enough for her to believe that if I don’t have full-blown pre-e yet, I’m “headed down that path” and she’s treating me as if I have it. That means an evaluation with the high risk OB-GYN specialist at DHMC, 3x weekly doctor’s appointments to monitor BP, weight, and urine, 2x weekly non stress tests, and ultrasounds to monitor fetal growth every 1-2 weeks. That’s a lot of obligations to heap on a gal’s plate, and then in the next breath tell her she’s not allowed to drive. My poor mother-in-law is now not just Hank’s daycare provider, but has also just become my personal chauffeur (to my shame).

-And yes, when I’m not at the doctor’s office, I’m on bed rest. I don’t know how I’ll manage, especially with Hank running around, urging me to play with him and take him on adventures.  We’ve tried to explain it to him, and he’s a bright kid, but he’s two. Hank’s not the biggest problem, though: the biggest problem is that I am as unserene as ever, and stillness is not a thing I do with any grace.

-C.

*As my mother so helpfully pointed out when I told her my diagnosis. Gee, thanks, Mum.

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Hank, trying to examine the Baby Person (with a flashlight).

 

Good Doc / Bad Doc?

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Remember at my first ultrasound they recommended I come back for another scan in ten days? Well, that was yesterday, and as promised, there was much more to see this time: not just a gestational sac and tiny circular yolk sac, but an actual, vaguely baby-shaped embryo whose flickering heartbeat was clearly visible. Yesterday’s fetal heart rate was a very respectable 152 bpm, and the embryo’s measurements were exactly where they should be for his/her gestational age (7 weeks, 1 day). All in all, the doctor was full of enthusiasm and sent us away feeling good, which in and of itself was kind of miraculous, given our rocky history with Dartmouth-Hitchcock’s reproductive endocrinology clinic.

Let me begin to explain that history by comparing and contrasting our experience yesterday with our previous experiences with early pregnancy sonograms at DHMC. First, yesterday’s doctor, Dr. Reindollar, was not our usual doctor. Usually, we see Dr. Porter. Or rather, I should say, usually we don’t see Dr. Porter, but nurses and other hospital staff let us know that she is keeping tabs on our case by telling us oh-so-encouraging things like, “Dr. Porter doesn’t mind if you switch from Clomid to Femara, but she doesn’t see the point.” (See my previous post on that subject, here.) Over the course of two years of fertility treatments and the conception of two babies, we’ve seen Dr. Porter in person three times: 1) She did a consult with us before Penelope began IVF; 2) She performed Penelope’s second IVF-transfer (she was on vacation during her first IVF cycle); and 3) She popped in to oversee my first ultrasound last month. On all three occasions, she spoke only to the patient, barely acknowledging the wife, and ducked in and out of the room as fast as she possibly could.

Penelope and I bitterly call Dr. Porter “Negative Nancy,” because she has a way of making even good news seem dire. She has a sort of pinched expression that comes across as judge-y, and a cagey, I-don’t-make-promises-I-can’t-keep style of studied noncommittal-ness — (I made up that word and don’t particularly like it: if you have a better suggestion, please leave a comment) — that means that even when she says something innocuous, like “Congratulations,” after my first ultrasound, what the patient hears is: “Yes, you’re pregnant now, but don’t get used to it: you’ll probably screw it up.”

By contrast, yesterday when Dr. Reindollar came into the ultrasound room, he walked right up to us, smiled in greeting (and the smile reached his eyes!), shook our hands and introduced himself to both of us, and said to me, “We spoke on the phone a few months ago,” — (about a genetic testing issue having to do with the donor sperm) — which I had totally forgotten. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life had a medical professional remember me when I did not remember him or her. How refreshing!

He asked about my pregnancy symptoms so far and narrated the ultrasound. Afterwards, he had us meet him in a consult room down the hall, where he told us that at this point, I have a better than 90% chance of carrying this baby to term (yay!), but also told me that he was a little bit concerned that my thyroid might be under-active, since my bloodwork in January 2010 and in March 2012 had both showed my TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone) levels to be on the very high edge of the normal range. (This was the first I’d heard of this, even though they’d had these results since January 2010!) He ordered another round of bloodwork to check my TSH levels again, and assured us that if there is a problem, it can easily be treated through medication, and I will probably get some relief for my fatigue and find it easier in future to manage my weight.
As we were waiting downstairs at the blood lab, Penelope and I marveled at what a difference bedside manner makes. Dr. Reindollar had told us about this potential medical issue in a way that gave us information, a plan for treatment, and which allayed our fears about how this thyroid condition (if it exists) will impact the pregnancy. We are sure that if Negative Nancy had been the doc on call for today’s ultrasound, she would have left us feeling like the sky was falling.
It is ironic that our very last appointment with DHMC’s Reproductive Endocrinology clinic — (because as of yesterday, I am cleared to pursue ordinary prenatal care with our family practitioner, and because, dollars-to-donuts, this will be our last baby) — was by far our most positive. Our trying-to-conceive journey there, for both babies, has been fraught with bad and worse interactions with the treatment providers: poor guidance about timing of ovulation that made us waste many, many IUI cycles; several medication mistakes; inability to schedule diagnostic tests which forced us to miss cycles; questions answered with misinformation or at least incomplete information; providing the wrong sized needles for Penelope’s IVF-medication injections, which led to weeks of unnecessary pain and bruising; a series of truly nightmarish early ultrasounds during Penelope’s pregnancy with Hank (I am still too emotional at the memory to be able to do that story justice in the telling, but I gave a thumbnail sketch of it here); inadequate information-sharing between DHMC and Penelope’s prenatal care doc that literally endangered Penelope’s and Hank’s lives during her pregnancy and delivery; and so many other, pettier headaches at almost every visit. I am jealous of friends and Sister-Wives in bigger cities who have their pick of RE clinics, because if it were not the only game in town, we would never have gone back to DHMC after our first few months of trying, and we would certainly never recommend it to friends trying to conceive. But it is the only game in town, and Dr. Reindollar, who is new there, might be its redemption.
-C.

That’s Great! Now What?

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A dear friend who, along with her partner, is awaiting the just-around-the-corner birth of their twin boys, just sent me this article, “Formerly Infertile,” from the current issue of FitPregnancy magazine. In it, Leslie Goldman expresses so eloquently what so many people feel after finally getting pregnant after months or years of fertility treatments. She writes, “I was certain the worry and pain of infertility would vanish — Poof! — the moment we got our positive result. Instead, my concerns simply shifted from ‘Will I ever get pregnant?’ to ‘Will this pregnancy last?’ “

Exactly. ExACTly.

The morning after I got my maddeningly faint second pink line on my home pregnancy test, I went to the hospital for a blood test to confirm the results. Then I went home and waited by the phone for two hours before the nurse called with the marvelous news that yes, indeed, I was pregnant. I cannot begin to describe the incredible mish-mash of emotions that Penelope and I were feeling in that moment, except to say that all of the happy, excited, thrilled positive emotions were matched and tempered (nearly even cancelled out, alas) by worry, anxiety, fear, and yes, even guilt. One of the Sister-Wives (my pet-name for the mothers of our son’s donor siblings, which I have written about previously here and here) was trying to conceive at the same time I was, and had just gotten her negative test a few days before I got my positive. Even though I had always known that odds were that one of us would succeed first, in that moment, a part of me was sorry, even guilty, that I was the lucky one. I hoped my success wouldn’t discourage her, as hers might have discouraged me (I’m ashamed to admit) had our roles been reversed.

After that first blood test, I had to go back to the hospital every forty-eight hours for repeat blood work to monitor my hCG levels. HCG levels should double every 48-72 hours in the early weeks of pregnancy, and so long as mine did that, I could be assured that this was not a chemical pregnancy and that things appeared to be progressing normally.

Yesterday was my last beta-hCG test. My hCG level had reached 1,500 mlU/mL, and the nurse who called to report my results said that was good enough to stop testing. “You must be relieved,” she said. “You must feel like a pin cushion by now.”

Actually, I told her, I’d happily submit to blood tests every day from now until the baby quickens, if they’d let me. I’m not a masochist — in fact, I have a healthy fear of needles, and I always close my eyes and think of my happy place when the phlebotomist comes near — but these beta tests are currently my only weather report for how things are going in there.

I have an ultrasound scheduled for Friday morning. We might even get to see the baby’s heartbeat, and once we see that, the risk of miscarriage drops precipitously. Even then, I doubt I’ll be able to relax. Goldman says this is normal for the formerly infertile: many of us “report heightened levels of fear and vigilance” throughout our pregnancies. It makes sense: cycle after cycle of failed treatments condition us to disappointment, make us too accustomed to failure and too suspicious of success.

Isn’t that the exact opposite of how it should be? After going through so much to get pregnant, haven’t we earned the right to smooth sailing through a happy and healthy pregnancy?

Of course it doesn’t work that way, so for now, and for the foreseeable future, I wait — though my two week wait is over — and I worry.

-C.

 

Wicked Busy

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I apologize for not posting in awhile. We’ve had an insanely busy few weeks, and the next few are bound to be just as crazy. We’re packing like mad to move, and still hoping to close on the new house by the end of the month (though the bank has not yet set a date). I will try to summarize, with pictures.

Hank likes to help pack. This is an appropriate box for him to choose, because no one ever kisses his face. Ever.

Hank’s big accomplishment of the last few weeks is that he’s had a potty-training breakthrough. After months and months of practice and hit-or-miss, he’s finally consistently telling us when he needs the potty — even when his pants are still dry. He’s now been in training pants during the day and diapers only at night for about a week, with very few minor mishaps, and we’re so proud of him. Now we’re working on advanced potty technique: standing up.

Wednesday afternoon, we met up with my Aunt and Uncle as they passed through on a cross-country road trip, at their friend Lori’s house at not-too-far-away Lake Morey. Hank loved splashing in the lake and studying the fish (minnows) that Uncle Rob caught and put in a bucket for him. (We released them unharmed.)

This past weekend we had a visit from my dad (Papa Chuck, to Hank), and we packed a ton of activity into a few short hours.

We went blueberry picking, which is insane for this time of year in Vermont: blueberry season usually doesn’t happen until August. The corn’s almost ready, too, also a month ahead of schedule. You can’t tell me there’s no such thing as global warming.

It’s been really, really hot and dry for weeks now. Hank’s been beating the heat by spending much of his time in the paddling pool in our front yard, eating pole beans and cherry tomatoes and sugar snap peas right out of the garden. However, the paddling pool is too small to share, so after blueberry picking, we gathered our suits and towels and headed for the local swimming pond. Pictured above: Papa Chuck and Hank compare their hands after a refreshing dip.

Finally, yesterday afternoon we went down to Massachusetts to meet up with one of Hank’s donor siblings and his mama. They usually live down in Georgia, but were visiting family in MA, so we met up at the Magic Wings Butterfly Conservatory. I won’t share any pictures from that introduction because it wouldn’t be kosher to post photos of other people’s kids without permission, so you’ll just have to take my word for the fact that the resemblance is a little spooky, especially around the eyes. There was one point when the boys were running side-by-side, and though they don’t share the same build at all (Hank’s sturdy, while the other child is lean and lanky), they had exactly the same gait, the same funny wiggle to their run. The mamas didn’t get too much time to talk (what with all the toddler chasing, and the fact that both boys were overtired having had sub-par naps), but it was great to make that connection in person.

-C.

Gratitude for the Sister-Wives

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A few months ago, I wrote this post about discovering other families who have conceived using the same anonymous sperm donor we used to conceive Hank. At the time, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of Hank’s donor siblings (and there have been two new additions since then!) and a bit wary about whether and how deeply we wanted to get involved with this group of mamas. (Because, as I noted in my last post on the subject, we are all Mamas — either lesbian couples or single mothers by choice. This is true even of the two new families.)

I still have my worries about the number of kids/families, and part of me worries that perhaps it should have been Hank’s choice to seek out his donor siblings when the time came, and not mine, but now that the connection is made, I am finding myself growing more grateful for these women, this community, every day.

Our donor is Mormon–though not practicing, I presume, since I’m pretty sure the Mormon faith frowns on sperm donation–and Penelope and I jokingly call the other mamas our “sister-wives”, since, like the sister wives in a polygamous family, we all have babies by the same man. This is a surprisingly intimate connection, though we’ve never yet met in person. It is hard not to feel a sense of kinship with this group of women whose life paths and choices are so similar to our own, and who are raising children so similar to our own little guy. As a first-time parent, it is wonderfully reassuring to have a group of parents we can reach out to when Hank develops a new habit or enters a new developmental stage, to ask “Is this normal?” It is fascinating, as this cadre of half-siblings age out of infancy into toddlerhood and beyond, to spot new traits that must surely be inherited from the donor rather than the mamas, shared as they are between kids being raised in different states by different mothers in different circumstances. It is entertaining to share pictures and videos of our adorable offspring, as proud mamas are wont to do, and find such an appreciative audience. While I’m sure many of my Facebook friends from high school and college and the job I had for a year before law school must get dreadfully tired of the endless updates I share about Hank, the Sister-Wives respond with the enthusiasm of a score of proud aunties, because Hank’s adorableness reflects upon them and upon their adorable babies, too. Having a growing connection to these donor families helps to fill the void of all that we don’t know about the donor, about the other half of our son’s genetic history.

Lately, I am finding myself most grateful for this group of Sister-Wives because, like me, they have all been on the emotional roller coaster that is trying to conceive a child by artificial methods. There are tons of resources and communities online for families trying to conceive–millions of blogs, dozens of sites like Babycenter.com, sites with medical advice and information on various fertility treatments–but nothing connects as personally to my experience as the community I have found among the other donor mamas. Most people struggling with infertility are traditional heterosexual couples who are trying to get pregnant “the old fashioned way.” Maybe they need fertility drugs or treatment of various medical conditions, but mostly the medical interventions they need to conceive are nothing at all like the entirely clinical process by which my baby will be conceived. I don’t mean to minimize the struggles of these heterosexual couples in any way, because I’m sure they are just as significant as my own; I only mean that it is sometimes hard for me to relate to these people when our experiences are so different. -Not so with the Sister-Wives: they have stood in my shoes and fought the same battles. Several of them, like me, are trying to conceive a second baby, and so there is a sense that we are all in this together. They have advice and comfort and sympathy that resonates more deeply than the well-intentioned but occasionally-unhelpful support offered by even my dearest friends and closest relations.

In short, these women are wonderful, and I am so grateful to have found them.

-C.