A New Chapter Begins

Flashback: October 29^th, 2013. I had recently finished another IVF cycle. Our third.

My husband, let’s call him RH, and I were sitting in the office of Dr. Taylor, our fertility doctor. It was a sunny but cool day. It was warm inside Dr. Taylor’s office, though. Too warm. I hadn’t taken my winter jacket off, though I opened the front zipper. The sun was streaming through the glass wall. The warmth reminded me of siesta time when I was a little girl in the Philippines. The warmth felt very familiar and so was the disappointment.

Two weeks before our visit with Dr. Taylor, the verdict was in. The pregnancy test was negative. Again. I should say this was not a surprise. Based on our experience in the first and second IVF cycles, my ovaries were not responding well. A higher dosage was prescribed in the third IVF cycle but the number of ova or egg cells was still quite measly. This confirmed my suspicion that I have very low ovarian reserve. It’s not rocket science really. I was 40 then and I just turned 41 January of this year. What did I expect?

RH and I have always liked Dr. Taylor. An intelligent woman with a gift in making complex concepts easy to understand, she has always been honest and open with us. Whenever we asked a question that she didn’t know the answer to, she told us. Like the other doctors, nurses, and staff in that fertility clinic, Dr. Taylor has shown us great compassion and empathy throughout our whole journey. Most of all she has always been very patient with us. My husband and I are probably some of the geekiest patients Dr. Taylor has ever encountered. We would ask her about the veracity of the information we have researched on our own. We sought her opinion and respected her insights. I think that she might have enjoyed our geekiness a little! She wrote a blog (aptly entitled "Stats 101") that included RH’s probability computation.

Dr. Taylor’s recommendation was for us to seriously consider an egg donor program. Essentially, this means using another woman’s (a younger woman’s) eggs. Using RH’s sperm, an embryo will be later transferred to my uterus. In some circumstances, a family member or a close friend could potentially donate eggs to an infertile woman. R and I don’t know anyone who could do that for us. I mean, I have friends and relatives in the Philippines who would probably offer us their ova. Or at least, consider it. But they are on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. It’s just not logistically possible. Since buying and selling ova is not allowed in Canada, our best option was to go to a fertility clinic in Seattle.

As Dr. Taylor was handing us the brochures of possible clinics in Seattle, I burst into tears! RH held my left hand and squeezed it tight.

“It’s okay,” he assured me. “We’ll try again, Sweetie,” 

“I know,” I replied while wiping my nose. “That’s not why I’m crying.”  

Dr. Taylor and RH looked at me kindly but with perplexed looks on their faces. They probably thought I was devastated by the failure of yet another IVF cycle. I had accepted that fact. I was ready to move on to the next chapter. I was crying because I was going to miss the people at the clinic!

Humor and Infertility

In infertility, negative feelings is often part of the territory. Humor makes difficult feelings easier to deal with. In an older post, I wrote about some things Filipinos say to their Fertility-challenged friends and family to express my anger in a safe way. I don't support violence, if I can help it. ;)

Many well-meaning friends and family members, in an effort to make me feel better, say hurtful and insensitive things that reflect their lack of awareness of infertility. The worse thing is that I was starting to get really angry at myself for not correcting these misconceptions and for not speaking up. I decided to write the post I mentioned above to prepare and empower myself to deal with situations like these.

What started out as an expression of anger turned out to be an enjoyable exercise! I crafted responses that were in turn tongue in cheek, bitchy, and outright silly.

Yesterday, I re-discovered this funny video (below) by fenneladasgupta. I first saw this about a year ago and I fell on my chair laughing!

Nothing beats humor. Enjoy!

 
Full disclosure: I have to say that before I experienced infertility, I probably said (or at least thought) some of these remarks and assumptions.

Needlework

Saturday, August 31st. I started my needlework. I don’t mean the embroidery, quilting, or knitting sort of needlework. I mean the kind required in IVF treatment. I’m not a big fan of injections. When I was a little girl, many grown-ups wheedled (okay, threatened) their children into behaving by saying that if they didn’t they would be taken to the doctor for an injection. I guess this is the Filipino version of the boogeyman. I don’t recall my own parents using this tactic on me or my brother but somehow the sight of other children crying during vaccination time instilled the long-lasting fear of injections in me.

About the same time I started my needlework, I wrote to my friends back home how I’ve been quite preoccupied partly because of my injections. For the first five days, it was one injection in the morning and two at night. (Day 5, there were four!) The remaining six days, it’s two in the morning and one at night. Truth be told, I was probably unconsciously fishing for sympathy and some “cheerleading.” I only realize this after their encouraging and very supportive responses. Several “You can do it!” and a “We admire your courage!” came back.

Hhhmmm. Courage. I never thought of myself as particularly being courageous in going through IVF treatment. I basked in all this positive attention but didn’t make any reply immediately.  I wanted to reflect a little bit more about this courage thing. I thought, well, the needles are actually quite small and it’s not that bad really. Early morning of the fifth day of injections, my husband and I drove to the lab. Then I thought “okay yeah. Maybe it takes a little bit of courage.” Especially for a needle non-fan and total pain wimp like me. After all, it’s not just the 3 times daily injections I have to do. There are the needles needed to take the blood test on the fifth day of injections and every two days after that. Then there’s the egg retrieval two days after the final injections . I won’t go into the details of this process for fear of scaring the wits out of some of my friends. (The curious ones can google it.) Suffice it to say that in “harvesting” the ova a needle is used to aspirate the follicles in both ovaries. Before I went through my first IVF attempt in December last year, reading the description of this process totally freaked me out. I mean, my ovaries may not be fertile but my imagination is! The actual procedure, as I experienced it months ago, wasn’t really that bad though. In fact, whatever drugs I got (as sedatives or anesthesia) made me feel relaxed. I just felt so gooood that it seemed like I have love for for all the citizens of the Earth and maybe some left over for citizens in other planets. So I’m hoping it will be a similar experience next week.   

My brother refers to my IVF injections with the Tagalog word “turok” (pronounced TWO-rook) which essentially means to pierce with a needle. In Cebuano, which is our first language, “turok” (pronounced two-RUK, emphasis on the second syllable) means to grow, sprout or develop. Being the word geek that I am, the different meanings of these almost-identical words is not lost on me.

Perhaps JD was right. I have courage. Even if it’s just a little bit. But mostly, I think I am strong in my resolve to go through the “turok” of the needles so that life can “turok” and grow successfully in my womb. 

My doctor once said that IVF is not just science. It’s also an art. 

Yup. Like embroidery, quilting, knitting and other forms of needlework.

NOTE: And... just because I’m a total geek. I will leave this footnote. Tagalog and Cebuano are among two of over a hundred of languages of the Philippines.

My Nanay

(This piece was written to remember my mother, Rufina, on what would have been her 77th birthday.)

Mom, Morsa, Mutter, Ahm, Maman, Mama. Children around the world call their mothers by a variety of names. I called mine Nanay. I like the word “nanay.” How it sounds, how the word rolls off my tongue easily, how comforting it sounds. Growing up in Cebu, “mama” was more common among my peers. I proudly called my mother “nanay.” Because it was not as common as “mama,” I have always felt it was unique. As unique as my mother.

Nanay grew up in a mountain village in the southwestern part of our island, Cebu, in the Philippines. Her parents were farmers who worked hard to feed their eleven children. Nanay was quick, intelligent, and determined. She was class valedictorian when she completed her elementary education. Nanay had a dream. She wanted to go to high school and then study to become a nurse. But at that time, women did not go to high school or university. In those days, women got married, raised children, and took care of their husbands. Of what possible use would more education be?

In our family, Nanay’s kindness and generosity were well-known. During family gatherings, my aunts and uncles would comment on how Nanay would give the shirt off her back if you need it. Or how, when she had nothing more to give, she would borrow from one to give to the other. This last comment said with a tone of disdain by some; but, often it was said in admiration for her altruism.

It was this selflessness that both baffled and annoyed me especially as a teen-ager. At that time, I was starting to learn about individuality. I was critical of Nanay’s self-sacrifice even when it was for my benefit. I remember telling her, not too kindly, that a woman is first her own person before being a wife and mother. Had she not heard of women’s liberation? Had she not heard of feminism? Why was she allowing herself to be oppressed? Could she not free herself from the shackles of our patriarchal society? These were haughty and arrogant words I said to my mother. Hurting words that I regret now.  

I never really understood Nanay’s selflessness. Though I have to say that I may have had a little glimpse of it a few months ago when it was clear that my husband and I would have to go through the more complex and involved fertility treatment that is IVF. Needles and physical pain have never been my cup of tea. One time, as I was sitting on the skytrain, on the way home from the fertility clinic, I was struck with a thought. I realized that I was now willing to go through all the unpleasant, painful, difficult, intrusive processes for a chance to have a child. Could this potentially be a budding maternal selflessness?  

Just as Nanay was known for her intelligence, determination, her kindness and generosity, her beauty was legendary. When, as an adult, I had the chance to meet people who knew my mother in her youth, they would invariably say how beautiful she was. They would mention how, for five consecutive years, Nanay played Mary during the Sugat or the annual Easter Sunday pageant. Being the mother of Jesus is a plum role reserved only for women who not only exude beauty but embody integrity.

One time, when I was a school girl, I invited a couple of classmates over to my house. Our small living room was filled with framed photos. My friends saw a photo of a young beautiful woman. Who is that very beautiful woman, one asked. My Nanay, I answered.  Then she said: “Liwat di-ay ka sa imong Tatay.” (You must take after your father.) I was speechless for a second but retorted with mock anger: “Hey, do you still want to be my friend or not?” We had a good laugh after. Though her remark stung a little bit, I know what she said was true.

I know I’m not as physically beautiful as Nanay was. I know I will never be as generous of spirit and kind as she was. Yes, I still don’t fully grasp what it means to be totally and unabashedly selfless. But amidst all these challenges of wanting to have a child, I have had a glimpse of Nanay’s selflessness. And maybe for now, that is enough for me.    

Happy Un-mother’s Day!

Today is Mother’s Day. 

I think that aside from Christmas, Mother’s Day is the other holiday when it can be difficult for women with fertility issues. It’s best to avoid reading your former high school classmates’ Facebook status updates about their children giving them Mother’s Day cards, flowers or breakfast in bed. It almost seemed like there is a competition for the “aaawww, how sweet” factor. It started getting depressing. For me, yes. Not to them, of course.

I thought it best to be kick-ass about the situation. SO I wrote this as my status update:

I think that as a society we should seriously reconsider our definition of motherhood to include all women who have nurtured us and cared for us. They may not have their own children but they have conceived many ideas and thoughts that made a difference in our lives. They have given birth to beautiful works of art. Their kindness and spirit gave birth to our new and renewed selves. So as I think of my own Nanay (mother), I also think of the many important and childless women in my life, Aunt Anne, Aunt Flor, my cousin Myrna, my former teachers – Ms. Ba-ad, Ms. Abellon, Ms. Esmero, the nuns in my school – Sr. Myrna, Sr. Julia, Sr. Godfreda. I say to you: Happy Mother's Day! You have contributed to the woman I am today.    

Friends and former students sent greetings to me which was reassuring. Just as I was preparing to write this journal, I got a heartwarming message from my 16-year old stepdaughter. 

Just wanted to say happy Mother's Day!  You truly are an inspirational person, with your free spirit, thoughtfulness, warmness and creativity! You don't have to give birth to someone to be a mother for sure because you give me so much guidance and more! And you don't have to fit the role of a stereotypical mother either! Just keep being you and that's enough for me. 

Xoxo 

Well. That wasn’t too bad for my un-Mother’s Day. 

Writing Again

It’s been over a month since I last wrote anything on this blog.

There are several reasons for that. I’ve been really busy and preoccupied with a lot of other things not related to my fertility issue. In a way, this is good. Instead of wringing my hands and worrying about every little thing about the fertility treatment, I have put my time, effort and emotion into worthwhile projects. Since the unsuccessful superovulation process last September and the IUI had to be cancelled, I have been in a sort of “fallow” period. I had a hysteroscopy done at the clinic last week and I have started on the Estrace tablets several days ago. The more involved processes of IVF will begin later in the month for me. So my mind has been free to wander and dwell on other things. This break has been great for me and my psyche. To gather my strength for the long haul coming up, to recharge my batteries so to speak.

The other reason why I haven’t written is that I hate writing. I know, I know. This might surprise you since here I am writing. I read somewhere about a famous writer once saying that she (or he) hates the process writing but absolutely love the feeling of having written. I am not famous; nor do I really consider myself a writer but I definitely share the sentiment of this person. I have always had real challenges starting essays, reports, term papers in school.  This is not limited to academic paper. I feel the same with creative writing stuff like stories or poetry. I have to push myself – hard – to just sit down and type away. To just express ideas, thread words and sentences together and not mind the critical voice editing words I have not even said yet. But I do love the feeling of having written, especially something that is meaningful and relevant to me. It makes me feel happy, like I have accomplished something.

I can also be obsessed with expressing things in a certain way. I am continuing to learn that sometimes it’s much easier to let my stories, thoughts and ideas unravel in an organic way. To not necessarily stick to the outlines I have crafted. To let emotions unfold naturally without striving to be wise and witty or snarky and bitchy or funny and hilarious ALL the time.

So in the next few hours (or maybe days or weeks!), I hope to explore my thoughts and feelings on “coming out” of the infertility closet, the perspective of the Catholic Church on IVF, and the people who have supported and nourished me in this journey.

Preggers, eh?

Sitting in a café one afternoon, I heard someone call my name. I turned to see an acquaintance I first met in a fitness class.

“Oh my God, Sara, it’s been ages since we last saw each other,” she gushed. I smiled. I just wanted to be alone at that moment. Alone with my book, wanting to escape to a fictional universe, where my problems are locked away in the real world.

“How are you?” The acquaintance (I refuse to call her my friend) continued with her signature high-pitch, cheerful, saccharine sweet voice.

“Not bad,” I replied and shrugged. She stepped back and looked at me up and down, not unlike a judge would look at a cow in a country fair.

“Oh, Sara, don’t tell me….” she had an expression like she just heard she was announced winner of a beauty pageant. “Sara, are you pregnant?” Then she shrieked! I thought this was getting to be too much. She was getting on my nerves but still I continued to smile and act diplomatic.

“Oh, no, I’m not pregnant. I wish! It’s just food baby. Har Har!” I rambled on, a mix of emotion simmering inside me.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Then an awkward silence as both of us stood there. “Well,” the acquaintance was back to her cheerful self, “I better get going. My latte is getting cold.”

“It is.” I said with just a little bit of sarcasm. She said her goodbye and walked away. I sat down feeling deflated. Maybe I should have told her that I don’t look as fit and slim as she was because I’ve been lounging in my couch the past week depressed that our first attempt with fertility treatment didn’t work. That I have been loafing around in my house in my pajamas watching the boob tube for days on end or sleeping during the day because I can’t sleep at night.  That I have been eating lots of cookies, cakes and chips hoping, but not succeeding, to feel better. That I haven’t been exercising because I don’t really see the point anymore. This getting pregnant business is way harder than it seemed. Why do many women I know seem to just get pregnant without any trouble? I just want to crawl into a deep dark cave and stay there. But I did not. That day, I forced myself to take a shower and change and get out of the house to hopefully get out of my self-aggravated misery.

Yup, I should have told her all of that. I should have at least told her that to ask an infertile woman who has been trying hard to conceive if she was pregnant felt like a cruel joke. But somehow everything went too fast for me to give a thoughtful response.

And her latte was getting cold.