There's no time like the first time: Mo's perspective

I woke up early this morning and was partially dressed for the gym before I realized that I was supposed to get bloodwork at the RE's office to confirm my ovulation.

I had completely forgotten.

What a difference a year makes. A little over a year ago, Will and I were anxiously preoccupied with every detail of our first (and we were certain, last) IVF cycle. A little over a year ago, we were breathless with anticipation, buoyed with hope and confidence that scientific technology would make conception a breeze. A little over a year ago, there is no chance I would have "forgotten" to go in for a blood draw.

I realized after we posted last night that yesterday marked the one year anniversary of our entire world coming apart. Nov. 9, 2007 was the date of my D&C that marked the abrupt end of our first pregnancy. It is hard now to imagine the naivete, the head-over-heels eagerness we felt during that pregnancy. Our RE had warned us repeatedly "Don't get excited yet" so many times that I began asking at each ultrasound "Can we get excited now?" Finally he said yes and sent us off to the OB. We were flying high, filled with a sense of certainty that all would go as it should. That world came crashing down when the OB was unable to find the heartbeat and told us that the baby had died. It ushered in a new era in our relationship. One that left me weeping - big gasping animal-like sobs - for the next few weeks and that left Will also grieving, albeit more quietly, and unsure how to calm or comfort his sudden wreck of a wife.

It is striking to realize the vast emotional distance traveled between a year ago and today. Will and I are chastened, forever changed by our experience. Although I can't predict how I will react should I find myself pregnant again in the future, I know that our excitement will be greatly tempered by a visceral understanding of all that can go wrong, of the thousand treacherous miles that lay between conception and holding an actual live baby in our arms.

So I sat this morning in the RE's waiting area, a long rectangular room filled with well-heeled women that always reminds me of some kind of female airplane terminal, shaking my head that I had changed so much in a year.

And then I started wondering, could there be some upsides to this new way of being? Maybe it's not so bad that I "forgot" my blood draw, only remembering it as an afterthought this morning. I DID get there after all. And it's certainly easier on my nerves that I'm feeling more detached. We are having trouble with our insurance and it is unclear how long the pre-authorization process will take so that I can get the lupron I expect to start injecting on Wednesday. Is this causing me the faintest whiff of anxiety? Not really. I am just barely walking myself through the motions of following up - again - with the RE's insurance specialist. I figure something will work out. Or not.

Call it not sweating the small stuff or call it pathological numbness. But it's less of a roller coaster for sure.

Mo

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