Got out of bed
Put my sweats on and hit the gym.
Ok, so my day doesn’t work quite as well as “A Day in the Life.” It definitely isn’t as lyrical.
First day back at the gym in two weeks. One should not lose that much ground in so short a time. I managed to run my two laps with Shannon and walk the rest of my mile. I managed to increase my sets to 10 reps instead of 8. I also realized that perhaps the morning after an evening of deep tissue massage may not have been the best time to go back to the Y. I can say with some sense of pride (not too much…you’ll notice I won’t put the AMOUNT here…) that since getting out of the hospital I have not gained any weight and given that I never gained more than a couple of pounds while I was pregnant and came out of the hospital almost 20 pounds lighter than when I went in, I’m not doing too bad scale-wise. I have finally regained my ability to do sit-ups, which I couldn’t do at all when I first got back to the gym a couple of months ago. I’m still struggling with leg lifts, but I hate them, don’t do them as often as I should, so that’s understandable.
The last of the pregnancy hormone rush seems to have left the building though and the PCOS fun starts again. My hair, which had started to fill back out so nicely, is falling out in handfuls. The complexion which had cleared up so beautifully…now, not so much. I hadn’t held out much hope that pregnancy would “reset” things, but it would have been nice if I could have kept my hair.
Events I’d been dreading are starting to come around. The co-worker whose daughter got pregnant at the same time as me is in labor as we speak. One of Shannon’s co-workers is also due pretty much any day. Next week is my official due date. We probably would have been getting ready to bring Zoë home from the NICU. Instead, I’ll be taking the fourth line of birth control pills in the pack and wondering if it’s a bad idea to eat a second pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Or, I’ll be a huddled, sobbing lump in the corner of the room. These milestone dates seem to hit just as I start to get a handle on things. I’d actually managed to go a few days without always having those thoughts in the back of my brain. I’d started to feel like I was getting over that hump after so many long weeks. I could say their names without my voice breaking. I could go in the third bedroom without feeling like I’d been hit in the stomach. I’d stopped remembering how many weeks along I should have been. Hell, I’d even made it through a few Thursdays. Not so much right now. I need a time machine so I can just fast-forward about 10 days, so I can just pretend next week doesn’t even exist.
Soon we’ll be getting the notice from the clinic that our first year of embryo storage is up and we’ll have to start thinking about what to do. I should probably call Dr. N and go in for a consultation. I’ve sort of been putting off scheduling one because while I was in the hospital, my perinatologist mentioned that he thought he’d heard that she was pregnant. I’m not sure which I dread more…calling and being told that she’s out on maternity leave or getting in to see her while she’s pregnant. I’d sort of prefer to not ever have it confirmed one way or the other. Even if we do try again, and one of my questions is whether our remaining embryos are of good enough quality to make a FET worthwhile since we can only transfer one at a time now or whether we should just do another IVF, I keep looking at the calendar. We’re almost to the point where, if we were lucky and it worked, I’d be pregnant at almost the same time of year. I’m not sure how I feel about that. There are so many conflicting things…my age…we’re preparing a move to a different state within the next 18 months…am I physically ready for this (that’s a whole other set of consultations with doctors)…am I mentally/emotionally ready to try again (I think so. I don’t feel like I’m trying to replace the children I lost with others, or that I’m trying to fill a hole. I KNOW that hole will always be there and no one would ever replace my Sweet Zoë and Lennox. But we now know just how incomplete our family is and I don’t want to miss out on that any longer.) It’s been a long 15 weeks since Zoë died. Four months. So very long and so very short a time. These are the thoughts that circle in my brain like so many sharks. What if what if what if.