I'd like to announce my candidacy for Motherhood in 2011

I called a press conference and no one came, so here is how it would have gone down if anyone had really cared to hear it....

AP: Roccie.  You announced you are back in the running for Motherhood in 2011.  Isn't this a misnomer?

Roccie: Yes, in some ways it is.  I am actually running for another term of Motherhood.  I have a daughter that lives with me.  I also have a daughter who died in my 24th week of pregnancy that I would rather not discuss.

AP: Exactly.  Hey, Roccie.  What is with all the anger in your last post?  Help us to reconcile your message of hope posted only minutes before a fuck-laden rant about something that happened long ago... 

Roccie: (interrupts) I will reduce my swear words in the new year as part of my campaign.

AP:  Why are you coming out now about a pregnancy loss that was well before our time? 

Roccie:  I blame the hope addict in me.  I published a post about hope and it felt saccharine sweet to me.  Anyone who knows me in real life would never call me "sweet".  I wanted to tell the people Hope isn't a pile of bullshit on the shelf at Hallmark.  I wanted to tell them I have seen the bottom and I didn't care if I crawled my way out or not.  Anyone who has ever posted something about feeling down has felt the wrath of my 4 page comment.

AP:  But Roccie, I was just having a bad hair day in that post and you took it all heavy and shit...

Roccie: (interrupts)  There are a couple hot buttons for me - hope and pain.  They cannot be separated.  I just wish I was a good writer.  I wish I could pull out of my head all of the encouragement I have for everyone.

I am the Real Deal.  I was living a shit show and I occasionally still struggle with it.  My hope is that you might read what happened to me, see where I am now, and make a plan to build hope for yourself too.

It is an ugly story, but sadly I know someone else will find herself in the same place.  This story isn't for me anymore.  In fact, I probably wont tell it here, but at Band Back Together where it can be searched and found.

I was not sure I wanted to tell you at all.  The post about the ultrasound sat in draft since spring of this year.  I read a post from Adele and it talked about my sticker.  Word for word what I had written.  It was a sign.  I wanted to comment about it, but I could not.  I was still in the closet about my loss.  My actual comment is wan and thin; digging for humor because it ripped a scab right off my heart.

I don't want to dwell on it.  This loss doesn't define me, but it did for a very long time.

I thought you should know I lost a pregnancy in my 23rd week and 6th day.

I will keep the Dark Ages below the surface.  That is where it always is, just under every conscious moment of every single day.

You want hope?

Guess who starts Lupron this weekend?

This Old Momma.

Painful memories. Believe in hope.

During an ultrasound, I asked the doctor how the baby's feet looked.  They were not showing up to my untrained eye on the screen. 

She looked at me and coolly said, "Are you afraid your baby doesn't have feet?"  

(Long pause.)  

"Someone has been on the internet too much," she said.

No, you rotten fucking bitch.  I wanted to know if the feet were rocker bottom.  Club feet.  Like my first daughter.  Who was still born.

If you cannot remember who I am, then put a mother fucking sticker on my chart to remember that my first baby died.

Instead, I just looked away and cried.

The return of the Hope Addict

I have been on the wagon for about a month now.  

I manage my hope.  I sip from it only on occasion.  Gone are the two day benders where I gorge myself on hope.

My friend Pumpkin is an enabler.  Pumpkin nominated me for an award about hope.  I think it is the best encouragement we could all get.  

Look where all that bullshit hope got me - this side of happy.  Dammit, it feels so good to be happy after a long fucking ride of misery.  Stories I haven't even told.

Honestly, the first time I was nominated for something, I thought the person might be making fun of me.  I went by her house and thanked her for the attention.  I had another one of my shit shows going when she gave it to me.  I needed it.

We blog for ourselves and for anyone who can be bothered to read it.

This hope award is about encouragement.

This is how the encouragement business works: you just never know how badly someone might savor your comment.  Hell, I have a few comments memorized.  More than a few of you are a part of my history and I couldn't pick you out of a crowd of two.

Please drop by these award winning hope mongers and tell them they are not alone:

1. Melanie at Falling in Hope
   
   This post does it for me.
   
   (Holy shit, I didn't remember this was the name of her blog.  Nice one.)
   
   
2. Andi at minimenow
   
   Please drop Andi some encouragement and invite her to come back to posting soon.
   
   
3. The Unknown Reader.
   
   Are you a reader on a blog where you don't comment?  I can't add your link.
   
   This is just a place holder where I wanted to put your blog.  It took me less than 2 minutes to create it.  Go ahead,  create your own.
   
   If you are up for it, please leave your comment here or some other blog where you feel more at home.  Anonymous, this means you too.
   
   My guess is that your hope will explode with a little more exchange.

Thank you Pumpkin.  I hope you are well.  Bonne nuit.

Third time is a charm

And she is ours!  

Donor: approved.

Are you ready for this?  She is available immediately.  

I might be a Cycle Sista as early as November, or December at the latest.  My expectations had been set for January.  Funny how just a couple months can seem like eons.

Guess who ate a birth control pill last night?  This Old Momma!

Holy shirt.  Here we go.

Rejection: redefined

I am on the edge of my donor loving seat.

I had a feeling it would be hard to pick a donor.  I have outrageous expectations for everything.

I wouldn't call myself a perfectionist because my house is trashed, I could drop a few pounds, my dogs are disobedient and the list goes on.  Rocco tells me my expectations hurt me and hurt others as it sets everyone up for failure.

My initial donor requirements:

1. Tall.
   
   I am 5'9".
   
   
2. Not blonde hair, but dark hair.
   
   Easy to understand.
   
   
3. Caucasian.
   
   Avoid jokes about the postman.
   
   
4. Try really hard to find a previous donor.
   
   Do this to please RE as she said this is The Most Important Thing Ever.
   
   
5. Smart. 
   
   I graduated from school with honors (but it was no Big Ten, let me assure you this).
   

My final donor requirements:

1. Previous donor.
2. Mostly white girl.

Let me tell you, picking a donor was nothing like I thought it would be when I was a little girl. 

You start with all these gorgeous young women.  You read and let yourself get a little closer to them.  Yeah, she hasn't donated before but LOOK at her.  She is smart, sweet and pretty and everything I wish I could be.

Once you waste hours looking at these women, you remember the #1 piece of advice your RE gave you: Proven Donor.  You start over.  The pool to choose from is RADICALLY limited.  I am talking an 85% reduction in purchasing power.

I find Donor #1.  After some ups and downs, we submit her for approval by my RE.  I feel confident I am selecting on the right criteria.  She doesn't look much like me, but I offer it up as a sacrifice.  She has three cycles with Large Fertility Operation (LFO) under her belt.  They approve of her.

Bang.  Rejected by my RE.  Good enough for LFO doesn't mean good enough for my RE.

Donor #1 was rejected by my RE.  Donor #2 rejected by us as donor didn't stand a chance with my RE if #1 was cut.  Dang people, if donors had rejected me, you would have been re-assembling my heart.  Don't give me credit that I could survive this with a bullshit "Peace" mantra.

We are staying with LFO and not going to CCRM.  Honestly, if money were not an issue (it is) and we could travel easily (we can't) we would be at CCRM.  That place is like freaking Oz.  We are already in debt.  I am not prepared to compromise my time with Little One from IVF#2.

My RE at LFO told me her success rate was 90% this year.  She knows Rocco and me, she knows my body and she will make this happen.  My RE told me not to fall in love with a donor until she told me it was okay.  Damn, she is tough and I am grateful.

I love my RE and I believe in her.  She will make this happen.  I will accept her rejections and follow her direction.

90%.  Slam dunk.  I cannot entertain the thought of "Famous Last Words".  My heart aches and aches for those who have been down the path of donor eggs and left empty handed.  I just cannot put into thought, sound or print the possibility of anything other than success.  I hope my words do not hurt you.  I gotta be this way and I believe you will understand.

Donor #3 was submitted to our RE on Friday last week.  She may be approved tomorrow.  

I love her so bad I cannot see straight.  Oops. 

Thank you for your comments lately.  You know how much they mean.

Why posts shouldn't sit in draft

Roller coaster!  Woo hoo, hoo hoo hoo!

I wrote this last post in draft night but it is all null and void.

We picked a donor.  I got buyer's remorse.  I feel back in love with my donor.  I started composing my thank you letter to her in my head during my spare moments.  She was the great love of my life.

Crap.

Rejected.

What.


She did her last 3 cycles at Large Fertility Operation, where my doctor lives.  Isn't there some kind of gimme rule?  I LOVE her.  I swear I saw her down on Waveland last weekend.  The donor is good enough for LFO, but not good enough for my RE.

Since the rejection, she has been replaced.  I feel in love again.  Then #2 love of my life was a preemptive reject.  Slow this shit DOWN.  Looking at the numbers, we decide our RE will not approve her either.

Ah... but Number Three.  I swear.  I think she is The One.

We are not in control.  I get it.

Old post that doesn't really matter anymore, just for a laugh: 

Sometimes I struggle with the commitment to our donor.  What if someone better comes.  Someone who looks more like me.  Someone who makes more eggs.  Better eggs. Faster eggs.  Okay, so faster doesn't count.

Rational minds say: a couple's genetics cannot turn out the same baby more than once.  Conceptually, I know this.  Rocco and I could never make another like the little we have now.  Adding a donor is just another variable.

Peace.  Peace.  Peace.  Repeat until at peace.

http://www.carolinanadel.com/DonorEgg/index.html

Youth is wasted on the young

Exactly when the fuck did I get so old that this makes sense to me?

I had a brilliant weekend.  I went into the city to see my lover, Dave Matthews.  Yes, I know saying you like Dave is like saying you like sunshine, summer or vacation: not incredibly complex.  But for me, the love goes deep.  And dirty... if he would only take me up on it.

Anyhow, I left the city for the NW suburbs 5+ years ago after living downtown since 1993.  Ah, what a life I had.  It seems like I have lived 2-3 lifetimes.  Some are great, some are shady and some seem like they belong to someone else.  That girl was fun.

The buzz of the crowd pressing into Wrigley was amazing.

You know what I thought of the whole damn time?

Donors.

I saw darling, DARLING young women.  Oh, the youth!

Was it that beautiful when it was mine?

I wanted to grab them and tell them not to worry about the little stuff.  If he is an ass: leave him.  If it is a bikini: wear it.  If you want to tour The Far East: hurry up.  The outfit a little funky: wear it and rock it.

I am so grateful to be a part of all this.