My intermission and revival

So I took a break from actively trying to conceive for a few months. If I didn’t I was bound to lose what little sanity I had left.  I, to put it bluntly, have a tendency to obsess over things. Music, bagels, fictional characters- I can fixate on anything.  Trying to have a child has been the dominant obsession of mine since 2014.  Then I conceived and I thought I could finally obsess over a baby.  Tiny shoes and outfits- something tangible and cute and way healthier to dwell on. Then I miscarried, and I not only became obsessed over my miscarriage, I threw myself back into the world of trying to conceive too quickly.  I was angry and bitter and just not someone pleasant to be around for a long time.  So I took a few months off and decided to revert back into a safe and harmless obsession: TV shows.

Some of you obsess about sports; I like good TV.  With the gift that is Netflix I was able to binge watch my favorite TV show.  I immersed myself in the world of Supernatural (by far my favorite TV show ever) which occupied quite a chunk of time as there are ten season on Netflix, and the eleventh was currently finishing it’s course on the CW. Two brothers- Saving people, hunting things. The family business.  It’s one of the few shows that you can watch where there won’t be a surprise pregnancy thrown at you, or a character struggling with infertility.  Demons, ghosts, Lucifer and God- sure; infertility, nope.  It’s a good show to just forget about the real world for a while.  (No, I was not paid to advertise this show for the CW- I’d pitch for my boys for free). I also watched Sherlock– holy crap, it’s good, go watch.

After a few months regaining my sanity (how weird that watching a show predominately featuring hunting monsters and demons “restored” my sanity) John and I decided to start trying again.  So back on the meds. This was to be the first month where we’d go through the whole IUI (intrauterine insemination) processes again.  IVF is not financially in the cards for us, especially not during the slow months at work when I’m cancelled at least once a pay period.  IUI is roughly $1,000 a month, much easier to charge than the $23K+ that one cycle of IVF would cost. So I accepted that IUI was going to be our best bet, and I made myself so freaking positive about it all.  I remained optimistic and hopeful, smiling and laughing again, trying to stay relaxed, because everyone will tell you that relaxing is the key to getting pregnant. (Yes, I did just roll my eyes dramatically at that)

Anyway, yesterday was supposed to be our first IUI, but unfortunately testing showed that this month was a wash. The numbers we needed for it to at least have a chance at being successful were not there.  I was crushed.  I still am.  In those first few moments I was angry, bitter, maybe a tad psychotic.  I don’t like surprises; I like being prepared, and being told that I took those awful pills with the added new side effect of such excessive sweat that I literally had to wear a towel under my scrubs at work, was for nothing was a shocker.  I’ve cried, laughed and threw a bottle of vitamins all within the last 18 hours. It’s my fault that I reacted that way.  That’s what happens when I don’t plan for the worst possible outcome at every turn.  Some call that pessimism but I call that being a realist who is preparing for every eventual outcome.  Imagining all the possibilities that could occur gives me a chance to adapt to what I might feel and generally makes it all a little easier to process.

So basically I’m back to square one, trying to understand something that cannot be understood.  I’m trying to rationalize why some people get children they can’t even care for and I, who would be a moderately good mother, cannot.  I don’t understand why the process must be so difficult and so expensive- for infertility treatments, for adoption- it’s all just horseshit. Sheer horseshit.  Big stinkin’ piles of horseshit.

I’m still a little angry. I’m trying to not be, but it’s a part of the five stages of grieving. Trying, and failing, to conceive, is once big trip through the stages of grieving every freakin’ month.

Denial– well, maybe I am pregnant but this test is just faulty. It’s still too early anyway.  Maybe I didn’t hold my pee long enough.

Anger– I don’t understand; how can I not be pregnant but this woman can set her kid on fire? Screw the universe. I’m not a bad person! I’m not a crack head, this is bull shit!

Bargaining– If you let me get pregnant, I swear I’ll go to church, and volunteer more hours with hospice and adopt a shelter animal to prove I’m worthy.

Depression– My life is meaningless.

Acceptance– Okay, not this month. Maybe next month.

Understanding the psychology behind it all, believe it or not, makes it a little easier.  So maybe next month it is.

I’m trying not to be pissy

If you aren’t familiar with the five stages of grief, please visit this site Resolve: Grieving and Growing. Then you can see that I’m hanging out in anger this week.

I’ve completed all the testing to proceed with IVF, and got a clean bill of health.  No genetic disorders to pass on, no odd blockages to be seen, good egg quality- just that pesky problem where they sorta mature, then get lazy and stop and I don’t ovulate without a shit ton of medications.  John’s sperm are A-okay.  Everything is good to go except:

$23,715. For one round (meds, egg aspiration, embryo testing and freeze, with a frozen cycle the following month) of IVF. $23,715 with no guarantee it will even work.

I’m sorry for those of you who don’t like cussing, so you may want to just skim this next part, but ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

I might as well high-tail it out to Vegas and put that shit all on black.

There is no way I have that type of money on hand.  Even cashing in all of our retirement accounts would only get us halfway there.  Even with the wonderful support of those who assisted with our GoFundMe account, I’m not even close.  That money covered the ridiculous prices for pre-IVF testing, with just over $200 left for future…I don’t even know what.

Yes I’m aware I can get financing.  I’m looking at the APR for $23,715.  The lesser the APR, the more expensive the payment- $889 for 5.99%. It goes down from there, but none of the monthly payments are less than $355.  And that APR is 11.99%, and would cost an additional $15, 600 in interest.

I’m also aware that I’m set to start paying back my student loans in three months, and yes I could defer, I know, but interest is accruing there now that I’m done with school. I did look into jumping right into a Master’s or Doctorate in Nursing program, but that’s a $24K program in and of itself.

Yes, I know I can get a second job and am looking, as well encouraging John to do the same, or start taking college classes and pulling the max out on student loans and just using that toward treatment.  We are trying to work out the fine details of the shit-storm that is becoming our lives. Things are fairly tense most of the time.  I don’t like worrying about money.

I know some people may think along the lines that, if I can’t afford the IVF treatments, then I can’t afford a baby.  So, for those of you who never had to endure the embarrassment of infertility treatments, tell me about how you needed to take a loan to conceive (just conceive) your first child. Yes, adoption is an option, yes I looked into it.  It’s roughly the same to $40K to adopt a child.

I’m trying not to be pissy about my life, but I know lately I’m failing miserably. Sometimes I sit and think that I shouldn’t even be writing this whoa-is-me post and I should instead be a sleep deprived mother to a nearly four-month old little boy.

Screw fate, the universe, or just random coincidence for giving me the short end of this stick.

I don’t wallow in self-pity every day.  I still have to work and what not.  I still volunteer every week with hospice. I still shower daily.  There are just days that I just sit and watch endless blocks of Dateline on OWN or binge watch the ID channel, but due to some lactose intolerance, I don’t get the perk of sitting on the couch with some Haagen Dazs.

I’m not saying I’m giving up, but I am feeling pretty defeated.

Catching up

I know it’s been a while. Life got hectic as it usually does around the holidays. In December I graduated with my Bachelor of Science in Nursing degree. It’s a relief to be done with school. For now. I can only let my brain sit idle for a few minutes before I’m on to the next idea, maybe law school, most likely a doctorate degree.

In December I passed what would have been my due date. The 17th was a date I dreaded and it came and went like all days do. My husband and I spent it in St. Augustine, one of our favorite places, looking at the pretty little city lit up with lights. We were surrounded by families and children and it made me sad. I miss the idea of my son, Oliver. I sometimes imagine what it would be like having a one or two month old baby right now. How different would my life be? I try not to think about these things too much because there is no point in driving myself crazy.

We have had four failed IUI’s (intrauterine insemination) since my miscarriage. Every failed attempt brings another fresh set of tears and anger. I remember every time someone said ‘At least you know you can get pregnant’ and I stifle a scream because it didn’t work that way for me.

We are at a crossroads now and I don’t know what we are going to do next.


Things that have happened since I lasted posted a blog: I became an aunt-he’s cute and chunky and I love him. I started the final semester of my bachelors program in Nursing (woo hoo). I participated in a walk honoring pregnancy and infant loss. I started fertility treatments again.

I wasn’t going to start fertility treatments until next year, but I started feeling a little less depressed and anxious, and my blood pressure became reasonable again, and so I did. My first go around of the Letrozole/IUI didn’t work. I just completed the second IUI today. Fingers crossed in two weeks I’ll have some good news.

The walk was difficult. On one hand I enjoyed honoring Oliver with something. It was put on by a local hospital, very nice and laid back, with a butterfly release at the end. Our butterfly took off- you could tell it wasn’t pleased being in that box and was going to relish its freedom. Maybe there is symbolism there, maybe not. It was a pretty butterfly and hopefully it went on to do wonderful butterfly things.



Still, on the other hand, I felt like an interloper on people who lost so much more.  There were parents there who lost their children further along in their pregnancy, and some who had children die in the NICU. One woman was carrying a picture of a beautiful baby with Down Syndrome who didn’t make it, and in that moment, I hated myself for grieving so hard for someone I never met. I wanted to say something to her, but couldn’t think of anything sufficient, and so I said nothing.

A tiny part of me feels guilty that I’m trying again even though, in some alternate universe, I’d be almost eight months pregnant with Oliver. Sometimes I feel like I’m betraying his memory. It’s convoluted. Sometimes I still randomly cry; usually when I’m washing my hands. I’ll be washing my hands, fine as can be, and then I just start crying. Maybe it’s running water? I don’t know, it’s weird and it’s difficult because I’m a nurse and I was my hands a lot.

I had forgotten how awful the Letrozole made me feel. By the fifth day my joints ache so bad I want to cry. Bone pain is a side effect, though usually it doesn’t occur for those taking Letrozole for infertility. I’m lucky like that I guess.


What not to say

A friend of mine approached me not to long ago and asked if I would guest write a blog for her site, Everything Mommyhood, about what NOT to say to someone who has had a miscarriage. This was prompted by a Facebook post I made about some of the rather ill-thought condolences I received. I had planned on writing something similar here at some point, but the offer to write for her blog provided the opportunity to reach way more readers. I’m reprinting it here for the few who read my blog, but strongly encourage, recommend (and politely demand) that everyone visit Everything Mommyhood to support my friend, who gave me a much larger voice than I have here.

4 Things NOT To Say To a Woman Who Has Miscarried

There is no easy way to transition into this subject, so I will just say it: I recently had a miscarriage. I learned of my baby’s demise on June 4th. Words cannot convey the complex grieving process I am working through. Every day I am faced with the reality that I am no longer pregnant. It’s difficult to adjust to, even over two months later. The physical and emotional effects from losing my child are ongoing; however, what I find most difficult is the lack of understanding, or even ill-thought condolences, that I am faced with when people learn of my loss. I thought it wise to share with others some of the questions and statements either I heard directly, or others who had miscarriages disclosed to me, that should be avoided when speaking with someone who has suffered a pregnancy loss.

  1. “At least you know you can get pregnant.”

This particular statement was said to me on several occasions, as I had been going through fertility treatments for six months before I conceived. While those who said it were well-meaning, it did not address the loss of my child. Yes, I guess now I knew I could get pregnant, but if I had my way, I would still be pregnant with that child. This statement essentially negates the importance of the child I carried, basically reducing him to a trial-run for a pregnancy that would one day be successful. For some women, getting pregnant is easy- it’s staying pregnant that proves a challenge.

  1. “Everything happens for a reason” or “This was nature’s way (or God’s way) of fixing something that was broken”

I heard this a lot after I learned that my baby had Down syndrome. Once I learned of that diagnosis I did extensive research on the subject and learned majority of babies conceived with Down syndrome will miscarry. Most of those that make it to term have severe heart or digestive issues requiring multiple surgeries. Still, what people don’t realize is that I never think of my son as “broken”. He was my baby, someone I dreamed about meeting from the moment I learned I was pregnant. Had I carried him successfully to term I would have loved him no less than a child that wasn’t “broken”. I am extremely grateful that my son will never know pain or sadness, and will gladly spend the rest of my life with this grief so he didn’t have a moment of suffering, but that doesn’t lessen the harsh impact of such statements. For those that so flippantly suggest that things “happen for a reason”, I often wonder how they would react if I said the same thing to them after the death of someone they loved.

  1. “At least you have other children at home”

A few friends, who have already had successful pregnancies, told me they heard this on more than one occasion. They confided how hurtful the statement was because having children at home did not take away from the love they felt for their miscarried child. If anything I imagine having a child at home would make the loss more profound- I can only imagine what it is like to be a mother- whereas they have the experiences and memories and know exactly the beauty that will be missing.

  1. “It’s not like it was a real baby” or “It’s better that it happened so soon rather than later in the pregnancy”

This is perhaps the cruelest comment someone can make. Fortunately no one said this directly to me, but others I spoke with expressed that they heard this quite a few times- often from women who had successful pregnancies. There has always been a great debate about what constitutes the start of life, and this post isn’t going to wax philosophical about the distinction. What people should consider, before making a statement regarding the “realness” of a baby, is how they (or their spouse) felt when they went for their twelve-week ultrasound. How did they feel knowing they were going to see their child and its beating heart? Did they not love that child then? Well, it was no different for a woman who goes, expecting a happy result, only to be greeted with the awful stillness of a nonmoving baby. The gestational date of your loss, whether five, ten, or twenty weeks, does not diminish or change the hopes and dreams someone had for their growing baby. The death of a baby, at any gestational age, is devastating.

I believe that most people have good intentions when offering the “condolences” to a woman who has had a miscarriage. It is still a very taboo topic, and honestly before I had my miscarriage I probably thought or said at least one of the above statements. I didn’t know any better- the subject of miscarriage is largely brushed under the carpet and I had no idea how to react when confronted with the situation. Even recent news of Mark Zuckerberg and his wife’s struggle with infertility and miscarriage disappeared from the headlines relatively fast, and now…nothing but silence.

I wrote this, not to scold others, but in an attempt to educate others in what not to say to a friend or loved one should they suffer such a devastating loss. What you can say, what you should say, is quite simple- I’m sorry for your loss; I’m here for you; I love you. If you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything. Give them a hug, a flower, heck, bake them a cake. Listen if they need to vent or cry. Don’t minimize their loss. Don’t expect them to bounce right back to who they used to be. Understand if they can’t visit you or your small children right away, or if they don’t attend events focused around babies and birthdays for a little while- they just can’t help it. Above all else, just be there for them.


My karyotype testing for a possible balanced translocation of genes, which would cause a genetic predisposition for any additional children I conceive to have down syndrome, came back negative. I am normal. Words not often used to describe me, but I have scientific proof that, as stated by the lab, that I have a “Normal Female Karyotype”.

As I suspected, John has a normal male karyotype. I was so convinced that I would have this mix up of my chromosomes that I never once questioned his being anything but normal. I still carry the guilt of not being able to conceive a child without medical assistance, so naturally I assumed this was my fault as well. Only it’s no one’s fault. What happened to Oliver was just something that happened.

I’m relieved, in a way, that the testing is over. I feel secure having answers. The unknown terrifies me. The thing is, now that I know, I’m not sure that I feel that much better.

Right now I live my life in minutes, which is a step up from before when I was focusing on making it from one moment to the next. A majority of minutes I’m fine and functional. Then there will always be that cluster of minutes where I just want to curl up on the couch and yell obscenities at the world. Hopefully I’ll be able to progress to living life by hours, and then days, and then weeks when losing him isn’t the first thought in my mind.

My OB suggested I wait a few more months before trying again because she wants to see my blood pressure under control. When the medical assistant asked if it was normally so elevated I told her it was only because I hated being in that office. I wonder what she thought of that reply. I wonder if people answer as honestly as I do at the doctors. Anywhere else my blood pressure is fairly normal, but in that office it spikes.

Honestly, I don’t think I’m ready to try again right now. Financing treatments aside, I just don’t feel like it is fair to Oliver that I try so quickly to replace him. I like to imagine, in some alternate universe, there is a version of me that is 21 (almost 22) weeks pregnant and happy with her lot in life.

The idea of creating another life while still grieving his is just too much for me right now.

A name

My first day back volunteering for hospice was on Sunday. We had a new volunteer shadowing us, to learn the ropes, so to speak, that day. She was chatty, and within the first thirty minutes I probably heard her life story. She was nice, and was excited to be there because she wanted to help people, but felt bad because she couldn’t volunteer as much as she wanted because she was helping care for her friend’s child, a little boy, who was recently born with Down Syndrome. I stood there listening, thinking in my head, ‘Are you freaking kidding me?’ She went on to describe this child’s various aliments: he’s had four heart surgeries, has a feeding tube to eat, and sometimes gets blue when he starts to cry. For a moment, I was grateful that my child didn’t have to suffer through those challenges.

I found out that our baby was going to be a boy. Seeing the word ‘male’ on the chromosomal report was a punch in the stomach. I had been so sure the baby was a she, though when I’d talk I’d inevitability end up saying ‘he’. Maybe I really did know on some level the baby was going to be a boy.

I thought constantly about whether or not I should name the baby. I worried what people would think for a while, and would they think that I was dwelling on this miscarriage, and that by naming him I would be dragging out my grief. Then I thought, well, screw people. I can dwell about the loss of my son, and I can grieve as long, and in anyway, I wanted.

We named him Oliver. I’ve always liked names that start with an ‘O’, but I worried how that would flow having a last name that also started with ‘O’. I’d try some of my names together for a girl: “Olivia O’Toole” and think it sounded like a comic book superhero. The title would be “The Amazing Adventures of Olivia O’Toole”. I thought it sounded cute, but I flashed forward to when my child would be in school, and worried about teasing, and decided against it.

Luckily for Oliver, he will never know the pain of childhood bullies, and now he has a superhero name. Oliver O’Toole. He won’t ever know fear, pain or sadness. He won’t be born with a litany of aliments or heart conditions, and he’ll never have a feeding tube. He won’t wake up one day and suddenly realize that he isn’t like all the other children, and I won’t ever have to wipe away his tears.

Still, I think back to the volunteer, who told me all the awful things wrong with her friend’s son, but then said how he was always happy, always smiling.

Oliver won’t ever smile. He won’t ever wake up. He won’t know happiness. He’ll never get a chance to cuddle with Cat (our cat). He won’t take his first step, dance around the living room in just a diaper. True, he won’t ever realize that one day he is a little different than everyone else, but then realize at that same time that being different is absolutely okay because he is loved.

I think about all of these things every day. The feelings I have are so convoluted. I am eternally grateful my son didn’t have to suffer through any type of pain. I will gladly suffer through the pain of losing him for all eternity, but die happy knowing that in his short life all he knew was love. Still, I selfishly wish I could just hold him once and see his smile.

Emotions are fickle like that.


The last night I worked before my miscarriage- around a day or two before the doctor estimates my baby’s heart stopped beating- I was assisting a tech with a patient. I was bending over, doing something, I don’t even remember what, and he said to me “No, no, you don’t need to be bending over so much”. I had laughed and said something like I might as well bend while I still could.

Some techs had chided me while I did certain tasks, worried I would hurt myself. I had done my research, and lifting and bending was not going to cause a miscarriage. I always told them as much.

Then I learned the baby had died, and I spent the next twenty-seven days convinced that I was a complete ass, and something I had done while working had killed my baby. It didn’t matter that I work with a very pregnant nurse and tech, both of whom do the same thing I do every shift, were fine. I was convinced that on my last night working, by bending over and helping out, I had done something to kill my child.

I would call the last twenty-seven days a slow decent into depression and self-hatred. Then, thankfully, my doctor called on the July 1st.

The baby had Down’s Syndrome, which I learned (read: hours of Google searches), increases the risk of miscarriage during the first trimester to 50%. I read somewhere, in which of the hundred sites I visited I can’t remember, that out of 10 pregnancies in which women are carrying a child with Down’s, five will likely miscarry in the first trimester, and two or three in the second: so only two or three babies will actually be born with Down’s.

I’m still heartbroken. I still love(d) this baby with every ounce of my soul, and even if she or he (I was so happy to get results I forgot to ask the gender) were born I would not have loved them any less.

Still, it’s a relief to know I didn’t do anything wrong.

The nurse in me knew that, but the Mom in me was just filled with a self-loathing I cannot describe. I tried to remember everything I did, trying to pinpoint down the moment I doomed my pregnancy.

The doctor did say there was a translocation of genes which could have happened on its own, or could have come from my husband or me. We will have some testing to determine if we have this balanced translocation gene, and if so, the next steps we’ll have to take to have a child.

I can’t say I dread the discovery of whether my husband or I carry this gene; I know there is nothing I can do to change my genetic makeup. I have no control over this aspect of my life. No amount of dieting, medication or meditation will change it. At least, though, I’ll know.

Knowing makes all the difference.

And so it goes

I knew deep down that I would end up writing this post, but I pushed it off as my normally neurotic mind trying to drive myself insane. Just like I suddenly knew I was pregnant, I knew something was going wrong. I could no longer identify what I thought the sex was. I had always thought girl- but then suddenly, I just didn’t feel anything.

My doctor’s appointment on June 4th confirmed that the baby’s heart had stopped beating only a few days before.

There isn’t a word to describe the devastation that I feel. I cannot understand how my baby’s strong heartbeat at 8 weeks just stopped at 11 weeks, one or two days; the doctor wasn’t quite sure when.

I walked around knowing I was carrying my lifeless child in me for a week.

I tried to do things that I would have wanted her (maybe him) to see. I went and stared at the Gulf of Mexico. I told her (or him) about how her (or his) daddy and I picked sea shells along the Gulf, all the way down to Venice, to use at the reception for our wedding. I told her (him) that we forgot most of them at home before we left for our St. Augustine wedding.

We went to the nearby Botanical Gardens, where on Christmas Eve 2014 I walked along the paths lit with Christmas lights and thought ‘Maybe this time next year I’ll be pushing a stroller’. I love the gardens. I love the plants and the beauty and tranquility I feel when I’m there. We saw a red dragonfly sitting quietly on a lily pad. A quick Google search told me that the red dragonfly is extremely rare, and brought a mixed omen: one of eternal love and one of death. For a brief moment, I thought that brought me some sort of solace.

I had a D&C on the 10th.

I went back to work on the 18th. I don’t think I was ready. Sometimes, I still don’t think I’m ready. What I want to do is sit at home and stare blankley at the TV, only I’m out of sick and vacation days, and the fertility treatments drained my savings. Instead, I walk around my hospital and care for my patients, perhaps better now than ever, because I’m trying to atone for what I feel is my greatest failure: being unable to care for my child.

The nurse in me knows that I did nothing wrong, and that miscarriage is unfortunately all too common: as many as 25% of women will experience a miscarriage. That’s 1 in 4 women. This doesn’t make me feel any better. It doesn’t make me feel any worse.

I think about the baby I thought I would have. I thought about taking her (him) to their first trip to the pool, wearing a big floppy hat to protect their face from the sun. I saw her (his) chubby little face laughing and splashing in the pool.

I hate my imagination.

I sit waiting for the chromosomal tests to come back. I fear that they messed up the tests and I’ll get a call that they weren’t performed, or worse yet, there is no reason they could find that my baby is dead. I wish I never read the pathology report, because I can’t unread what was left of my child.

I sit trying to write a research paper for school on whether or not the rights of reproductive freedom should be upheld. Just thinking of the word reproductive makes it impossible to think straight. I’ll turn it in late, and not really care about what grade I get.

I get panic attacks sitting in the OB’s office, where very pregnant women, and women with brand new babies, come prancing through the doors without a care in the world. I try to remind myself that I don’t know their story; that they could have been me a year ago- lost and drowning in ‘what if’s’. It doesn’t make the ache any less. They should have a room where women like me, who are days out from having their soul removed, can go and sit and cry in peace. Instead I stood and cried in the hall, wishing I had made my husband take the day off of work.

I’ve already met with my fertility specialist on when to resume treatments. I’m just going through the motions of everything I know I’m supposed to do because I hope, eventually, I will actually feel like doing them.

I try to eat. I try to focus. I try to smile, and not sound like an emotionless robot when I talk. I’m on autopilot.

I try not to get angry when people use the phrase “It wasn’t meant to be” or “At least you know you can get pregnant”, or “God has a plan for everything”. I know people are well meaning when offering sympathy. Only I don’t understand what plan could anyone have that would include this happening, or this women who so easily got pregnant and killed her children, while I struggled for just one?

My religious beliefs have always been fluid, changing as I age, but I in no way believe any benevolent deity would intentionally plan such pain.

I guess I spend the majority of my time hanging out in the ‘anger’ stage of the 5 stages of grief.

It isn’t fair. There is nothing I can do to change this.

I now sit waiting to be blessed with a rainbow baby, a term I wish I knew nothing about.

Week eleven update

Between work, school, frequent naps and nausea, I haven’t felt much like updating this. Also, there isn’t much to update. My first OB appointment isn’t until next week, and so right now I know nothing new about this pregnancy, except for the fact that this child apparently hates cooked vegetables. Just thinking about them makes me gag. Right now I’m thinking about carrots and I’m making myself sick.

I’m not going to think about vegetables for a while. It’s a bummer, because I actually like vegetables.

So far working hasn’t been too much of an issue. I am very careful about walking into a patients room if I know they’ve just, how do I say this delicately, had a “Code Brown” all over themselves and their sheets. The worst time of day is when I first walk into the hospital. That initial smell of clean hits my nostrils worse than what I’d imagine rotting road kill would. I mean, have you ever heard of someone being repulsed by the smell of clean?

I think all the time working towards getting pregnant has warped my sense of time. The weeks are just dragging on. I wish it were December already. I don’t understand why time has decided to drag now; before I found out I was pregnant it was just whipping by. I’m at eleven weeks and I feel like it should be at least twenty.

I’m slowly moving past the infertility mindset, but I still have all this residual anxiety and worry to work through. I think once I have another ultrasound and I get to see that everything is going fine I won’t sit and dwell on how slow time is, or worry about the baby’s progression. Hopefully I’ll be able to sit back and enjoy this.