TTC - BFN

BFN  © Shutterbug

If I were smart (and if I actually had any available cash left after my myriad of treatments), I would be investing in one of the companies that makes these magical little sticks.

Judging from the number of comments on various forums and blogs, I am not the only woman who begins obsessing about these tests on the day of her IUI, and proceeds to make and break bargains with herself every day thereafter on when she will begin taking them. I've come full circle in the last year of madness: I began the process full of excitement and enthusiasm, testing far too early, then as pessimism loomed I tested later and later (because as long as you don't see a negative result, a positive one is still possible), and finally I am back to testing the moment a reliable result seems plausible. This time around I took 4 tests, which brings my running total up to…a zillion. Probably the financial equivalent of a really successful trip to the LCBO for some really excellent wine.

We tried to think positively and truly believe that this was the month, how could it not be with two lovely little eggs on their way? Each time we try we do our best to remain calm, be optimistic, create a soothing environment for nature to take its course, and balance all that with not getting our hopes up too high. I failed miserably at that part this time around.

I fear I am becoming one of "those women", the ones who see pregnant women at every turn and feel a combined rush of jealousy and irritation. The ones whose eyes pick out every news headline about abused children and shitty parents who think, "Really? THEY were able to pop out kids, but I can't?" I vacillate between wanting to talk about this process all the time, because it is on our minds all the time, and wanting to scream if someone asks me about it when I don't feel like sharing. 

My lovely wife and I can't help but examine our feelings every now and then, and both of us have to admit that our life together is already pretty full. Our time is our own, our money is our own (aside from this process), we can be spontaneous, we are madly in love, and we aren't anxious for any of those things to change. I worry that there is a reason this isn't working for me, that perhaps this isn't the path I'm supposed to take. I worry that I am too old, too tired, too impatient, too set in my ways to be the kind of parent I would want to be, and that the stress of parenting could damage our marriage. But when our neighbour's little boy threw his arms around my legs and called out my name, tears sprung to my eyes…and I have to believe that is also an indication of what is missing in my life. Children's clothing and book stores are like a magnet for my wife, where she can get lost for hours shopping for our future child.

So I guess we press on until the decision is much clearer. Clomid, round two.

My day 3 u/s this time showed a minimum of six follicles, in which I took irrational pride.

There are still so many hurdles to clear, even if we finally get a BFP. I can't believe we can't even seem to get to that stage of the game.

Please let this be the month.

TTC - Hurry Up And Wait

IVF injection training at Mt. Sinai  © Shutterbug

And so it begins again, the 2ww (two-week wait) that all of us on this journey dread, and dream of, and suffer through, and bargain with. It's been five months since I've stood in these shoes. I'm certainly older, definitely wiser, and struggling with both regret and doubt.

We crawled back to Mt. Sinai in March with our tails between our legs after our negative experiences at Create, and met with Dr. Liu again. It was shocking to discover she was nearly nine months pregnant and about to go on leave any day. There is something just unfair about going to a pregnant doctor for fertility treatments. She and an assistant (which was awkward) kindly spent a long time discussing our options with my wife and I. If we wanted to proceed with an IVF cycle, she stressed the importance of us attending an IVF "class", held bi-weekly, before going that route, and we resigned ourselves to more time away from work, and more feelings of isolation as likely the only lesbians in the room. 

We arrived just before the class started, on a weekday in late March. We could hardly believe it when the rest of the attendees continued to trickle in every few minutes until the class was actually half over. It was disruptive, and disrespectful to the doctor leading the class. It was, by the way, Dr. Ellen Greenblatt, who is the head of the entire program. Much of the information was common sense or we already knew from doing our own research, but there were a few surprises.

I was under the impression that the whole reason for taking fertility drugs, which I had purposely avoided up until now, was to increase the number of follicles I produced each month. This is not the case: they are designed to increase the number of mature eggs the follicles produce, but that number is still limited to the number of follicles I start with (called the "antral follicle count"). They cannot change that. If my body at my age is only producing 4 follicles, then the maximum number of eggs you can hope to grow, even with drug intervention, is 4. OMG. The antral follicle count can change each month, however it's unlikely to vary by much.

The other important things I learned were about the IVF process itself - how eggs are retrieved, scary statistics on fertilization or lack thereof, how the embryos are grown (could be 3 days in a petri dish, or could be 5), grading embryo quality and fragmentation (!), futuristic procedures like helping the embryo to "hatch" (do you know what a zona pellucida is? I didn't.)…the whole thing seemed surreal and clinical and cerebral to discuss growing your future child in a lab.

Despite the scary financial number-crunching (most insurance plans, mine included, have zero coverage for fertility drugs), we decided it was time to bring out the big guns and attempt a round of IVF in May. Likely the only attempt, given that the total cost for treatment including the donor sample, drugs, and various procedures could run close to $15,000. We were already closing in on that figure with what we'd spent on our 7 IUI procedures in the last year.

I nervously counted down the days to cycle day 3, when I would go in for the usual b/w and ultrasound, and would begin drug injections. Time seemed to move in slow motion as we tried to evaluate all of the possibilities in advance. This is what the IVF class makes you realize as well; you have to prepare for making absolutely critical decisions, so that if and when the time comes, there is no hemming and hawing. For instance, we even have to sign forms to designate what should be done with our embryos should something happen to me in the middle of the process. Happy thoughts.

The u/s news was not good. I had three follicles in my left ovary, and one follicle plus a cyst in my right ovary. A cyst?! Yet another thing I was unprepared to hear and hadn't researched. My mother had required surgery for an ovarian cyst at a very young age, so this panicked me. A helpful nurse named Donna asked us to wait for my blood results, explaining that my estrogen levels would indicate whether this cycle could be salvaged. We had decided that IVF would be off the table for this month now, since 4 follicles were not enough (4 follicles would likely mean a max of 3 good eggs, of which only one or two might fertilize - a lot of money to gamble on such a low number), but hoped to proceed with another IUI and not waste the cycle. Donna explained that sometimes an ovarian cyst can trick your body into thinking it's a mature follicle, you to ovulate too early and release immature eggs. A level of around 200 might mean a usable cycle, but anything higher and we would have to cancel. And so we waited in one of the exam rooms we knew so well.

The sympathetic look on Donna's face when she returned said it all, even before she announced "640". We were so dejected, and so tired of the process being out of our hands, and now were worrying about the cyst. Donna, bless her, spent half an hour counselling us and said my body would likely reabsorb it. After some discussion, we came to the conclusion that we may have jumped the gun with going to IVF at this point. If I had been afraid of taking fertility drugs because of the chance of multiple births (and side effects), yet I was only producing four follicles and willing to subject my body to IVF now, then perhaps it was worth trying a medicated IUI cycle for the first time instead. The (oral) drug they would put me on is Clomid, and if I did happen to produce too many eggs for an IUI (not likely), we could choose to abandon the cycle and try again another month. Nothing to do but wait for my next day 1.

My very regular cycle, however, became uncooperative. Day 30 came and went. Then day 35. I called the clinic, concerned this was related to the cyst, and was told to come in on a Sunday, my period now nearly two weeks late. We had a very unfriendly doctor we'd had once before, who was quick and businesslike. She said everything looked normal. I explained I had never been this late before in my life, and asked what could cause a period to be two weeks late. She looked me in the eye and said sarcastically, "Uh, pregnancy?" What a bitch. Thanks for that, after all the disappointment and emotions we'd been through, all the procedures we'd endured; thanks for calming our fears and helping us to understand the current situation a little better. It was three weeks of debilitating PMS symptoms before my period arrived on day 45.

Cycle day 3 we were back at the clinic for b/w and u/s, and again I felt rushed through the process. The doctor simply confirmed there was no cyst and everything looked normal, then said I should begin taking the 100mg Clomid pills that evening for 5 days and come back in on day 12. She did not tell me my antral follicle count, so I didn't know if the Clomid would produce 2 eggs or 10.

I took the 5 days' worth of pills, then suffered through another four days of waiting before we went back in to hear what the effect had been. The side effects were bloating and headaches that Tylenol couldn't touch, but everything was bearable because this time we felt in control. We were finally doing something to affect the outcome of this cycle.

Silly me, I am 41 years old. There were never going to be 10 eggs. The answer was 2. 2 follicles measuring 2.05mm and 2.15mm, perfect for a Clomid cycle (larger than normal). Uterine lining perfect. You will learn all of the numbers, all of the abbreviations, all of their meanings, all of their odds. The doctor doing the u/s was the same bitchy one from last cycle with the "uh, pregnancy" comment, but she was in a better mood. She reassured me this cycle was good to go, and I only needed to do b/w the next day.

The b/w technician was none too swift. She asked me my name, I gave her my health card, she asked me to confirm my name, and then she pointed to the computer screen and asked me a third time if that was me. Overkill! I sat down, rolled up my left sleeve and held out my arm, and she sat across from me and asked which arm I wanted to use. Seriously? As usual, when she saw the absence of veins she didn't believe this was the arm they would normally use, and I explained the right arm was worse. She asked, "Have you ever used the other arm?". I feel like I'm on Candid Camera.

As fate would have it, our IUI day fell smack into the middle of a long-planned cottage weekend with friends. We had no choice but to drive the 5-hour round trip back to the city and leave our friends to fend for themselves for the day. It was bizarre, terrifying, and exciting to know that this time there would be two eggs coming down the pipes. After months and months of emphatically stating, "I don't want twins", the thought of never getting pregnant now seemed a much worse fate. Suddenly, the very real possibility of ending up with twins felt like it could be a blessing as much as I'd thought it could be a curse. 

There is no way not to obsess, not to have all of this invade your every waking and sleeping thought. It is hard to focus at work, hard to have banal conversation with friends and family, and hard to not get your hopes up. We just resign ourselves to the process, sing a little Que Sera Sera, and hope for the best. Tiny nurse Bernadette did the IUI this time, and it was just as difficult and excruciatingly painful as always. Poor Bernadette apologized profusely for hurting me and for struggling for so long, and I apologized for my crooked cervix, and my wife apologized for me having to go through all this.

It is now 4dpo (days past ovulation), or 4 dpiui. I have obsessively checked the Internet for stories of early pregnancy symptoms, for percentages of twin pregnancies with Clomid, and for statistics of women over 40 with fertility treatment. It is not productive, and if I had one piece of advice for other women starting this process, it would be step away from Google. Step away from the forums, too. Although they can be a great source of support, there will always be someone with a good outcome, someone with a bad outcome, someone with an outcome you didn't even consider. It's not going to tell you how your story will end. You will spend precious hours looking for answers you can't actually find there, and in the end what you read will probably compound your stress levels. It certainly won't help you sleep better. 

I get overwhelmed with the number of stories that mention miscarriages, often multiple lost pregnancies, and often late in the game (10 weeks or even further along). At this point I can't even imagine getting a positive pregnancy test, let alone getting used to the idea of expecting a baby and then having the rug pulled out from under us. I know the chance of miscarriage at my age is high, and I know the chance of genetic abnormalities is also high, but it's impossible not to get our hopes up. This has to work.

I want to believe a happy ending is possible.

And so we wait. And we hope that we can add our photo(s?) to the baby board...

Evergreen Brick Works

On a recent Saturday morning, I made my usual trek to the farmers market at the Evergreen Brick Works, but with a different task at hand than obtaining the best lemon feta cheese in the city (truly, you have to taste it). Toronto photographer Edward Pond was hosting his first photography workshop there, free of charge, to anyone interested in hearing his approach to shooting food. The agency I worked for wanted someone to check out his talk, and I was happy to go.

Edward sharing tips © Shutterbug

Edward is a somewhat soft-spoken and unassuming man, rare in the industry to begin with but even more so when you consider the level of success he has achieved. Most of the people in the group appeared to be hobbyists of another generation, and I wondered how many of them actually knew of Edward. He began with a short, obviously unrehearsed presentation outlining his personal philosophies, which included the following useful tips: 1) Don't buy props and set up artificial scenes if you don't have to. Figure out how to shoot what's in front of you in an interesting way; include surroundings to tell more of the story and possibly find some humour. 2) Get in close to your subjects and try to engage them. Always be respectful and don't just "steal" photos of them without permission. Ask. 3) Think about and evaluate the light you're dealing with, move around the subject to see how the light falls from different angles, and try to consciously choose side or back lighting for addd interest. 

Edward even went so far as to fully answer each and every one of the litany of questions regarding his own equipment choices and preferred settings, offering a level of transparency that many professionals simply won't share. It's as if some photographers feel that by sharing their methods they are giving the competition a boost, whereas Edward seems to genuinely want to help people create the best possible photographs they can. Refreshing.

Lilacs on table  © Shutterbug

We made our way through the various stalls and vendors at the market, with Edward pointing out several objects that caught his eye. Sometimes we'd stick together in our small group and jostle for views at the same table, and sometimes we'd scatter to where our individual interests took us. I spotted a beautiful bunch of lilacs sitting on a table, and decided to start with this easy subject. It was a static scene that I could move around and experiment with my framing and exposure until I had what I wanted.











From there, I moved on to a display of the most unusual-looking radishes I've ever seen, with vendors who were more than game to allow us to descend on their merchandise and rearrange it for aesthetic purposes. I went in for a close-up that showed the beauty of the produce, then pulled back to show more of the surroundings, unattractive as they were. A cookbook publisher would only want a beauty shot, but an editorial article on the market or this farmer would want to include some "real" images that didn't appear staged. It was interesting to see how different everyone's take on the same scene turned out to be.

Radishes at Brick Works market  © Shutterbug

At this point I decided to separate from the group, who continued to poke through piles of lovely organic produce, and make my way to some of the stalls I normally frequent. The vegetables are indeed beautiful, but I'm more intrigued by the people who are selling their wares. One of my favourite booths is Ying Ying Soy Food, which sells organic tofu in a variety of flavoured marinades. The gentleman manning the table is quite passionate about his product, and has a small electric grill going with samples he excitedly holds out to people on toothpicks, demanding that they give them a try. He talks about how he created certain flavours, which ones are his daughter's favourites, and how best to enjoy his products. On this day my toothpick held something I hadn't tried before, which he offered as a blind tasting. As soon as I tasted it I exclaimed, "Oh! Tofu bacon!" He shook his head, explaining that he really didn't like the association with bacon, and named this particular product "Deli Slices". Smoked tofu. I got the distinct impression that he must be a vegetarian, and remembered to use the correct name when I went to make a purchase.

Ying Ying Soy Food table  © Shutterbug

At the end of the allotted hour, I thanked Edward for his time and his contagious enthusiasm, and made my way to a large display area at the far end of the market. A man by the name of Bernard runs his company ShelfLife Materials out of a workshop on site, breathing new life into old reclaimed wood. He is committed to sustainable building practices, and offers clients a wide variety of finished products in addition to supplying raw materials to other designers and builders. Today he had quaint little birdhouses, beautiful polished slate chalkboards, a filing cabinet I was already mentally placing in my office, and a stunning bench I could easily see in my garden. I had to hold myself back from just handing over my Visa. I'd love to follow Bernard through the process of creating one of his pieces…perhaps if I ask nicely he'd let me shadow him.

Bernard of ShelfLife Materials  © Shutterbug

Filing cabinet at ShelfLife  © Shutterbug

It was a productive couple of hours, and I'm reminded of why I love this city. You can travel just minutes, blocks, or even feet from where you live and find cool stuff, meet interesting people, and learn something new. And it doesn't have to cost a dime!

Starbucks Redux

The clientele at our local Starbucks are always a source of amusement, frustration, and disbelief (see previous post here).

Yesterday was a rainy Sunday, and I needed a good coffee to sustain me through a photo shoot at a derelict house. Pleased to find just one person ahead of me in line, I figured I'd be in and out in a flash. Such optimism after so many years!

The woman ahead of me had two boys with her, aged 9 and 11 I would guess, and had ordered herself a coffee, and hot chocolate for them. I waited while she fumbled with her money and continued to stand at the register long after her order was complete. Then I waited at the pick-up bar while she multi-tasked, trying to taste her coffee, hold her phone, and talk to her kids. The shaggy-haired boys were as slow-moving as their mother, and took their sweet time leaving the counter area as they licked the whipped cream from their drinks.

By now both myself and another man behind me had our coffees, and had to wait while the boys took up the entire milk station. They were shaking sprinkles onto their drinks, pausing and laughing, and it took a moment for it to register with me what was taking so long. I suddenly noticed their mother standing off to one side, holding up her phone...and I realized she was shooting a video. She could clearly see two people were waiting to get some damn milk for our coffee, and she was shooting a video of her kids putting sprinkles on their hot chocolate. Like the good Canadian I am, I resisted losing my shit on her.

I eventually drove off on my photo mission, but ran into roadblocks set up for the Good Life marathon. Instead of a ten-minute drive, I had to take several detours and fight traffic for thirty minutes to reach my Riverdale destination. As I gathered the tools of my trade before entering the house, I realized that I had memory cards, a tripod, lenses, a flash, and a spare towel (for kneeling on filthy floors)...but no actual camera. OMG.

At least I had a good cup of coffee to see me through the return trip.

Overheard at Loblaw's

My wife stopped into Loblaw's to pick up a couple of things on a busy Saturday, and saw an elderly lady getting out of her car in the parking lot. The woman dropped a couple of items, including a cane, but before my wife can offer assistance another woman stepped in to help.

Once the senior was back under control, seemingly quite unsteady and frail, the younger woman comments on the bright orange bow that is tied to the older woman's cane. "Oh, is that so it doesn't get mixed up with other people's canes?" she asked. "No," the elderly woman replied, "it's so that I can see it."

Anyone catch that license plate?

Where Are My Keys, I've Lost My Phone

A lyric that Lady GaGa could have written for my lovely, if organizationally-challenged, wife.

We recently had the sort of week that left us shaking our heads, and wondering how there can be so many souls out there seemingly without a conscience.

Hoping to enjoy some fresh air on a clear spring day, I ran home on my lunch hour so that my wife and I could take our two dogs for a walk. We only had about twenty minutes, and just did a short route on the streets around our home. Our conversation covered the many decisions we're trying to make, how strained we feel right now both in terms of time and budget, and what we can do to reduce our stress. Most of it comes down to money, which I think is pretty common for married couples–even those who aren't spending thousands of dollars trying to make a baby, or caring for sick pets.

Shortly after returning from our walk, my wife realized her Blackberry was gone. Panicked, she retraced our steps in full in less than twenty minutes, but there was no sign of it. We did the route again later when I got home from work, and then tore our house apart to be certain her Crackberry wasn't mislaid somewhere indoors. It was gone, and the only explanation that makes sense is that it somehow fell out of her pocket on our walk without us noticing, and someone picked it up. It was fully charged and had plenty of contact names and personal information for anyone who found it to try to contact us, but no one called.

We placed ads on Kijiji and Craigslist offering a $300 reward, even stating that we'd be happy to just get the memory card back. If someone was that desperate for a used phone, they could keep it. One of the first responses my wife received to the ad was from someone who said they'd found a Blackberry in our area, and they would "let her have it back" for $600. We asked what the screen saver photo was to confirm it was hers, but got no response. Charming. We had no choice but to incur the unexpected expense of replacing the phone, but there was no way to replace the information on it that wasn't backed up.

A few days later, I realized that a credit card number was stored in a memo on the lost phone, so I went online to check my statement. Lo and behold there were two charges from a gas station in Scarborough that I'd never been to, dating back two weeks. This had nothing to do with the lost phone, I was able to connect it to visiting my mom in hospital, and using the card at the parking machine (which I noticed was out of order the next few days that I was there). What kind of evil person defrauds people trying to help sick relatives?! More time was lost dealing with the credit card security people, but the charges (including pending ones I didn't yet know about) were reversed relatively easily, and I was issued a new card. I lost a little more faith in people's innate goodness.

As if this weren't enough, we finally decided it was time to spend the last bit of money we'd received for our wedding, which were two $50 bills a friend had folded into origami hearts and stuck inside a picture frame. We carefully unfolded them, tried to use them for a purchase...and discovered they were counterfeit.

It's sad to run into this much dishonesty in the space of just a few days. I struggle with the idea of how I will raise a child to believe the best of people, be savvy enough to recognize when a person is bad, and not let it bring them down when they encounter a deviant. And how to stop my child from ever becoming one of the deviants...

Down By A Taz

Taz  © Shutterbug

The House of Doolittle has shrunk by one.

This was our Taz less than a month before we had to let him go, being the good sport he'd always been for my camera. An ad agency client from work wanted to see photos of a black and white cat licking its lips, so I came home and tried to take some new photos of Taz to send in for the job. He happily ate several treats in my studio, but slowly lost interest in my quest. I ended up giving the client a few older photos I had of him in my archives.

Over the next couple of weeks our boy's respiratory infection grew worse, and he began to lose weight. We were out of options with regard to antibiotics; nothing was working (see previous post here). His breathing was laboured, and he was frequently blowing green snot bubbles from his nose. 

As a last resort we started him on steroids, hoping this would give him just one more remission to enjoy life again. Sadly, this isn't how it turned out. After five days of waking up in the morning to find his nose crusted shut, wheezing and rattling and growing thinner by the day, we knew we'd reached the end of the road. Our vet was the kindest and most devoted caregiver we could have asked for, and he agreed to come into the clinic on his day off to help us say goodbye to Taz.

The same afternoon we made this sad appointment, the advertising client from a couple of weeks earlier called to proceed with purchasing the photo of Taz. The timing was so eerie and emotional – almost as though Taz wanted to help us pay for his final vet bill.

I couldn't sleep that night at all. I sat up reading with Taz on my chest, stroking him and listening to his purr still rumbling away. I counted the hours as they passed, and had a good cry. I took him to the kitchen sink for frequent drinks from the tap now, house rules be damned. The sink where he'd previously gotten into such trouble for kicking dishes to a spectacular crash on the floor was now his domain.

When I went to the bathroom, Taz surprised me by jumping in the tub and proceeding to playfully bat the shower curtain, then stare at me. I wasn't sure whether he was trying to tell me it was okay, or giving me a guilt trip.

Taz in the tub  (c) Shutterbug

Morning came, and although it was cold, it was a beautiful day with bright sun. Taz has always been an indoor cat, but loved to sit at the back door and try to sneak outside with the dogs whenever possible. Sometimes he made it to a safe haven under a bush or the barbecue, seeming quite pleased with himself. This last day we walked him out in our arms to let him enjoy the sunshine.

Then our hearts broke as we said goodbye to this member of our family; my wife's companion of 17 years. He knew things about her that even I will never understand. I am so happy to have known him, because he was truly a wonderful animal filled with personality. He was there for my wife when she had little else, and saw to it that she made it through to a happier place. 

Thanks for being the bridge, Taz. We love you.