And So It Continues...Part 2

Let's fast forward a few months. Past the physical recovery, past the emotional healing, past the roller coaster of ups and downs...
We decided in December '08 that we would start trying to get pregnant again. It had been 10 months since my miscarriage, and up until this point, I had been terrified to get pregnant again. But I finally felt emotionally ready for another pregnancy, so I began charting. Without going into detail, let's just say that I know more about the female body, cycles, and hormones than anyone, other than a doctor, should know. We were excited for another pregnancy, and we thought things would happen quickly. But month after month passed, and each month I was disappointed. Then I started to fear that I'd never get pregnant again. I was so discouraged, and while I was wanting so desperately to get pregnant, it seemed like everyone around me was announcing their pregnancies or having babies. It was absolute torture! Then Thanksgiving '09 rolled around, and we were busy with all the activities and traveling that time of year brings. I was busy pulling out Christmas decorations (decorating for Christmas is my absolute favorite) and making our house festive. I guess I was so engrossed with preparing for the holidays that I wasn't even thinking about getting pregnant. I think that's the secret to getting pregnant (for most people, anyway). Just don't think about it. Not thinking about it is next to impossible, but it worked for us. We found out 2 weeks before Christmas that we were finally pregnant. It felt like such an accomplishment, and I felt truly blessed to finally have another little life growing inside me. It had been almost 2 years since my miscarriage, and it had taken us close to a year to get pregnant. I know some people would kill to get pregnant in a year's time. Or even two or three year's time, for that matter. I have a friend who tried to get pregnant for 13 years before getting pregnant with her son. So I feel guilty for thinking that a year was a long time, but for us it was. It seemed like it was never going to happen. But when it did, it was so healing for me. Just knowing that I could get pregnant was the most amazing feeling. I was incredibly excited but also extremely scared and anxious. My husband and I discussed when we would begin telling people. We decided to wait until 20 weeks to tell friends and my extended family, but I knew that I would never be able to keep it from my parents or my sister. My mom can read me like a book, and I knew that she would very quickly figure it out. I was apprehensive to tell my husband's family, not because I didn't want them to know but because I was afraid of telling them and then something going wrong. We were planning on spending Christmas with his family, and he really wanted to share the news in person. I desperately wanted him to have that experience, but I was also terrified. I had a horrible feeling about this pregnancy, and I agonized for days over telling his parents. There was something inside of me telling me not to. He finally told me that I was probably just anxious because of what had happened last time and that he thought we should take a step of faith in telling his family, so I agreed. I wrapped up a tiny pair of baby socks (they were so cute!) to give to his parents on Christmas day. When it came time for them to open their "gift," I was terrified. My hands were shaking, my heart was pounding, and I kept thinking, "I don't want to do this. Why are we doing this? Please, God, let us be doing the right thing, and PLEASE let everything be okay with this pregnancy!" His family was obviously excited and happy for us, and I tried to be excited, too. I tried to cover up my fear and anxiety, but I still had a horrible, nagging feeling that I couldn't explain or shake. That feeling turned out to be valid. To make a very long story short, at my first ultrasound (January 2010) things didn't look good, so they wanted me back the following week for a second ultrasound. The second ultrasound wasn't great, but my doctor was still hopeful. I was scheduled for a third ultrasound the next week, but before that appointment I began bleeding. I called the nurse, and she asked me to come in right away. An ultrasound confirmed what I already knew. Another miscarriage. I think they called it an "imminent miscarriage," which meant that it was just a matter of time. They told me that I had options for how to deal with things. I could opt for surgery again, but that carried with it the obvious risks involved with being put under anesthesia and the risk of uterine scar tissue forming, which could prevent another pregnancy from implanting or going to term. We decided right away that would be our last resort. My next option was to take a certain medication that essentially would make my body go into labor. That option was risky, too. The main risks were uterine rupture and hemorrhage, and that scared me. The third option was to let my body take care of things on its own. It wasn't a risk-free option, but we decided to go that route. So I was sent home to just wait it out for the rest of the week and over the weekend. My doctor made me an appointment to come back in the following Monday to be examined to ensure that I wasn't developing an infection or any other complications and to determine whether or not the miscarriage had completed itself. Monday came, and things were the same. No infection but no progress. So more waiting. Fast forward through a lot of waiting, lots of going back and forth to see my doctor, many ultrasounds that just confirmed that nothing was happening, and more frustration than I've ever felt. We were exhausted, both emotionally and physically. It had been almost a month of just waiting, so we decided to go the medication route. My doctor told me how to take it, what to expect, and what to do when the medication began working. He sent me home and told me to wait for the medicine to kick in and for my body to respond. More waiting. We were getting really good at that. I won't go into detail, but the medication worked, and by the next morning I was pretty sure that it was all over. A few days later, I went back to see my doctor and to have another ultrasound. The ultrasound showed that the medication had worked completely. To finally see an empty ultrasound screen brought the strangest mix of happiness, relief and sadness. I was so, so happy and relieved that it was over and that we could go back to our normal lives. On the flip side, I was incredibly sad because that empty screen confirmed that I had lost a second baby. I guess up until then I was hoping for a miracle, that the doctor and the ultrasounds had been wrong and that our baby was really fine. But that wasn't the case, and I was determined to get back to normal as quickly as possible. Our nightmare had lasted for more than a month, and I had been living in a fog. I knew I owed some amount of normalcy to my husband. He was wonderful through the entire ordeal. I think I counted 11 visits to my doctor in a 4 week period of time, and he went to every appointment with me. I knew I had to go through the healing process again, but this time I think I began healing even before our ordeal was over. God's peace truly surpassed all our understanding, and His strength carried us through.
Well, now I'm caught up with our (in)fertility journey, so any other posts relating to this topic will be current, day-to-day experiences or feelings or thoughts. I meant to stretch all of this out over several more posts, but writing about this has been difficult and painful. So I needed to just get it out and over with. It's been a very positive endeavor for me, too, so thanks to everyone who has been reading and following our journey up to this point.

Tomato-and-Corn Pizza

I ran across this recipe in the latest edition of Southern Living magazine, and I thought it looked like a nice, summery twist for pizza. I had all the ingredients on hand, so I decided to make this for lunch today. Normally, I don't follow recipes (unless I'm baking, of course). I think recipes are too tedious, and I hate being tied to one. If I do use a recipe, I usually end up changing or tweaking at least one thing. This pizza recipe was no different. Instead of a packaged pizza crust, I used homemade pizza dough. Packaged pizza crusts are gross. There. I said it. You know you were thinking it. I've tried different brands, and I'm always disappointed. So I've given up on them. I also decided to make a quick pizza sauce to use along with the pesto. I love pesto, but too much of it can be a bad thing. So, instead of 1/3 cup of pesto, I used approximately 2 tablespoons. I spread the pizza sauce on top of the dough and then the pesto on top of that. You could also mix the two together before spreading it on the dough/crust if you wanted. I thought that the two together were delicious, and I was glad that I didn't use straight pesto. I think it would have overpowered everything else. Other than that, I followed the recipe exactly. The pizza baked for around 12 minutes (at 550 degrees), so it was a nice, quick after-church lunch. It tasted great, too! I loved the sweetness of the corn with the taste of the tomatoes and pesto. We will definitely be having this again sometime very soon!

Ingredients

• 3 small plum tomatoes, sliced
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/8 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
• 1 (14-oz.) package prebaked Italian pizza crust
• Parchment paper
• 1/3 cup refrigerated pesto
• 1/2 cup fresh corn kernels
• 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• 8 ounces fresh mozzarella, sliced
• 3 tablespoons fresh whole or torn basil leaves

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 450°. Place tomato slices on paper towels. Sprinkle with salt and pepper; let stand 20 minutes.

2. Place pizza crust on a parchment paper-lined baking sheet; spread with pesto. Stir together corn, Parmesan, and sugar. Top pizza with corn mixture, tomatoes, and mozzarella slices.

3. Bake at 450° for 14 minutes or until cheese is melted and golden. Remove from oven, and top with basil leaves.

Happy Birthday, Little Sister!

My little sister turns 23 today. I probably should stop referring to her as my "little" sister, but more than likely I never will. I was 3 1/2 when she was born, and I loved her the minute I met her. After she was born, the nurses tied a tiny piece of red yarn in her hair. I was fascinated by that. That's my first memory of my sister, and I'll treasure it forever. She has grown into an amazing woman, and I'm so proud of her. I hope her 23rd birthday is as fabulous as she is!