change – Maybe Mama

Real Talk: I’m Not OK. Infertility and Depression

I’m excited to be back to blogging and getting back to normal, whatever that is.

If you follow me on Instagram or have followed this blog for a time, you know its been kinda quiet around here. Like, ghost town quiet. Not just for a week or a month. Maybe Mama was silent for a good eight months.

Eight. Whole. Months.

In an online space, eight months of silence is a long time when trying to send a message and build a following. I missed opportunities to share my thoughts and experiences, make connections with people, and grow my presence.

So, why?

DEPRESSION

I’m flipping the script to add yet another layer to this story of mine: My fight with depression. This is part of family building journey as much as Lupron, ultrasounds, and HSGs

Last year, in March and April (part of February too because of priming), we did our first IVF cycle. For my circumstances (low egg count, one ovary, high FHS/low AMH, ), I did pretty well in terms of output.

All in all, from one ovary, they got 8 follicles, 4 eggs, and they were able to create two embryos. I felt good about that, because I had already done better than expected.

Every day, my nurse would call to give me an embryo update. The embryos were dividing, and growing on schedule. Until they weren’t. On Day 4 the report was they were growing, but not as quickly, which was not necessarily a bad thing. The next morning’s call, they had stopped growing completely.

I didn’t really know what to feel. I was sad, but more so I was caught off guard. I knew that anything could happen at anytime, but things were going so well, I “forgot” to be worried that they wouldn’t make it.

My doctor called later in the evening to go over everything in more detail. I sat in my car, in the dark, with my teal “baby journal”, where I keep all my notes, listening and writing down all the important points and take-aways from our conversation. All the while, fighting back tears, trying to seem cool, strong, and unbothered.

This whole time, no one saw me break, and I was proud of that. But on this call, I could barely keep it in. I told myself to suck it up, and I focused on the clinical and scientific aspect of what was happening, and not on my disappointment, fear, and anger.

After a few minutes in the car by myself to process, I went in the house. When I went in, I told my husband the news. I broke down, but only a little. I didn’t want him to see me upset either. I knew my being upset would make him upset.

So I kept it together.

And I kept on “keeping it together”. Acknowledging that we failed but not really dealing with it. I kept on pushing, going about my every day tasks, only crying now and then when no one was around.

For those that knew I was going through this journey, I wanted to seem brave and strong. I wanted them to see how determined you have to be to even go through the infertility thing. I wanted to be a billboard for all of the women who have done this, once, 5, 10, 20 times. I didn’t want people to have pity on me.

For those who had no idea, I wanted it to remain that way. I never wanted to give off any hint that I had chaos going on behind me.

But being “strong” and unaffected was a front.

Those feelings of guilt, anger, doubt, and disappointment, were slowly creeping up on me. My veneer of cool was starting to crack. I could feel it.

Children under 5 gave me anxiety. Literally. I could not be around small children without getting upset.

I felt like I was just floating through life. It felt like I was existing in life as one of those floating perspective shots Spike Lee’s famous for.

I found a lot of things to distract me from my thoughts. I went out for dinner, happy hour, or day parties almost anytime someone asked. I started crafting, which was great to calm my anxiety, but it was mainly a distraction. When I felt anxious or sad, or something I couldn’t quite pin down: I ate.

I had random waves of sadness and cried.

I bought a lot of clothes, shoes, and things I didn’t really need.

Some days, I didn’t want to see or talk to any humans. I barely wanted to get up out of bed.

One day, I looked around and I realized the literal state of mess I was living in. Our bedroom (well, my side mostly) was a mess. Dining room: clutter. I felt embarrassed. How could I let it get like this? I spent the whole weekend cleaning the apartment. I realized this was an outward representation of the state of my inner self. This was not me. But I kept on pushing. I’m fine. I’m good. I’m OK.

More and more, my conversations with my husband centered around babies, or lack of babies, or our(my) infertility. The majority of those conversations ended with me crying.

Finally, one day, my husband looked at me very lovingly and said ‘Maybe you should see somebody’

I paused.

I wasn’t offended. He didn’t say it to be malicious. He could see me struggling.

I started thinking about those past 6 months. I knew I wasn’t myself. I was probably depressed.

“Maybe you’re right.” I had a therapist I had seen about a year before for a few sessions. I decided I’d reach out to her.
I procrastinated for another 3 months.

I didn’t want to admit I was depressed. That my cycle failing upset me. I never thought the death of two, four and a half day old embryos would make me feel so much loss. Then I got upset with myself for being sad and depressed: “Women have lost actual babies. Miscarriages. Still births. Why are you so upset?!”

But then I realized: I was not just grieving the death of embryos, but of a dream. A tiny piece of hope stopped growing in that lab that day. It was OK to not be OK. It was OK to grieve. It was OK to admit I was depressed and needed help. To be 100 transparent, I have dealt with anxiety and depression in the past, but never at this level.

In January 2018, I started seeing a therapist, which was difficult at first. Three months later, therapy is poppin’ and I’m in a much better space, and feeling more like myself. Which is a wonderful thing.

I’m sharing this because just like there are women suffering infertility in silence, there are women pushing through depression in silence.

Don’t.

Its OK to seek help. You can pray and go to therapy. God won’t be mad at you.
You’re not less of a woman.

As Black women, we feel we have to always be strong, always be stoic and carry the world on our shoulders. Be long suffering and always wear that Superwoman cape. Who told us that? Being sad or depressed does not make you weak. It makes you human. With all that’s going on in the world, on top of what you may be feeling in regards to your fertility journey and other family or personal stresses and feeling like you may be at a breaking point.

Practice Self-Care
Know when you need to take a break from treatments. Time is not always on our side depending on your fertility journey, but don’t let your doctor push you into a new cycle if you’re not ready.
Allow yourself to grieve any failed cycle or loss
Connect with someone not your spouse/partner: a friend, another TTC sister, a support group.
See a therapist if you feel it is necessary.

7.6% of all Americans report being depressed at some point. About 4% of women and minorities all report having experienced depressive mood, as compared to about 3% of white men.

As always, links and resources below.

Especially check out Therapy for Black Girls!

What is Depression?

Infertility and Depression

Black Women and Depression

I Skipped My First Baby Shower…And I Don’t Feel Guilty

In the infertility world, we talk a lot about doing what’s best for you to make it through this crazy journey. This was the first time I truly did what was best for me no matter how anyone else felt about it.

I skipped a friend’s baby shower. I never thought I would be one of those. But I was, and I don’t feel bad about it.

March was our first IVF. The ultimate result was a fail. Our embryos didn’t make it to blastocyst (stopped growing on day five), and I was caught off guard and a little depressed. OK, a lot depressed, but that’s a story for another post.

Up until this point, I would say I was pretty positive

Insert our friends and their pregnancy.

This is a couple we have done a lot of things with: date nights, birthday parties, game nights, Cookouts, Weddings, Critiquing other friends’ girlfriends/boyfriends. We even got engaged within a few weeks of each other and married in the same year.

We did a lot together…except get pregnant. Of course they have no idea about our struggle. When I first heard the news about the pregnancy, I had that mixed feeling many of us know all too well of happiness and despair. Excitement and panic. Joy and pain. (no sunshine or rain)

Once we got the announcement around the holidays, I started stressing about the shower. I knew it was coming because we saw one of the grandmas-to-be at another event, and she told me the date they had in mind for the shower.

I went back and forth in my mind about going, months before it even happened. Eventually, the invite came, and it got real. It was a co-ed shower, so both hubby and I were invited. He was an emphatic “Yes”. I was still undecided. I felt bad, but I had to pop his bubble a bit and ask him if he was prepared for questions about us having a baby. We had just found out about or failed IVF cycle a few weeks before and were still processing. I know men handle this differently, but they do have feelings. I didn’t want him to be caught off guard when someone asks, and he was triggered. I had to remind him it’s a little different now, and that he may feel some type of way when someone says, “You two are next!” I’ve become an expert. He’s still a rookie in these types of interactions.

He said he’d be fine. The real question was if I was going to go.

“Put me down as ‘yes’ for now, but I’m not sure.”

The weeks passed, and finally we’re at the week of the shower. I was still on the fence. We needed a gift, so of course I volunteered to stop at Target after work to pick up some items off the registry.

I always like to give books as part of a baby’s gift. I like books, and I want to create little readers. Plus, reading is great bonding time with parents and kids. I went into the book section, looking for some of my favorites; The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Green Eggs and Ham, but I’m always looking for new books.

That’s when I found Wish. I vaguely remembered someone on Instagram mentioning the book. I opened it and started to read…and started to cry in the Target. In the children’s book aisle.

The plot:

As an elephant couple embark on a life together, thoughts of children are far away-at first. But as the desire for a child grows, so do unexpected challenges. And it’s only after thwarted plans and bitter disappointment that their deepest wish miraculously comes true.

So, there I am, reading this sweet book, and tears running down my face. That decided it: I. Wasn’t. Ready. Cute onesies, bibs and blankets are one thing, but an amazing children’s book about how Mommy and Daddy had to suffer and fight to have you: Waterworks.

I knew If I couldn’t read that book and keep it together in a Target, the chances of me making it through a shower were slim.

I went home, wrapped the gifts, and told my husband I wasn’t going.

“What do you want me to say?”

I didn’t have to think long because I did have an out. I had a meeting, then a little fellowship afterwards. They didn’t know that I could leave or skip it all together if I wanted. Perfect! “I have chapter meeting, and it’s an important one. I won’t be done in time to ride down with you.” (They live about a two hour away since our move)

Hubby went, and by all reports and pictures posted to Facebook, the shower was great.

As for me, I did what I wanted that day, and I felt not one drop of guilt. I’d rather have people slightly disappointed that I wasn’t there, than for me to be uncomfortable, on edge, wrestling my emotions, and recycling one of my canned responses to when we’ll have kids or why I ‘m not pregnant.

At some point, you have to choose you. Sometimes that looks like selfishness, being disengaged, or a party pooper to others.

But if they only knew the real story…….

If you’re interested in purchasing Wish by Matthew Cordell, for you or a friend, you can do so here.

Happy Birthday, Prince (Even Though I Know You Did Not Celebrate Birthdays)

Since April 21, 2016, I have been in a weird place. A sad place. A celebratory place. A place of remembrance. A place of discovery. I told myself (and my hubby) that after today, I will make an honest attempt to move on. Its hard feeling like you lost someone you knew so well, that you really didn’t know, and didn’t know you.

Prince Rogers Nelson would have turned 58 today. He ~~was~~ is my favorite artist of all time. Please indulge me as I go off topic a little for today’s post as I give my tribute to him on the anniversary of his birth.

You may remember last year on mother’s day, I went alone to a Prince concert. Not only was that my way of escaping the infertile mother’s day blues, but it was also fulfilling a dream of mine since I was six years old: see Prince live in concert.

I’m not a fan because I thought he was sexy (though he has had his phases where, I can’t lie, he was lookin’ fine). I love Prince for his artistry and creativity. Even as a kid, I was just drawn to the music. At six years old, I didn’t know what a “sex fiend was”, but I loved the way the music sounded and felt. When I was 9 or 10, I asked my Mom if I could go to see Prince in concert (it was 1988, Lovesexy tour). Of course the answer was “No”, but what 10 year old asks with all sincerity to go to a Prince concert? Me. When I decided I wanted to be a creative when I was around 13 or 14, I really started to appreciate him on another level. By high school, I was fully immersed in all things Prince. Reading books, buying up CDs new and old, examining and dissecting lyrics. He made it OK to be different. When I was a teenager, I was that kid that stepped juuuust outside the box. Enough to not be the same (because I never, even to this day want to be the same as everyone else), but not enough that people thought I was strange. Just kinda weird. When I was in the 10th grade, I had this hat that was…different. I can’t explain it with words. But I loved it, and it was me. One day, a security guard at school said to me: “That is the ugliest cute hat I’ve ever seen.” It was the best compliment to me. It made me love the hat even more. That’s the confidence Prince gave me: I could wear ‘ugly-cute’ things with pride. I mean, it takes a certain amount of confidence, and zero-f**k giving to be a grown man rocking 4 inch heels, wear eyeliner, and pants with you ass cheeks out. Prince made me OK with who I was.

Young Prince lookin good1 If I were 14 and not all of 1 or 2 when this poster was out... — Young Prince lookin’ good!
If I were 14 and not all of 1 or 2 when this poster was out…

Going through teenage angst, and the uncertainty of my 20s, and feeling like I didn’t quite fit in, even with friends all around, his music gave me a place to feel comfortable. When I needed creative inspiration, he provided it. When I was in love, or when I was heartbroken, he had a song that somehow expressed exactly what I felt in my soul. He was a friend I never met in person. An inspiration. He was everything I wanted to be as an artist.

He introduced me to new sounds of music. Because his music was everything from R&B, to Rock, I began to appreciate forms of music I might not have otherwise. He helped me expanded my mind and my world.

And, I can’t lie. I think I learned about kissing from Prince. When I saw Prince kiss Apollonia in Purple Rain, I just knew when I got older and got a boyfriend…that’s how it was gonna be. (well…..)

What was portrayed as arrogance and weirdness: not wanting to talk to people, being so tightly in control of his image, being a perfectionist: I understood. He was (I’m almost positive) an introvert. Introverts in general have little to no patience for small talk, or being “fake”, and keep their world small, keeping those they trust and like most close.

But of course, Prince was not perfect, and was, after all, human. Prince comes with a story of loss that does relate to infertility. In 1996, he and his first wife Mayte Garcia lost their son to a rare genetic disorder just one week after birth. Mayte recently admitted to losing a second pregnancy to miscarriage not long after. The pain of those losses seem to have taken a huge toll on their marriage. Its a reminder to us, that while we have a lot of emotions and feelings about not conceiving or losing a pregnancy, we’re not in it alone. Our partner also experiences disappointment, fear, loss, and heartbreak.

Prince was not afraid to speak his mind. About the record industry. About God. About Chemtrails. About Black Lives.

He gave anonymously to libraries, music programs, and schools. He quietly donated money to the family of Travon Martin. He stood up for Black empowerment.

He was a Philanthropist and humanitarian.

As much as I, and all of the Purple Army feel like we knew him, the truth is we didn’t know all of him. We knew the parts of him he allowed us to know. The recent medical examiner’s report released June 2, 2016 lists the cause of death as accidental. Cause: overdose of Fentanyl.

I struggle with this, as he was known to be a clean eater. A vegan. Not a drinker or smoker, or into drugs. But after years of doing splits, leaping off of speakers and pianos, and wearing four-inch heels, I’m sure his body paid the price. Even after hip surgery, I’m sure some level of pain persisted. My understanding of chronic pain is not much, but I know that it can be debilitating.

If he did become dependent on painkillers to perform, it doesn’t change the way I feel. If anything, I have empathy. Both Prince and Michael Jackson were so in love with music and performing, and wanted perfection, that they pushed themselves to the extreme limits. Literally wearing themselves out. Possibly not only numbing the physical pain but emotional and spiritual pain from the past as well.

I fully expected Prince to be walking out on a stage in full swagger and guitar strapped around him when he was 80 years old, still tearing it up. We just can’t believe he’s not here. I know I can’t

Picture credit: Billboard 2016 — Notes, flowers, and more left at Paisley Park Picture credit:
Billboard 2016

Since April 21, the world has been mourning and celebrating: Dance parties, tribute bands, memorials, Facebook groups, Instagram pages, and movie marathons. People are fully taking advantage of the temporary leniency and distraction of his attorneys, posting concert footage, rare interviews, and music on YouTube (They are back on it now, and videos are coming down with the quickness) Then of course, there was Madonna’s tribute…

It remains to be seen if BET will live up to their claims in the shadiest promo that’s ever been shown. (See what I did there Prince fans) Today they announced some of the artists scheduled to perform in the BET tribute.

We shall see….

The point is, today, I want to say Happy Born Day Prince Rogers Nelson!

Artist. Humanitarian. Visionary. Businessman. Teacher. Performer. Human. Friend. Alexander Nevermind. Jamie Starr. The Kid. Camille. “That skinny mothaf***a’ with the high voice”. Christopher Tracy. The Artist. Genius.

You’ve given us all so much. I know you are with God, and you will live forever through your music and philanthropy.

Peace and Be Wild.

Welcome 2 The Dawn

Doin’ Too Much: Surgery, Change, and my Holiday

Most people’s holiday seasons are filled with family, food, drinks, and relaxation. Mine had some of that, but also included hysteroscopy, estrogen, moving, and bed rest.

In short, I’ve been having issues with my cycle, and my RE and gynecologist both suggested going back to my surgeon to get a better look at what is happening. My GYN suspected Asherman’s Syndrome.

The Monday after Thanksgiving, I went in for a laproscopy and hysteroscopy. The surgeon did find some scar tissue that formed since the last procedure and removed it. He also found a tear that he repaired. I was put on a two month regimen of low dose estrogen (to be followed by 15 days of progesterone) to help restore my thinned lining. He also inserted a cook ballon to try to minimize scarring and adhesion inside my uterus. I had to keep the balloon in for 7 days. It was not the most comfortable thing in the world. I went the office the following week to have it removed. Having it taken out was uncomfortable more than it was painful.

The estrogen so far has given me headaches (the first week or so), and had my face broke out like I was 13. Right now, nothing major in terms of side effects, but the first two weeks…….

This picture does my breakout no justice. My skin was horrible. I haven’t had a breakout like that since I was 13 or 14. Yay estrogen.

The procedure seemed to go pretty well, and I recovered well that day, but I didn’t bounce back like I thought I would. When I had this same thing done in 2013, I flew out to Atlanta the next day for work. Was I 100%? No, but I was at least at 75% This time, it took me about four days to feel back to normal. By the time I was feeling close to normal….it was time to pack up to move…to an entirely new city. I was limited in what I could do in terms of lifting, but I did move a suitcase that was a little heavier than I thought, and immediately felt weird. I knew I needed to sit my ass down and not lift anything. Which I did…for a few days, then I did it again. My doctor said I irritated the muscles in the pelvic area, take it easy.

I did….a little, but then it was Christmas. I had done no Christmas shopping, my mom was coming to stay with us for two days, which means I had to clean, and I had to cook my contributions to Christmas dinner. Which means, not much rest, but a lot of 800mg ibuprofen.

Finally, I was able to rest for a few days, and I do feel mostly better, after a month.

This procedure was important for me because this is the set up work to see if I can carry a baby. Aside from my left tube being blocked (not such a big deal), my lining is thin and my uterus is small. These things might keep me from carrying my own baby. I go back in April for another scope, to see if the hormones have made my lining thicken at all, and if having the balloon in for 7 days helped with the adhesion/scarring. As much as I try to downplay this as a minor procedure, it is a big deal, and I’m a little worried that all that I had going on immediately after the procedure may affect the final outcome.

We do this a lot, those of us who struggle. We don’t want to break down in front of those who know what we’re going through(or even those who don’t). We don’t want to admit the stakes even to ourselves sometimes in order to keep our peace and a little sanity. But, we need to. We have to come to terms with what is happening with our bodies and what is our options are.

The good news in all of this is: NO Fibroids were found! Two years fibroid free since my June 2013 Myomectomy.

Happy New Year

Doing Big Things!

For all of the years I’ve lived in the DC area, I’ve never been to any official, (or unofficial for that matter) CBC events. Why? I don’t know. Probably the same reason I’ve never been to a HBCU homecoming: I just haven’t. Howard is right down the road, and I have several friends that are HBCU Alumni. There’s no excuse. Yes, I know my Black Card may be in question for never experiencing homecoming. I’m accepting all invites, since it is homecoming season if anyone wants to help me rectify that situation.

This year, I finally made it to CBC, and not just to party. The White Dress Project, a non-profit that advocates for uterine fibroid research and education, held two events and raised the profile of the organization and fibroid awareness.

Congressional Briefing (minus Me) Photo Credit: White Dress Project Facebook — Congressional Briefing (minus me)
Photo Credit: White Dress Project Facebook

On Wednesday, a few members of the WDP, along with several medical professionals, participated in a congressional briefing on Uterine Fibroid Education and Awareness hosted by Rep. David Scott of Georgia.

This was really the highlight and the most important part of being at CBC. I had on my schedule, and planned to be there, but unfortunately I had to cancel out at the last-minute. I was definitely in my office with the pouty face because I had to miss it.

This briefing was a major step in getting the cause out there and helping to earn support for officially designating July as Fibroid Awareness Month. Mr. Scott already introduced HR RES. 268 at the end of the last legislative term, “Supporting the designation of July 2015 as Uterine Fibroids Awareness Month”.

The next day, the DMV Leadership of the White Dress Project hosted an event. Part social, part informative. The ladies gathered health professionals, including a therapist, an OBGYN, and a surgeon, who happened to be my surgeon Dr. MacKoul, to answer questions, talk about the epidemic if uterine fibroids, treatment options, and how to deal with the emotional effects of living with fibroids.

White Dress Project DMV Social at CBC (I didn't realize we were not doing the silly faces anymore...) Photo Credit: White Dress Project Facebook — White Dress Project DMV Social at CBC
(I didn’t realize we were *not* doing the silly faces anymore…)

The really great thing about the event was not only meeting other women affected by fibroids, but hearing everyone’s stories. Being able to relate to taking hormones, or having to pee every five minutes, or the literal and figurative weight that is lifted once the fibroids are removed. To see how everyone bounced back, and in spite of possibly having fibroids re-appear, or questions on fertility post myomectomy, the determination to move forward, and excitement of these ladies to educate others and advocate on uterine fibroids was amazing.

I was so excited to meet new women, and finally get to meet the White Dress Project founder, Tanika Gray, because……

I will be working with the White Dress Project as an ambassador, working to raise awareness and get Fibroid Awareness Month recognized on a State level!

I’m so excited about this opportunity! Please stay tuned for more updates, posts, and events on my journey with the White Dress Project.