Waiting for a crumbcake

Normal, or not

2006-11-13T14:19:00.000-08:00

Last Friday J administered my final PIO shot. No more greeting the day with a poke in the ass. Hallelujah. On Saturday we celebrated by sleeping in well past the normal injection time. I would have slept in even longer, but my bladder refused to play along. That's happening more and more these days.

It seemed strange to me that you quit PIO cold-turkey. One day your body gets extra progesterone, the next day it doesn't. How does that make sense? I asked the RE. He said your body starts making progesterone at around 7 weeks. He rather sheepishly admitted that in theory we could have stopped doing the shots around that time, but that they recommend continuing in the name of caution. I'm all for caution when it comes to maintaining this pregnancy, so I didn't complain. In fact, I told him I'd continue the shots through the entire pregnancy if he told me it would help. "No doubt," he said. "You'd stand on your head for three hours a day if I told you it would help." Sadly, he's right.

So, for the first time in longer than I can remember, the only medication I'm on is prenatal vitamins. My RE said that at this point my pregnancy is no different than any other pregnancy, and I am no different than any other pregnant woman.

Except that I am. The scars of infertility don't magically disappear once you become pregnant. You've read that same statement on a million other pregnancy-after-infertility blogs, and it's true. You worked a lot harder to get to this point than most of the other pregnant women out there, and somehow that's significant. It makes you different and it makes you feel differently about your pregnancy.

I recently trolled through some popular pregnancy message boards and found I just couldn't relate to the other women. Those 23-year-olds who tried for 6 weeks, or women pregnant with their 4th, or those who "weren't even trying! LOL!" Their stories simply aren't my story.

I'm going to have to find a good pregnancy-after-infertility message board. Somewhere where pronouncements like, "I'm more bloated now than I was even after my egg retrieval" or "I haven't seen a doctor in two weeks and I'm in withdrawal" won't fall on deaf ears. At least somewhere where I'll never again have to read the statement, "Vaginal ultrasounds? I didn't even know they did those. Gross!"

I mean, seriously.

2006-11-07T15:03:00.000-08:00

If I thought the heartbeat was the most magical sight I had ever seen, I was wrong. Today we saw two arms, two legs, and one rather large head. The crumb even performed for us, waving its little arms and bopping its head. I had no idea it was moving around so much in there. It measured right on track at 9w3d with a heart rate of 175 bpm.

I never thought this day would come. This day when we felt we might really have a chance, that this might actually work. Don't get me wrong, I'm not rushing out to buy a crib and highchair, but this is certainly more hopeful than we have ever been.

All through this journey, I never let myself daydream about having children. I never pictured myself holding my baby or taking my child to his first day of school. I never imagined first steps, first words, bedtime kisses, or morning smiles. It was simply too painful.

But now I can start to see it. Just little glimpses, snatches of the future. The curl of a lock of hair, the dimples on a knee, the warmth of another being against my chest. I can start to see it. I can start to see my family.

Smack down

2006-11-06T15:30:00.000-08:00

J and I have been feeling good lately. Things are finally falling into place for us. We sold our house for more than we asked. J just found out he'll be able to keep his job when we move to the East coast next month. We've started to let ourselves believe that we just might have a baby sometime next spring. In short, we've been happy.

And then came the shock of blood on toilet paper the other night. I've spotted in the past, but this was more blood than before. It was mostly brown, but with enough of a tinge of red to be worrisome. The bleeding didn't last long and I feel fairly confident that things are fine, but seeing the blood was a karmic smack-down of sorts. A reminder of just how quickly this happiness could be snatched away.

J and I have been suitably humbled and we spent the weekend avoiding talk of the future. For my part, I spent the weekend lying on the couch drinking copious amounts of water. Our next ultrasound is tomorrow morning. I so want to see that little heart beating again.

The most boring post ever

2006-10-31T09:56:00.000-08:00

I'll just apologize for that upfront. There has been much going on, but little that's of general interest. Our house has been on the market for just under a week. Thankfully the Seattle housing market is still relatively hot, and we accepted a nice offer last night. If all goes smoothly, we'll move in early December.

J and I went to a mountain resort last weekend to escape the realtors and the masses tramping through our house. It was lovely. We napped and read and sat by the fire. On Sunday morning we got up early and went for a lovely hike through the hills. Not long after we returned, the sun gave way to howling winds and snow flurries. The resort lost power. Quite dramatic.

My symptoms are increasing somewhat. Food, a passion in the past, now holds little interest. My queasiness is stronger, particularly in the morning hours, but it's still not terrible. Mostly I'm just tired. Bone tired. All the time. If I thought my body was not my own while trying to get pregnant, it's even less so now now that I am. Simply put, I am at the mercy of the crumbcake.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

(I'm way, way, way behind on reading all your blogs. My thoughts are with you, and hopefully my comments will be soon to follow. I'm traveling for business this week, but will try to catch up with you all as soon as I can.)

So that's what a heartbeat looks like

2006-10-24T15:52:00.000-07:00

And it's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. That glorious little flicker beating even faster than I imagined. A strong 160 bpm. Dr. Gentle said the baby is measuring right on track at about the size of a lima bean. J said he's never loved lima beans so much.

We go back in 2 weeks for another scan. Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers.

The moment before knowing

2006-10-23T20:10:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is the day. I've weathered the last 3+ weeks relatively well, but I'm starting to come apart at the seams. There is just so much riding on this ultrasound. I can honestly say I have never wanted something more in all my life.

I don't have much in the way of symptoms, and that's making me nervous. I'm tired, but that's as likely to be a result of the non-stop packing and cleaning we've been doing trying to get the house ready to put on the market. I'm mildly queasy throughout the day, but nothing I'd call nausea. I wish there was more to report, but there's not.

My appointment is not until tomorrow afternoon. Of all the time we've been waiting, the moment I am dreading most is sitting on the exam table waiting for the doctor to arrive. That moment before knowing. Part of me wanting more than anything to know the answer, and part of me wanting to clutch that paper sheet around me and make a run for it.

Because no matter what the ultrasound shows, after tomorrow life will never be the same. For good or for bad.

Anniversary

2006-10-20T15:08:00.000-07:00

It was five years ago today. On a crisp fall day that couldn't have been more perfect had we ordered it from a catalog. So perfect, in fact, that our indoor wedding became an outdoor wedding under a canopy of autumn leaves. We danced, we laughed, we kissed. A lot. We were surrounded by family and friends. We had lost too many people that year (my grandfather only the day before), but they were there with us too.

My heart was full. Despite everything we have been through ... or maybe because of it ... it still is.

J, I will love you forever.

Eh, what's up doc?

2006-10-19T13:17:00.000-07:00

J gave me my PIO shot the other morning as usual. As he was massaging the injection site, he started whistling the overture to the Barber of Seville. (I know. All I can say is J knows a lot of random and completely useless things.) Anyway, here's the conversation that followed.

Me: What are you whistling?
J: It's from the Barber of Seville.
Me: Why in the world is that going through your head?
J: It's from that Bugs Bunny cartoon where Bugs Bunny massages Elmer Fudd's head while giving him a shave. You know, the one where Bugs is a barber?
Me: Uh huh. (pause) So what you're telling me is that my butt reminds you of Elmer Fudd's bald head?
J: Well it doesn't sound so good when you put it like that.
Me: How exactly does it sound good?
J: (pause) I see your point.

Hope and joy

2006-10-17T11:58:00.000-07:00

This pregnancy has been very different than my last, but not in the way I expected. I expected to be filled with anxiety. I expected to be overrun by the fear of what might happen, of things ending the way they did last time. But I haven't been. Instead I have been ... happy. There is more joy than fear, more excitement than anxiety. Not that I don't have my anxious moments, believe me I do. But hope is proving stronger than fear.

I spent the few short weeks of my last pregnancy consumed by anxiety. I worried over every symptom or lack of symptom, and fretted that things would end badly. I told close friends that I was pregnant "for now." I left the door open for bad news. But the day before my 7-week ultrasound I had an epiphany of sorts. I was having lunch with a non-IF friend. She told me she spent the majority of her pregnancy worried that something would go wrong. Of course it didn't, and she has a healthy, beautiful little girl. It occurred to me that I could spend all my time worrying about my pregnancy like she did, but it wouldn't change the outcome, for good or for bad.

I realized that if something went wrong, it wouldn't hurt any less because I had chosen to remain cautious and guarded. There was no protecting myself from that pain, so I might as well give myself over to the joy of being pregnant. And so I did. For one glorious day. The next day we learned there was no heartbeat, and I learned I was right: it didn't hurt any less for having remained guarded. Nothing I did could have made it hurt less.

So, this time, from the moment we got the positive beta, I gave myself fully to the pregnancy. I am determined to enjoy every minute of it, for as long as it lasts. I'm not afraid to use the p-word, I'm not afraid I'll jinx it. I don't know what's going to happen a week from today at our ultrasound, but I know I'm going to go into it with hope and with joy.

...Okay, hope, joy and a good measure of anxiety. I'm still human after all.

Diversions with bubble wrap

2006-10-13T12:03:00.000-07:00

I've been the master of diversion lately. Anything to keep my mind from obsessing over every twinge, every symptom, and every anti-symptom. In theory I'm at 6 weeks today. No major symptoms except for boobs that seem to weigh 8 pounds more than they did a few weeks ago. Like lead balloons, these suckers.

My primary source of distraction has been packing. We have two big portable storage containers sitting outside our house waiting to be filled. We're getting as much crap as we can out of the house now so we can put it on the market in a few weeks. J and a friend will be doing the heavy lifting this weekend. I will be doing the bossing around.

In news from the other side of the country, we finally broke ground on our remodel. This is the house we will eventually be moving to. It looks so very sad with it's ruffled shingles, missing front steps, and exposed foundation. Okay, it looked pretty sad even before all that, but now even more so.

But one day it's going to be a gem. A four-bedroom gem. That's a lot of bedrooms for just the two of us. Crap, this had better work.

And the wait goes on and on and on

2006-10-10T10:06:00.000-07:00

Thank you all for your opinions on my last post (and for your sympathy!). But it turns out the fretting was all for naught. I don't have any more control over scheduling an ultrasound than I do the rest of this crap IF journey.

J and I decided we wanted to schedule the appointment for the 19th. I called the clinic only to find out my RE is booked that day. We were on the fence between the 19th and the 23rd, so I wasn't disappointed. I figured it was fate pushing us to the 23rd. Or not. Turns out my RE is "not available" on the 23rd. Not available? How the hell can that be? Is he taking a personal day? A professional development day? Who exactly does he think he is? Bah.

So our appointment is on the 24th. The 24th! That's a full two weeks from today. Excuse me while I go beat my head against the wall.

Now I know I've brought this all on myself. I could have scheduled the ultrasound with another doctor at the clinic. And I could have scheduled the appointment to be on our anniversary. But I've been bitten once by the 7-week ultrasound and now I'm twice shy. If I'm going to get bad news again, I need it to be on my terms.

I truly hope I look back on this in a month or two and laugh at how completely ridiculous I was to worry so much. But what's that they say? Expect the worst but hope for the best?

I've now got two more weeks to hope.

Dilemma

2006-10-09T11:44:00.000-07:00

J and I have a bit of a dilemma. We were told to schedule our 7-week ultrasound on October 20th. October 20th happens to be our 5-year wedding anniversary. On first glance this seems like kismet. What could be more perfect than celebrating your wedding anniversary by seeing your baby's heartbeat for the first time? But I know you all immediately see the rub: what if we don't see the heartbeat?

If the worst happens (and we know it can), that memory will forever be associated with our wedding anniversary. One of our saddest days eternally linked with one of our happiest. While there's a terrible beauty in that ying-and-yang, I'd much prefer to leave our anniversary unmarred. There is not much in our lives that remains untouched by infertility. I want our anniversary to be one of them.

Instead we could schedule the ultrasound for the 19th. But is that really much better? I don't remember the date in June when we learned that I would miscarry my first pregnancy, and I'm grateful for that because it spares me having to relive the precise moment year after year. But the 19th is a day I would remember simply because it's the day before our anniversary.

As luck would -- or wouldn't -- have it, October 20th is a Friday. So, if we wanted to wait until after our anniversary to do the ultrasound, we'd have to wait until the 23rd. That's three more days of torture. It's the best option in terms of preserving the joy of our anniversary, but it's the worst in terms of my sanity. I'm actually doing okay with the wait at the moment, but who knows how I'll feel next week? Each day gets a little bit harder.

So, what should we do? Risk it and schedule the ultrasound on the 19th? Or figure we've waited this long, we can wait three more days? What would you do?

A new kind of crazy

2006-10-03T16:34:00.000-07:00

My second beta came in at 456. That makes for a doubling time of about 42 hours, so it appears we're headed down the right path. It also means we'll be left to fret away on our own for the next three weeks since there's no more scheduled monitoring until our 7-week ultrasound.

But I have a confession to make. Because our last IVF attempt ended in miscarriage, our nurse offered us additional monitoring if it would give us peace of mind. She said we could do more blood tests or schedule an earlier ultrasound. It was a kind offer, but J and I have decided not to take her up on it.

"What?!? Are you insane? An infertile woman refusing freely-offered monitoring? You give infertiles a bad name, you wench."

I know that's what you're thinking. Admit it. And, yes, maybe we are. But additional monitoring isn't going to change the outcome of this pregnancy, and it's unlikely to contribute any real peace of mind. What if we scheduled a 6-week ultrasound and there was no heartbeat? We'd agonize over whether development had stopped or whether it was simply too early. How would that make us feel any better? Yes, they could do measurements and make sure things were still on track, but I'm not sure that would be enough reassurance. Besides, we lost the last pregnancy sometime between weeks 6 and 7, so a 6-week (or earlier) ultrasound is unlikely to mean much.

Instead we'll hunker down for the 3ww. We'll do everything we can to ensure a happy ending: continue the PIO shots, eat healthy, stay hydrated, watch America's Next Top Model and Project Runway because the embryos like that. And we'll hope. We'll hope. It's all we can do.

Second chances

2006-10-01T17:15:00.000-07:00

We got good news today. My beta was 208. Not as high as the first time we got a positive beta back in May, but good enough.

J and I feel we've been given a second chance. We're more cautious in accepting the good news this time around because we know what can happen, but we feel so very blessed. I don't know how this will end, but I'm determined to treasure every minute of it.

Next beta is on Tuesday.

Speaking of poor decisions

2006-09-30T12:55:00.000-07:00

My beta is tomorrow.

I've done a good job of remaining upbeat and cautiously hopeful all week. But in these final hours my confidence is failing me. I'm convinced I'm experiencing PMS symptoms.

So, what am I doing this afternoon to keep myself entertained and distracted? A trip to the movies? Nope. Some time at the spa? No. Shoe shopping? I wish. A poke in the eye with a sharp stick? Getting closer. Spending the afternoon babysitting the world's most adorable 1-year-old? Bingo!

What the hell was I thinking?

Simplifying

2006-09-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

In the coming months, J and I will undertake a cross-country move. We're leaving our beloved Seattle in favor of my home town in Massachusetts. Our plan has always been to move back closer to family. We bought a little fixer-upper a while back and are due to break ground on a remodel soon. Timing our move has been a challenge complicated by our reproductive adventures. But come hell or high water, we're moving before the end of the year.

In preparation for that, we've begun all the random home improvement projects that need to happen before we put our Seattle house on the market. You know, the stuff you probably should have attended to years ago but never did? The other weekend, for example, I cleaned out the pantry.

And thus commenced the great Wheat Thin massacre of 2006.

Our house is where Wheat Thins, and their brethren the Triscuit, go to die. I'm too embarrassed to recount the precise number of unopened, expired boxes of crackers that met their demise in the recesses of my pantry, but suffice it to say it could keep a small nation in kitschy hors d'oeuvres for a good long time. And I can do nothing but blame it on my mother. She always has a box of Wheat Thins in her pantry, and now I feel compelled to always have one in mine -- what else to serve to unexpected guests? Except, we never do have unexpected guests in want of a Wheat Thin, and we never eat them ourselves. But that doesn't stop me from buying them. Compulsively.

The other thing we did that weekend was sort through and pack up boxes and boxes of books. We're trying to simplify, so we decided to sell certain titles to a local used book store. I added most of my general IF books to the pile (with the exception of Alice Domar's Conquering Infertility; I still have two copies of that one). It's a stack of books that used to enjoy residence on my bedside table. I'd pour over chapters on charting your cycle, acupuncture, foods to avoid when you have endometriosis, what to expect from an IUI cycle, an IVF cycle.

I added those books to the to-sell pile because I realized there's nothing they can teach me anymore. I've charted my cycle. I've done acupuncture. I've had surgery for endometriosis and fibroids. I've done IUIs. I've done IVFs. What's left? I'm not saying I'm an expert (although I'm more of an expert than I ever wanted to be). It's more an indication that we're reaching the end of our road. It's like selling back your college textbooks at the end of the semester. We've done our research, we studied hard, we took all the practice quizzes. Now all that's left is the final exam.

PIO: Pain no more

2006-09-27T16:44:00.000-07:00

There are not many upsides to being an IVF verteran. But one of them is learning how to handle your shots. What scared you most before your first IVF gets hardly a thought by the time you're on your third. And I'm proud (and somewhat depressed) to report that J and I have mastered the PIO shot. Yes, mastered. No pain, minimal bruising and a daily butt massage just to keep the spice in our marriage.

For those of you struggling with PIO shots or the idea of PIO shots, I thought I'd share what works for us. The patented Sube Method requires help from a friend. It won't work for you brave, brave ladies who do the shot yourself. But then, if you can manage to do the shot yourself, you clearly don't need my assvice.

Pre-shot:
Place a warm heating pad on your rump for 5-10 minutes. It's best if the heating pad has a removable foam insert that you can wet. Wet heat works better than dry heat. Meanwhile, have your hubby warm the oil by holding the syringe in his hand or under his arm.

Shot:
Here's the secret: do the shot laying down. This was a huge revelation for us. All last cycle we did it standing up (er, that sounds naughty) and it was definitely hit or miss: sometimes painless other times hurting like the dickens. The key is to lie on your stomach with your feet hanging off the end of the bed. That makes it really easy to keep your butt muscles relaxed even if the rest of you isn't. Then tell your hubby to plunge away (er, again, naughty). The more confidence he has the better. Being tentative only makes it hurt more.

Post-shot:
Get your hubby to rub your butt to distribute the oil, then apply the heating pad for another 10 minutes or so.

Voila! Pain-free (or mostly pain-free) PIO shots.

In want of resolution

2006-09-25T15:40:00.000-07:00

I just scheduled my beta blood draw for next Sunday. That's six days and counting for those of you playing along at home. Friends invited us to visit them at their lovely island home that Sunday, but we politely declined. No matter what the results are, it will be an emotional day. They don't need to be witness to my blubbering and/or sobbing. I'm not exactly a pretty crier. Besides, they're 5 months pregnant. Need I say more?

The thing I've realized about next Sunday is that we'll have an answer -- am I pregnant or not -- but what we won't have is a resolution. And it's a resolution I so desperately want (well, okay, it's a baby I so desperately want, but that goes without saying, doesn't it?). I am so ready to get off this IF roller coaster, but I don't see that happening any time soon.

If the beta is positive, we'll be thrilled, of course we will. But we'll also be terrified. We know all to well that a positive beta doesn't necessarily mean a baby in nine months. It's merely the first of many hurdles and from that moment on the anxiety will be off and running at full speed. As an IFer, there's no resting easy after a positive beta. As an IFer who's had a miscarriage, there's really no resting easy after a positive beta.

Nor is there resting easy after a negative beta. I don't think I've blogged about this yet -- it's hard to see it in writing -- but this is most likely our last cycle. My eggs seem to get crappier by the day, and more than that, I just don't think we have the emotional fortitude for another cycle. So I don't know where a negative beta would leave us. But I do know it would mean many many more months of soul searching and grieving. Not exactly a speedy resolution.

After my miscarriage, I told myself that I just needed to get through one more cycle. To just hold on long enough to make it through the shots, the monitoring, the procedures, the beta. I didn't think about getting through the aftermath, be it positive or negative.

But there's no turning around now. We must forge ahead trusting that someday this will all be over. Someday J and I will be sharing a cup of coffee on a quiet Sunday morning and we'll think back to when we were on the roller coaster. The pain will still be there, but it will be duller. The rough edges will have softened. We'll feel grateful to have moved beyond it even though we know it will never entirely leave us. And with any luck, we'll sigh, take a sip of coffee, and then go make breakfast for the kids.

First and ten

2006-09-19T14:24:00.000-07:00

For those of you who understood the 4th and long football analogy from my last post, here's another: we got the first down.

Two of our four embryos were of "excellent" quality. The RE said they looked even better than the embryos from our last cycle, which was (if only for a short time) a success. Sadly, the other two embryos are not progressing nearly as well and it's unlikely they'll make it to blastocyst stage to be frozen. We're disappointed about that, but mostly we're giddy. Two excellent embryos! Better even than last time! Considering we weren't sure we'd even have anything to transfer, that's exceedingly good news.

So this morning (day 3) we transferred one 8-cell and one 7-cell embryo. The picture is a bit wacky, but aren't they just lovely?

Beta is on October 1.

Fragile

2006-09-17T20:55:00.000-07:00

There is good news. The retrieval went well. Mostly pain free, except for the three tries it took to get the IV in place. And they got 13 eggs. By my standards, that's pretty impressive.

And then there is bad news. Of the 13 eggs retrieved, nine were mature. Of those nine, only four fertilized. The rest were too "fragile" to make it through the ICSI process.

Fragile. How ironic. It's a word I've thought of often over the past few months. I never used to think of myself as fragile, but as disappointments have piled themselves on one after the other, I feel more and more so. Is it possible that my eggs inherited my emotional state?

We're scheduled for a day 3 transfer on Tuesday. J, ever the optimist, reminds me we're still in the game. I know he's right. I just wish it wasn't 4th and long.

30-second post

2006-09-15T19:13:00.000-07:00

I triggered last night. Retrieval is at 8:00 am tomorrow morning. I'm nervous. Go figure.

More details tomorrow.

Day 10: Fun with cysts

2006-09-13T17:43:00.000-07:00

I have a paraovarian cyst. It's a cyst that lives on the outside of my ovary and it's really no big deal. But it looks just like a follicle and shows up every time I have an ultrasound. And every time the wandmaiden pauses on the cyst and we all say hello. Just to remind ourselves that it's there. Today's ultrasound was no different: say hello to the paraovarian cyst, and then count and measure follicles.

But today the wandmaiden focused in on one particular follicle and started to measure, and I said, "Hey, isn't that the paraovarian cyst?" She stopped, moved the wand around a bit to get a different view, and said, "Oh, yeah, it is."

How sad is it that I can now distinguish my paraovarian cyst on an ultrasound? Instead of using the phrase "I know it like the back of my hand" I really should be saying, "I know it like the outside of my ovary."

Paraovarian cysts aside, I have 7 follicles that are greater than 14 mm (the point at which my clinic thinks they can reasonably expect a mature egg) and 8 others that are greater than 10 mm but less than 14 mm. My E2 is at 1513. We're doing one more day of stims in the hopes that some of the smaller ones will catch up. Another wanding is scheduled for tomorrow morning.

Is it day 8 already?

2006-09-11T17:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Internets,

I've been laying low this past week. You may have noticed? It's not that I don't love you. I do. But sometimes you demand more of me than I am able to give. Remember I told you about my need for self-preservation? Well, that manifested itself last week in a compulsion to ignore all things bloggy and focus instead on all things ice cream. The ice cream helped, and I'm better now. Thank you for asking.

Day 5 of stims came and went last Friday with little more than a yawn. Per usual, the bloodletting was a bear. And unsuccessful. An unsuccessful bear. They never did manage to get my blood, despite digging around in both arms for a good 20 minutes. But no matter, the ultrasound showed 14 promising follicles.

Today was day 8 of stims. And day 8 was lovely because it featured an (almost) painless blood draw! One poke and a little bit of digging, and presto! there was blood. I can't remember the last time I had such an uneventful blood draw. It made me so giddy I wanted to kiss the phlebotomist. But that would have been inappropriate, so I didn't. Instead I just made googly eyes at her.

My ultrasound showed 12 follicles between 9 and 14 mm. The wandmaiden assured me that was good. Last cycle at this point I was flirting with a mere 6 or 7 follicles, so 12 sounds downright gratuitous to me. My E2 came back at 859.

I'm scheduled for another wanding on Wednesday (day 10 of stims). I'll be sure to let you know how it goes. Wish me luck on the blood draw. Until then, kisses.

Your BFF,
Sube

Pleased

2006-09-01T10:24:00.000-07:00

These have been grumpy days. There are no two ways about it.

I'm frustrated that we have to do another cycle. I'm angry. I feel so very put-upon. I've made that abundantly clear in my posts over the past few weeks. To the point that Thalia wondered in one of her comments if there wasn't any joy at all? Nope. Not much right now, I'm afraid.

So how is it that there's this new little flutter in my chest? A slight lightening of my spirit? Why is it that when I take a look around, things don't seem quite as grim as they did before? I can only conclude that I have somehow, against my best efforts, managed to find some hope. Well, crap. What am I supposed to do with that?

At my suppression check today I had no cysts. I had one large-ish follicle at 8mm, but they weren't concerned about it. The wandmaiden counted 17 antral follicles. Seventeen! I don't remember exactly how many I've had in the past, but I know I'm not usually in double-digits territory. My RE said he was "pleased." Not pleased enough to lower my outrageous Follistim dose, but pleased nonetheless.

And somehow, though I cringe when I say it, I'm pleased too. Heaven help me.

The obligatory calendar post

2006-08-28T17:22:00.000-07:00

Some of you have asked about timing for IVF#3. And since I keep forgetting myself, it's probably best to get it in print.

Aug-31: Suppression check
Sep-02: Start Microdose Lupron injections (10 units twice daily)
Sep-04: Start stims (525 units* Follistim + 75 units Menopur); continue Microdose Lupron
Sep-08: Day 5 monitoring
Sep-11: Day 8 monitoring
Sep-16: Retrieval +/- a day or two

* Yes, I'm a Follistim whore. I simply can't get enough of the stuff. No, OHSS is not in my vocabulary.

I'm still resigned about this cycle, still in self-preservation mode, but I'm ready to get started. I'm ready to start moving forward again. Which is good, considering the train starts rolling on Thursday whether I'm ready or not.

Duck and cover

2006-08-21T18:22:00.000-07:00

Super-heated wind roaring up to 300 miles per hour. A landslide that covered 23 square miles in debris. Scorching pyroclastic flows incinerating everything in their path. A cloud of ash that circled the globe.

That was the Mount St. Helens volcano in May 1980. We saw the evidence of that violent eruption this summer -- 26 years later -- while hiking in the area. The side of the mountain was ripped open. An ever-growing lava dome protruded from the crater like a big steaming wart. Trees lay where they fell all those years ago like matchsticks. And yet, there was life. Wildflowers, crickets, birds, deer. Death and destruction were returning to bloom.

Don't think the poignancy of all this escaped me. I can see the lessons here: all wounds heal, life is resilient, from pain blooms hope. Blah, blah, blah. The mountain is a cliche that smacks you over the head like one of those cheesy inspirational posters -- the kitten clinging to a tree branch that implores, "Hang in there!" Granted it's a breathtaking cliche, but a cliche none-the-less.

They estimate that over 7000 big game animals (deer, elk and bear) and nearly all smaller mammals died in the blast and its aftermath. But some rodents and frogs miraculously survived by burrowing underground and waiting it out. And that's the real lesson here, isn't it? Mother Nature can be one cranky bitch sometimes, and it's best to just scurry and hide until it all blows over.

That's my approach to IVF#3: duck and cover. It's a different approach than I've had for my previous cycles -- IVF#1 was about newbie excitement, IVF#2 was about fear of failure. For IVF#3 it all boils down to self-preservation, and that keeps it simple. There's less anxiety, less stress. All I have to do is remember to keep my head down and trust that some point it will all be over. One way or the other.

On the wagon

2006-08-16T17:38:00.000-07:00

We drove to Portland (Oregon) this weekend to visit with some friends. They're not friends we see often, and they're only peripherally aware of our IF status. We wandered around the city all afternoon engaging in many, many hours of small talk. It occurred to me that it's hard to make small talk when the things going on in your life aren't, well, small.

Wine with dinner -- at a fantastic Peruvian restaurant. Peruvian! Who knew? -- helped the conversation flow a bit more easily, as it is apt to do. And I can assure you, I enjoyed every last drop. Not only because it was priming the small talk pump, but also because I knew it would be some of my last for a while.

J and I agreed that as of today we would jump back on the wagon in preparation for our next cycle. We would have started the abstention sooner, but my lovely husband has a standing pub night with the boys on Tuesday nights and he wouldn't want to have to drink water all night while his friends downed microbrews. Imagine the horror! The embarrassment! The ridicule!

So, Chez Sube is a dry house these days. Nothing more exciting in the fridge than seltzer water and Follistim. Add a twist of lemon and you've got yourself a tasty little IF cocktail. Yum.

Trying again

2006-08-14T20:06:00.000-07:00

We've known all along we would try again. Even in the midst of our intense sadness after learning the baby had no heartbeat, we knew we'd try again. I can't speak for J on this one (he's the optimist in the family), but for me, doing another cycle isn't about hope. It's about obligation. It's something I feel I have to do. Not because I believe it will work, but because I can't give up. The fear of not trying is greater than the fear of trying.

So, we'll do another round of IVF using the same microdose Lupron protocol as last time. I'm on BCPs now and my suppression check is scheduled for sometime in early September. I don't actually know the date. All my meds arrive by mail tomorrow.

I don't feel hopeful. I don't feel positive; nor do I feel particularly negative. I'm just? Resigned. All I hope is to make it through this with some semblance of myself still intact.

Group hug

2006-08-10T21:54:00.000-07:00

How wonderful to read all your stories in response to my last post. I'm struck by how important this community is to all of us. No matter how we arrived in bloglandia, it's obvious what keeps us here. You ladies are the best.

(A note to Jess: I wanted to visit, but can't find your blog since your blogger profile isn't shared. What's the url?)

Why we blog

2006-08-08T22:11:00.000-07:00

Thalia's excellent post the other day about pregnancy blogging got me thinking about why we blog in the first place, why we expose ourselves in this most public of forums. I suspect our reasons are varied and common at the same time. Here's how I came to be a blogger.

It was late last year, when after countless Clomid cycles, abdominal surgery for fibroids and an endometrioma, and two failed IUIs, I began to realize I might be in this game for a while. And it occurred to me that someday in the distant future, when the rawness had faded, I might want to look back and remember this time in my life. I'm not sure what surprised me more, the idea that I might forget what IF felt like or the idea that I might want to remember.

But I picked up a pen, found a notebook, and started writing anyway. I was very disciplined and wrote an entry every day. For 3 whole days. And then I'd had enough.

I found having only myself as an audience was entirely unsatisfying. What was the point if only I would ever read it? The fact that pen and paper don't have a spell checker was also a definite issue. And then there was the problem of getting hit by a bus. I pictured J and my mother going through my things, coming across my journal and saying, "Oh? What's this?" The thought of them reading my blabberings was simply mortifying. I immediately burned my journal.

All the while I had been lurking on blogs. Blogs have spell checkers, so I decided to give it a try. I made a few cautious posts, but I didn't tell anyone about my blog and I didn't advertise my blogger profile. I was content just knowing my words were out there; it didn't matter whether or not anyone actually read them. It was the getting outside of my own head that was important. Annie Lamott explains it better in this passage from her wonderful book Bird by Bird:

"I understood immediately the thrill of seeing oneself in print. It provides some sort of primal verification: you are in print; therefore you exist. Who knows what this urge is all about, to appear somewhere outside yourself, instead of feeling stuck inside your muddled but stroboscopic mind, peering out like a little undersea animal -- a spiny blenny, for instance -- from inside your tiny cave?"

I existed outside myself. And after living with IF so long inside my own brain, it was a relief to unload into the ether.

But then one day it happened. I got a comment. I don't know how that first reader ever found me -- it was certainly through no doing of my own -- but I was floored. If seeing my words in print was primal verification, knowing that someone had read them and was moved to comment was exhilarating. It gave me the courage to delurk on blogs I had been reading, and that led to more comments on my own blog.

I didn't go into blogging wanting to be part of a community, but that's become the most rewarding part. Now I'm not only outside myself, but I'm part of something else. Something nurturing. And something that drives me to actually proofread and edit my posts. So now I'm not so worried about being hit by a bus. At least as long as I'm wearing clean underwear.

So why do you do blog? Is it for the camaraderie? For the attention? Or the cathartic release? Did you read IF blogs before cautiously starting your own, or did you jump in with both feet? I'm curious, how did it come about for you?

Assvice

2006-08-06T12:47:00.000-07:00

I love my family, I really do. And I've told you before what a great source of support they are for me. But nobody's perfect, especially family. Here's a sampling of the advice I got on my recent trip to the East Coast.

From my sister-in-law: You just need to keep a positive attitude.

From my cousin: You just need to move back near family, and then it will happen.

From my brother-in-law: You just need to put on the Jimmy Buffet, drink a few beers, and let the passion flow. (Yes, he really did say "let the passion flow." And let me tell you, coming from my brother-in-law? Ew.)

I don't think they actually believe the advice they're dishing out. It's that they just don't know what else to say. They don't know how to make it better. And they want so badly to make it better.

It's hard for the people who love us to watch us go through this and to feel so helpless. In the case of my family, they want this baby almost as much as we do. But more than that, they hate to see us in so much pain. The physical pain and the emotional pain. My Dad always tells me right before I'm to have a procedure, "Oh, Sube, I wish I could take your place. I'd do it for you if I could." And he would, except for that little bit about him not having ovaries.

So the assvice is the only thing they feel they have to offer. Misguided? Yes. But it comes from a place that is precious in its own right.

Normal

2006-08-03T17:40:00.000-07:00

Our baby was normal. That was the result from the karyotyping. I know this can be considered good news, but all it does is break my heart. We would have had a beautiful, normal baby with all its precious chromosomes intact. It occurred to me afterwards that my RE surely knows the sex of the baby. I've decided I won't ask, since no good can come of me having that information. I'm pining enough as it is.

I did ask our RE, if it wasn't a genetic abnormality that caused the miscarriage, then what did? Bad luck, he said. Bad luck? Bad luck is when the car in front of you gets the last parking spot. Bad luck is when you get a bad piece of sushi. Bad luck is missing a sale at Nordstrom because you're entertaining out-of-town visitors. Bad luck is not your baby dying before it ever got a chance to live.

I would have been in my second trimester by now. I try not to think about things like that. I try not to think about how I'd be starting to show, starting to tell people. About how I'd be eyeing maternity clothes and daydreaming about what the nursery would look like. Instead I'm thinking about my next cycle. About ordering drugs and submitting insurance claims. About shots and procedures and nightmare blood draws. I just feel so cheated.

(You might have noticed this post has a decidedly different tone than my last entry. I did warn you that the emotions come raging back from time to time. Welcome to one of those times.)

Terra firma

2006-08-01T13:15:00.000-07:00

Whew. I'm back at last. It's been a whirlwind few weeks. Work has been crazy busy. Life has been crazy busy. And to think it was only three weeks ago that J and I fell asleep to the sound of loons calling to each other across the lake. It feels like a lifetime.

And what about that trip to the lake? It was lovely. For the most part. I could have dealt with a bit more alone time (no, not that kind of alone time, thank you for asking), but the distraction of family was welcomed. J and I spent mornings lying in bed listening to distant thunder, or on nice days, lounging on the deck sipping coffee. Afternoons were wiled away reading, going for walks, and when it got hot and muggy, swimming in the lake.

And every day at 5:00 it was happy hour. Coolers hauled down to the beach were filled with snacks, beer, wine, and in our case Nalgene bottles brimming with icy gin and tonic. We'd sit around and chat and drink and snack until the sun fell behind the trees.

I thought I'd spend much of my time at the lake thinking. Thinking about important things like what had happened and where we were going. To some extent I did, but not as much as I thought I would. In part that was because there were always people around -- J's family in the cabin next door, my parents staying with us for a few nights, my sister-in-law and her kids coming to visit for the day. There wasn't much time to think. But it was also because I needed a break from all that thinking, all that emotion. It was nice to set it aside for a while.

I feel I'm on more stable ground these days, but there are still times when the emotion comes back without warning and with a vengeance. There's a distinct undercurrent to my life these days and I feel fundamentally changed. In spite of that, I catch myself laughing every now and then. And there are moments where I (amazingly) feel happy. I don't understand how that happens. How the call of loons, the lime at the end of a gin and tonic, the embrace of family can take you from despair to comfort. I don't understand how it happens, but I'm grateful it does.

Back and gone again

2006-07-23T07:10:00.000-07:00

I'm back, sunburned and bug bitten. My trip was uneventful and (mostly) relaxing just as it should have been. I'm busy this weekend with a friend's wedding that includes a weekend full of wedding-related activities. (Which explains why I'm up at 7:00 am on a Sunday morning. Have I ever mentioned that I'm not a morning person?)

Tomorrow morning early, very early (again with the not a morning person bit), I'm leaving on business travel. So I'm going to have to wait a bit to catch up with you all. I hope when I do I'll find an overabundance of happy posts.

Getting in touch with myself

2006-07-08T19:29:00.000-07:00

I told you what the counselor had to say about the 6 weeks, but here's the part I didn't tell you.

The counselor suggested I make time everyday for things that are important to me, things that will help me get through this. For example, she said, I might want to schedule time each day to cry. Or go for a walk. Or write. Or maybe for some "personal sexual time." Um, what was that last one again?

She told me the idea was to do things to get back in touch with myself. But she must not have explained it precisely that way, because if she had actually said I should use personal sexual time to get in touch with myself, I would have been in hysterics. I mean, really.

Forget the personal sexual time, what I really need is to schedule time to read blogs. I'm way behind. And it's only going to get worse. I'm off to the lake and will be without phone, TV or the Internets for more than a week. I'm sure I'll have lots to catch up on when I return. Until then, best to you all.

Six weeks

2006-06-30T12:17:00.000-07:00

I spent some time with a counselor yesterday. The same one who helped me work through some issues before my last IVF cycle. She tells me the grieving process typically takes 6 weeks. I'm penciling it into my day planner as we speak.

The first week is all about tears, grimy sweatpants, junk food and daytime TV. Check. By the second week you think you're doing better but you're really not. That makes you prone to unexpected bouts of anger and tears. Sounds about right, and explains why my reaction to J asking me for the tenth time in as many minutes, "Do you need anything?" was for me to hiss through clenched teeth, "I need you to Stop. Asking. Me That."

Each week after that reportedly gets a little bit better. At six weeks you're starting to feel like yourself, or if not yourself exactly, a new revised you who knows you had a miscarriage, but doesn't break down in tears every time you're reminded of it. The counselor suggested that I shouldn't have too many expectations of myself during this time and that we not make any decisions until those six weeks are up.

(Of course, we are already starting to make some decisions. I'm a girl who needs a plan. But more on that in a future post.)

But, this six weeks thing? It's liberating. Basically it's a six-week license to act crazy and unpredictable. Want to have ice cream and Cheetos for dinner? No problem, you're in your six weeks. Give the hairy eyeball to the very pregnant, very perky sales clerk at your favorite boutique? Completely acceptable. Go ape-shit and throw toilet paper in the aisles of Costco after seeing one too many toddler? More power to you.

I can't say I'm happy about being in the middle of my six weeks, but with a license to be crazy, it's starting to look a bit more promising.

Where everybody knows your name

2006-06-29T12:41:00.000-07:00

I went to our local mega-drugstore last night to pick up a prescription for better-than-Tylenol pain killers. When I walked up to the counter, the pharmacist said, "Oh, Sube, right?" She knew my name. It is not a good sign when the pharmacist at the mega-drugstore knows your name.

Still here

2006-06-27T22:50:00.000-07:00

I find the pain comes in waves.

Physically, I feel worse than I did in the days after the D&C. A constant cramping punctuated by sharp pains that shoot through my abdomen. Tylenol helps, but not enough. Emotionally it's much the same -- a constant malaise spiked with periods of intense sadness. No amount of Tylenol is going to help that. I hear both my physical and emotional symptoms are normal, but very little feels normal these days.

This evening I found out that a friend is pregnant with her second. She's 41 and conceived naturally. Naturally. At 41. I'm 35 and am stuck in this hell. As if I wasn't already swimming in a pool of self-pity, now I'm positively drowning in the stuff.

In the insult to injury category

2006-06-22T13:50:00.000-07:00

J and I left the clinic after the D&C on Tuesday and walked back to our car to find a $35 parking ticket on our windshield. Lovely. We drove home and hunkered down to be alone with our sorrow and our pain killers. When we awoke in the morning, we discovered that our car, which only hours before had been nestled safely at the curb in front of our house, had been stolen. Yes, stolen.

So now we owe a $35 parking fine on a car we no longer own. Brilliant.

*Updated: Because things ~~are getting~~ have gotten pretty maudlin around here, I should point out that J and I find some humor in this whole car thing. The kind of humor you find in situations that are simply too absurd to take seriously. So, it's okay to laugh along with us. J and I could certainly use it after the week we've had.

Empty

2006-06-21T17:28:00.000-07:00

I had an ultrasound before my D&C yesterday. Knowing what we were going to see didn't make it any easier. Somehow we still had the tiniest shred of hope. But there was no heartbeat. There was no hope.

The D&C went fine. I begged the anesthesiologist to put me out at the earliest possible moment. He obliged. And now that it's over, I just feel empty.

I will write more later, but for now a million thanks for all your support.

Fortifying

2006-06-19T15:38:00.000-07:00

On Saturday J and I drove to a park along the coast about 1-1/2 hours north of Seattle. It's a place that has special meaning to us. Many years ago J almost proposed to me there, until I unwittingly foiled his plan (a story for another day). On Saturday we sat by the shore and looked at Puget Sound laid out before us. We hoped to be fortified by the salt air, the warm rocks and the sound of the waves. To some degree I suppose we were, at least for a while. But there is just so much to heal. It seems even an ocean isn't vast enough.

I have been blown away by the outpouring of support from all of you. While it helps to know I am not alone in this, it grieves me beyond words that so many of you know this pain personally. I wish none of us did.

The D&C is scheduled for tomorrow.

Heartbreak

2006-06-16T14:30:00.000-07:00

The wait for yesterday's 7-week scan was eternal. But as we reached the end of it, J and I were feeling pretty confident. The nausea, the bloating, the food aversions had all convinced us that we would get good news. I had even begun to think ahead -- not far ahead, but ahead. I thought about telling extended family when we saw them in July. I thought about announcing my pregnancy to my co-workers once I made it through the first trimester. I thought about my belly starting to grow.

"I should see a heartbeat right here," Dr. Gentle said pointing at the screen. We all concentrated on the spot searching for a flicker, a sign. There was nothing, nothing but a small, soft, gray outline. Dr. Gentle moved the wand around to take measurements, quietly calling out numbers and codes to the nurse taking notes at the computer. I kept waiting for him to say something encouraging, something hopeful. But the tears had already begun to slip from my eyes, down over my cheeks and into my ears. Dr. Gentle came back to the spot where we should have seen our baby's heart. He held it there for a few seconds as we all looked some more. "I'm so sorry, Sube," he said. He pulled the wand out, and just like that it was over.

I sobbed. J sobbed. Dr. Gentle left us alone for a while as we tried to comprehend. When he came back, he explained our options. There were three: we could let nature take it's course, we could induce with drugs, or we could have a D&C.

J and I have opted for the D&C to be scheduled for Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. I wanted this option mostly because it means I won't be awake. I won't be awake when this most precious of things leaves my body. I don't want to be awake. I don't want to be awake for a very long time.

No heartbeat

2006-06-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

I don't think there's any more to say. It's over.

Taking the easy route

2006-06-14T00:58:00.000-07:00

I like to think I've been brave through this whole process, that I've done things I never thought I could. That I've pushed myself. But today I confess to taking the easy route. J is traveling for work, which left me alone to do my progesterone injection. Now, I know some of you very brave ladies give yourself these shots, and I suppose I could have done the same. I suppose I could have stood in front of a mirror, contorted my body to reach the intended spot on my butt, not passed out at the sight of that looooong needle, and then plunged away. But I didn't. Instead I scurried off to the clinic (mercifully only 15 minutes away) and had them do it.

Did I feel like a wimp? Yes. At first. But then I decided it's like my eyebrows. I could take the time to learn to pluck them carefully so they don't end up looking like bizarre matchsticks stuck to my forehead. But why bother when there's a skilled waxer just minutes away? Why not leave it to the professionals? Because if I can make my eyebrows look like matchsticks, who knows what I might have done to my butt.

Ultrasound is tomorrow afternoon. I'm feeling queasy. Not sure if that's a symptom of pregnancy or a symptom of anxiety.

Delusions of serenity

2006-06-12T10:00:00.000-07:00

I always told myself that if I made it this far, I'd be happy. I had read about other women who spent the first weeks of their pregnancy worrying and fretting about what might go wrong. That was never going to be me, I said. I would never allow anxiety to snuff out the joy of being pregnant. I would be blissful and serene, happy to have made it this far. And if things went wrong, well, I had no control over that. I would simply enjoy it while it lasted.

What a load of crap.

The truth is I might be able to enjoy being pregnant if I had some evidence that I still am. At 6w4d I don't feel much different than I did three months ago when I was decidedly not pregnant. I drove by the clinic the other day and it took all my strength not to run in, shove my bare elbow in their faces and demand that blood be taken. I wouldn't have even complained if they gave me the crappy phlebotomist. Just to have some evidence. Some proof that life is still there.

Sigh. My ultrasound is on Thursday. I will (in theory) be exactly 7 weeks.

In other news, I'm back from my time away. It was a nice distraction, although the actual travel portions were a bit grueling (flights delayed by multiple hours each way). I'm slowly getting caught up on all your blogs.

Forever and a day

2006-06-02T12:55:00.000-07:00

J and I are flying to the east coast tonight to check in on our other budding project, so I'll likely be quiet for the next week or so. My ultrasound isn't until June 15th, so there's not much happening around here anyway until then. Not much, that is, except anxiety, anxiety, and more anxiety.

My heart goes out to Thalia. We all work so hard to get here. If life were fair, we'd have an easy road once we made it. Of course, if life were fair, none of us would have to deal with infertility in the first place, so I guess that answers that question.

As you may have guessed, the euphoria of the first few days has worn off. In its place is a sort of anxious melancholy (is that even possible?). I'm sure the hug I'll get from Mom when I step off the plane tomorrow morning (red eye, ugh) will help. But what would help more is for June 15th to hurry up and get here. It feels like forever and a day away.

No vacancy

2006-05-29T13:41:00.000-07:00

That's the sign J says I should hang on my magic uterus. My beta this morning was 1232. Dr. Google tells me that's a doubling rate of just under 41 hours.

When she called with the results, the nurse told me "you are still very much pregnant." Of course, J and I aren't comfortable using the p-word, but I have to admit it was nice to hear.

The long exhale

2006-05-26T18:46:00.000-07:00

That whoosh you just heard was the sound of me exhaling the breath I've been holding for the past 3-1/2 years. My beta today came back at 364. I made the nurse repeat it to me four times just to be sure. I don't think I've stopped smiling (or crying) since. My next beta is on Monday.

Thank you all for your support. It has meant the world to me.

Hope is the thing with feathers

2006-05-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul.
And sings the tune
Without the words,
and never stops at all.
--Emily Dickinson

I just got back from my beta and hope is alive and well. Damn it.

But here's the thing. J and I are skipping town in a matter of moments and are going someplace the Internet can't find us. I'm going to try my darndest to get online to post the results and also to check on the other Friday betas. But don't worry if you haven't heard from me. I'll update you as soon as I can. Promise.

Meanwhile, huge congratulations to Momo!

Magic parts

2006-05-25T13:05:00.000-07:00

J loves to have his back scratched. It's one of his very favorite things. Last night after a scratch so sublime it gave him goosebumps and made the hair on his arms stand up, J told me I have magic hands. I said I would gladly trade them for a magic uterus. A magic uterus and magic ovaries. And if I had a magic uterus and magic ovaries, I could live without magic Fallopian tubes. I wouldn't want to be greedy after all.

Tomorrow is beta day. It's amazing how abstract this whole process has seemed. But tomorrow it becomes real, one way or the other. Obviously I'm hoping for one way much more than the other.

My thoughts will be with my cycle sisters Momo and Amy. Hoping you both receive wonderful news.

(And if you haven't already done so, go send your well wishes to Kris. She's had one topsy-turvy week.)

What's done is done

2006-05-22T17:44:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm firmly rooted in the second week of my 2-week wait, I keep coming back to this one thought: by this point, in all likelihood, my embryos have either implanted or they haven't. Whichever it is, it's already done. The die has been cast.

There's a surprising sense of freedom in this knowledge. There's nothing more I can do but wait. I can't influence the results, either for good or for bad. The answer to whether I'm pregnant is already out there in the universe somewhere. I have no idea why I find this comforting, but I do.

Maybe it has something to do with Christmas. I love Christmas. I love the presents. I love the anticipation. But when Christmas morning rolls around and I'm sitting there in my pajamas sharing a cup of coffee with my family, I no longer want to open any of the presents. I'm content to just look at them under the tree. The promises they hold mean so much more to me than their actual contents.

This not knowing is like a present under the tree: my hopes and dreams wrapped up with pretty paper and a bow. I may get good news at my beta on Friday, I may get bad news. But right now, right now I can still believe in the promise.

Untold stories of the ER

2006-05-18T17:29:00.000-07:00

There we were in the pre-op room just before retrieval. I'm lying on the bed trying not to pass out after the anesthesiologist tried -- multiple times -- to insert a very large IV needle into the ridiculously small veins in the back of my hand. J is sitting in a chair next to me trying to keep me entertained and distracted. He's good at that.

Now, before I tell you what happened next, I should admit that I'm the one who takes on most of the research responsibilities when it comes to our reproductive health. I ask most of the questions when we're talking with the RE, I consult Dr. Google to fill in the gaps, I read message boards, I gather wisdom from all you in bloglandia. J does a pretty good job of keeping up and asking his own questions, but apparently he wasn't entirely clear on how this whole retrieval thing works. Because moments before I'm wheeled into the retrieval room, here's the question he asks:

J: So, let me make sure I understand this. They get the eggs by, um, going up the hole that's already there, right?
Me: You mean my vagina?
J: Um, yeah. That hole.

That's my J.

No frosties

2006-05-16T18:21:00.000-07:00

My freezer is a wasteland. I have such good intentions when it comes to freezing, but it never seems to work out. I'll make a big batch of Bolognese sauce and then freeze the leftovers. We'll buy a box of fresh peaches at the farmer's market, slice them up and pop them in the freezer for smoothes.

But we never make those smoothies and we never smother a plate of spaghetti with that leftover Bolognese sauce. And months (heck, years) later the stuff is still there encrusted in freezer burn.

So maybe it's a blessing that none of our remaining embryos made it to freezing. They'd just get buried behind the meatloaf, ice cream cartons, and bags of peas until we forgot they were even there.

Or not.

Mother's day

2006-05-14T12:56:00.000-07:00

This is the closest I have ever been to being a mother.

We transferred 2 8-cell embryos today. Some fragmentation, but the doctor said they look "nice." We'll take nice. J and I are feeling overwhelmed and a bit emotional, but happy. Very happy.

We have 5 other embryos (1 7-cell, 1 6-cell, and 3 4-cell) that they'll try to take to blastocyst and freeze. They weren't particularly confident that any would make it, but we're crossing our fingers anyway.

Say hello to our little embryos.

Fertilization report

2006-05-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

Whew. One more hurdle cleared. We have 7 embryos. Of the 10 eggs they retrieved, 8 were mature and were ICSI'd, 7 fertilized. Seven! What an improvement this cycle has been over last cycle. We're feeling very grateful.

We're also in love. Seven tiny embryos in a petri dish a few miles away. We're in love with their potential, with everything they represent. I didn't know you could feel this way about a cluster of cells. I so hope they make it.

We're scheduled for a 3-day transfer on Sunday (Mother's Day, wouldn't you know?). We'll go to 5 days if we can, but I won't be disappointed if we don't make it to day 5. I'm just happy to have made it this far.

Now go give some love to my cycle sister MoMo if you haven't already.

Double digits

2006-05-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

I'm back from retrieval. They got 10 eggs. We were thinking it was going to be more like 6 or 7, so we're pretty pleased. I would go so far as to say I'm a bit giddy ... but that may be the drugs talking.

Thank you all for your well wishes.

**And for those of you who were checking in on me earlier today .... I actually composed this post hours ago and thought I posted it. Apparently I didn't. Chalk it up to those drugs again!

Ready. Aim. Fire.

2006-05-09T17:38:00.000-07:00

I trigger tonight. Retrieval is scheduled for Thursday morning. Despite my previous complaints about this cycle, I'm so grateful to have made it this far. And of course I'm completely anxious about how things will go from here on out. I've never done a retrieval. I've never had to wait for a fertilization report. Never stressed about whether we would do a 3-day or 5-day transfer. Never done a transfer, for that matter. The two-week-wait I've done, but not with stakes this high.

I'm grateful to those of you who have gone before and shared your wisdom here in bloglandia. I've soaked it in. And thanks to those of you who stop by on your travels to offer encouragement. It helps more than I can say.

Blood and tears

2006-05-08T22:27:00.000-07:00

The nightmare phlebotomy continues, now new and improved with the addition of tears. Yes, tears!

There I was sitting in the chair at the doctor's office trying to distract myself. The tourniquet was around my arm. My hand was in a tight fist. I was looking out the window trying not to yelp in pain as the phlebotomist dug around for a vein. And then without warning, I started crying. And not just some minor sniffling, mind you. The floodgates, they were open.

The nurse, understandably, was alarmed so she removed the needle. I blubbered something about all the hormones raging through my body. I felt bad that she probably felt bad. I tried to do one of those breathing exercises I was taught, but I was way past the point of "in through the nose, out through the mouth." I was very aware of the woman getting her blood drawn in the chair next to me who must have thought I was an absolute freak. I was worried my doctor would walk by and see me that way and conclude I have absolutely no business being a mother what with my obvious emotional instability. I managed to calm myself down before the phlebotomist went in for another try. No luck hitting a vein that time either and the weeping began anew. This went on for 3 tries and still no blood.

And the whole time I'm wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Despite evidence to the contrary, I'm not a crier. I'm especially not a crier when it comes to physical pain. I never did figure it out while I was there. It took a conversation with a non-IF friend later in the day to understand. She said, "Don't you see? The blood draw is an allegory for everything you've been through. It was never supposed to be this hard for you to get pregnant, and it's not supposed to be this hard to have your blood drawn." She said it just like that. She's very smart.

It wasn't the physical pain that upset me -- although it did hurt like the dickens -- it was the cumulation of everything I've been through up to this point. Add to the mix a splash of hormones and a shot of anxiety about what's to come and you've got a potent cocktail of emotion. All it took was one too many stabs in the arm to let it loose.

But, the crying did get me somewhere. After three failed attempts (one in each arm and one in my hand), and with seemingly no end to my crying, they finally called in the nurse who actually knows how to do a blood draw. She got it on the first try. And she's now the only one in that place I'll let come near me with a syringe.

In less dramatic news, things still look good. I go in for another ultrasound tomorrow. Will likely trigger Tuesday night for retrieval on Thursday. They better not need any blood for that.

Day 8: Steady as she goes

2006-05-06T22:24:00.000-07:00

Day 8 ultrasound today and things are looking pretty much the same as they did on day 5. Seven follicles measured and a bunch of smaller ones. Doctor mumbled something about being "encouraged." The nurse who left me a voicemail later in the day didn't tell me my E2 level (which is making me a bit crazy), but said "things look good." I go back on Monday for my next ultrasound. J and I are allowing ourselves to feel cautiously optimistic (especially since this day 8 beats the pants off last cycle's day 8), but I know we're not out of the woods yet.

The hardest part about my appointment this morning was not the wanding, but the phlebotomy. Surprise, surprise. My "good" arm is still totally bruised from Wednesday's bloodletting, so after a fruitless poke in my other arm, they moved on to my hand. Good thing a blood draw from your hand doesn't hurt. Oh wait, yes it does.

Ode to my favorite phlebotomist

2006-05-05T17:34:00.000-07:00

(On the occasion of him quitting the clinic)

Oh, gentle phlebotomist, where have you gone?
Alas, you answered the call of another clinic,
And now as the needle approaches my bare arm stretched long,
I am left to feel nothing but panic.

Oh, gentle phlebotomist, you were the best I ever met.
Your hands steady, your aim true,
And with your trusty tourniquet
You never left me black and blue.

Oh, gentle phlebotomist, your replacement has not your skill.
She pokes and pricks, and digs some more
She stabs and jabs and roots until
Both my arms are tender and sore.

Oh, gentle phlebotomist, where have you gone?
I long for your trusty syringe, your surest touch.
And each time my blood I get drawn,
I miss you so very much.

Lucky number seven

2006-05-03T17:36:00.000-07:00

My day 5 ultrasound revealed seven follicles -- three on the left, four on the right. Now, I know some of you (most of you?) would be disappointed with that tally, but seeing as it's twice as many follicles as I had at this point last cycle, I'm not feeling so bad about it. Not to mention the 10 other follicles that were too small to measure. Given the gobs of Follistim I'm on, who knows what potential lies there. And then there's my E2 level -- it's actually not bad. My clinic likes to see an E2 of about 100 on day 5 and mine came in at 105, so I'm right on track.

I just might have a cycle here.

When does the fun begin?

2006-05-02T17:21:00.000-07:00

Day 4 of stims and I feel good. No worse for the wear. My same old self. And I'm not at all happy about it.

Where's the tenderness? Where's the bloating? Where's the my girl parts are so swollen it hurts to sit down feeling? I know it's early, but shouldn't I be feeling something? Anything? If only an inkling? I've never wanted to feel discomfort more in all my life. Because the discomfort is a sign it's working. If I don't feel pain, does that mean my ovaries are still napping? That they missed their microdose wake-up call? Like me, are my ovaries snooze-aholics?

Physically I feel the same as I did last cycle when I managed to pop out a measly three follicles, and that scares me. I want it to feel different this time around. Tomorrow is my day 5 ultrasound, so we'll find out for sure. Pain or no pain.

Now, wake up ovaries! Wake up!

It all lay before us

2006-05-01T18:56:00.000-07:00

I live in a cozy little neighborhood. It's the city, so houses are small, lots are small and everyone is tucked in close together. Saturday afternoon I sat looking out my living room window watching a new couple move into the house across the street. They were a young couple and they'd gathered a bunch of friends to help. I watched them make endless trips out to the Uhaul parked in front and then emerge with Ikea furniture and hand-me-downs. It was raining pretty hard (this is Seattle after all) and I thought it must suck to have to move in that weather. I'm sure they were cold and wet. But then I realized it didn't suck. They probably didn't care that it was raining, they were just so excited to be moving into their first house.

I remember that feeling. I remember moving into this house--our first--six years ago. It was a mirror image of what was happening across the street. The group of friends. The Uhaul. The Ikea furniture. (Thankfully not the rain.) I remember feeling so hopeful. We were starting our lives together. The world was as it should be and it all lay before us.

That feels like a long time ago now. I'm not sure I remember the person I was then. Infertility changes you, we all know that. I'm not as bold as I was then, not as brazen. I don't feel so entitled. I'm a bit worn around the edges and certainly less carefree. But I do have better furniture.

A few weeks ago J went out with his 22-year-old cousin who was passing through town on a spring break trip. J showed him the sights and took him out for beer. When he got home that night he sighed "I wish I was 22 again." I knew what he meant. He wanted to go back to a time when we were blissfully unaware of how hard life can be. He also wanted to go back to a time when he could drink a six-pack without consequence, but that's not really the point here.

Maybe these changes in attitude have nothing to do with infertility. Maybe it's just part of getting older. Certainly world events in the past few years have contributed. But it's hard not to pin it all on infertility. As if every injection, every procedure, the surgery, monthly failure after monthly failure all chiseled at that optimism little by little. You almost don't even realize it's happening. Until you look back. Until you see the unchecked joy in the faces of the couple moving in across the street.

One down

2006-04-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

I did my first shot this morning and true to form it made me cry. Not from the poke itself -- that tiniest of pricks -- but from the holy-crap-we're-doing-this-again-and-who-knows-what's-going-to-happen panic. I wish that vial of Lupron was laced with a bit of val*ium. (What a marketing idea that would be.)

While the first-day panic is the same, overall this cycle feels very different than the last one. It's the nature of the fear that's different. At the start of IVF#1 I feared the process -- the needles, the dosages, the bloodwork, what the retrieval would feel like, how much my butt would hurt from the PIO shots. This time I fear the outcome. Will I respond to this protocol? Will I have enough follicles to make it to retrieval? If I have eggs to retrieve, will they be any good? Will I have any embryos to put back? How much will my butt hurt from the PIO shots ... okay, that last one hasn't changed.

So, even though I know the drill -- the injections, the monitoring, the bloodwork -- in many ways IVF#2 is scarier than IVF#1. I wouldn't have guessed that there would be more unknowns in this cycle than in the last cycle, but there are. We've learned what can go wrong and we're wary.

But tonight I'll do another shot. And another tomorrow. And another. You know the drill.

And away we go

2006-04-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

My suppression check was yesterday and for once my ovaries have decided to play along. No cysts. Eleven antral follicles (which for me is pretty good). There was no bad news. J and I weren't quite sure what to do with ourselves.

I start microdose Lupron tomorrow morning, followed by stims on Saturday. Crazy.

Tag, I'm it

2006-04-25T17:29:00.000-07:00

By now I'm sure you all know the drill. I've been tagged by Mary Ellen (and her 9 lovely embryos) and by Beagle. But just to keep things interesting (since this game has been going around for a while now) I've added one lie to the following list. Any guesses?

1. I subconsciously mix up the colors green and purple. My eyesight is fine, but due to what must be some seriously crossed wires deep in my brain, when I see purple I almost always say it's green.

2. I won the state spelling bee in 6th grade.

3. I'm a snooze-aholic. I hit the snooze button 5 times every morning. At least.

4. I spent 4 years on the same college campus as J but never met him. We met 5 years after graduation in a city 2500 miles from the campus we started on.

5. I once ate raw shrimp that was so fresh it was still twitching.

6. I like my toilet paper to roll from the top.

Just about everyone on my blogroll has been tagged, so I'll let this leg of the game die a graceful death with me and hope that by doing so I won't incur any break the chain letter type bad luck. Thanks for the all-IF-all-the-time respite.

My Follistim pen goes to 11

2006-04-20T17:40:00.000-07:00

Nigel Tufnel: The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and...
Marty DiBergi: Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?
Nigel Tufnel: Exactly.
Marty DiBergi: Does that mean it's louder? Is it any louder?
Nigel Tufnel: Well, it's one louder, isn't it? It's not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You're on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you're on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?

Apparently my doctor is a Spinal Tap fan. He certainly doesn't feel constrained by the artificial limits of a lousy Follistim pen, that's for sure. Follistim pens max out at 450 units. What's my dose for IVF#2? A whopping 525 units. When I naively asked if they make a Follistim pen that goes to 525, he just laughed softly and shook his head.

That means I get two Follistim shots a day -- one at 450 units and a second at 75. Add to that the Menopur and twice daily microdose Lupron injections and I get the pleasure of 5 shots every day. Ah, the sweet life of a poor responder.

A question of etiquette

2006-04-20T10:26:00.000-07:00

I have a question for all of you in bloglandia. When I set up my blog, I neglected to include a list of other blogs I read. It's time to rectify that oversight. But here's the pinch. Is it standard blog etiquette to ask before you link, or do you just recklessly go ahead and link without explicit permission? What's the bloggerly thing to do?

Heartbreak Hill

2006-04-18T17:42:00.000-07:00

They ran the Boston Marathon yesterday. I remember going to watch it as a kid. We'd stake out a spot along the side of the road, eat ham sandwiches and drink iced tea until the first runners rounded the corner. I loved to see the front runner, that intrepid soul setting the early pace. I cheered hard for him (but secretly worried that with no one ahead of him, he might wander off the route and find himself lost). Always close at his heels was the pack - a blur of pounding feet and swinging arms that stretched for miles. Unlike my attention span. I would eventually get tired of the clapping, the bodies flying by would make me dizzy, and I'd wander off to look for interesting rocks along the side of the road.

That's the story I was thinking about last week when the counselor reminded me that my IF journey is a marathon, not a sprint, and that I have to learn to pace myself. A marathon? Pace myself? How is the girl who got bored just watching the race supposed to learn how to run it?

And then there's Heartbreak Hill. Twenty miles into the marathon the runners reach the final climb. Under normal conditions, Heartbreak Hill is not particularly tough (so I'm told), a gentle 1/2-mile slope. But after 20 miles of racing, it's do-or-die. Those who make it to the top are spurred on by the congratulatory refrains of a marching band and the knowledge that it's all downhill to the finish line. Those who don't crumple to the pavement and are carted away.

So it is that after 3-1/2 years of trying to get pregnant, I find myself staring up at my own Heartbreak Hill. My legs are weary, my heart is pounding, the Power Bar I ate sits like a rock in my stomach. But on to IVF#2 I go nonetheless. I will try to remember to pace myself. I will be grateful to those who have gone before and now show me the way. I will cautiously accept the cups of water and orange wedges the spectators along the way offer. I will keep running until I can't possibly run another step. And then I'll run some more.

Care package

2006-04-12T17:39:00.000-07:00

I went to see a counselor at my clinic yesterday. I've been feeling a bit, well, fragile of late -- like I'm one of those big chocolate bunnies that are all hollow inside so that if someone wrapped their fist around me and squeezed hard enough, I just might implode and shatter into a million chocolaty pieces. (How's that for a timely metaphor?)

The counselor told me I need to put together a care package to get me through this next IVF cycle. By care package she means the collection of things I need physically and emotionally to stay sane through the turmoil. My first thought was a nice hazelnut ganache to fill up my hollow center. You think I'm still speaking metaphorically here, but I'm not. I really like hazelnut ganache. It's tasty.

The care package idea resonated with me and I've been busily thinking of things to fill it up. Here's what I have in my IVF care package so far:

A freezer full of ice cream.
A spoon.
Hours of America's Next Top Model episodes on my Tivo.
No grumbling from J when he's forced to watch hours of America's Next Top Model.
My iPod.
Cute t-shirts and my comfy black yoga pants (elasticized waistband means easy access to belly fat for shots, also ensures comfort after consuming gallons of said ice cream).
Permission to let myself cry.
~~A nice bottle of wine or four.~~ Drat.
J's steady hand to help me with the shots.
A kind ear from my friends, virtual and otherwise.

So tell me, what do you have in your care package?

Happy birthday, Mom

2006-04-07T16:30:00.000-07:00

Today is my Mom's birthday. I know sharing your infertility journey with family can be a risky proposition, but I have to admit to being one of the lucky ones. My mother -- my whole family, really, but mostly my mother -- has been a tremendous source of support throughout this ordeal. She hears everything, every last gory detail, and is never squeamish, never judgmental. Growing up my mother always told me that I would never fully understand how much she loved me until I had my own child. I know it grieves her just as much as it does me that that day has yet to come.

The other week I told my mom about my blog. I don't know if she'll decide to read it, she said it would feel like an invasion of privacy. But I hope she does. I hope she's reading this very post.

So, Mom, if you're here, welcome. And thank you.

Aw, shucks

2006-04-06T21:53:00.000-07:00

This isn't the sort of blog that gets a gazillion comments. That's fine with me, I don't aspire to mega-blog status. But it means I cherish every comment I do get. Which is why it was so lovely that no sooner had I posted yesterday than the faithful returned to say hello. Talk about making a girl feel special. I didn't realize how much I needed the lift. Thank you from the bottom of my blog.

On a totally unrelated note, why is it that the blogger spell checker doesn't recognize the word blog?

Breathing room

2006-04-05T18:38:00.000-07:00

I've been away from bloglandia for a while. In part it was because J and I were traveling and meeting with designers trying to figure out what to do with this pink monstrosity:

But that's only part of it. I've been home for several days now, and truth be told, I had my laptop with me while traveling so I really could have posted any time I wanted. But I didn't want. After that last failed cycle I needed some time. Some breathing room.

I'd like to say I'm back with a vengeance, but that would be an overstatement. It's more like I'm back with a sigh of resignation. I have my calendar for IVF#2. I'm encouraged by Fisher Queen's truly out-of-this-world response to the micro-dose Lupron protocol that I'll also be trying. But I find my anticipation muted.

So for now, I'll probably continue to hang low. My cycle doesn't really get going until the end of the month anyway. In the meantime, I'm working under the assumption that the large amounts of alcohol I'm consuming now will inspire some witty and pithy posts once I finally do get back on the blog-wagon. So, where did I put that corkscrew?

Getting back on the bike

2006-03-18T13:02:00.000-08:00

You know what they say about falling off a bike: you have to get right back on. I got my period today, so it looks as if I've fallen off the bike. I'm bruised and battered, but mostly I feel numb. J and I haven't cried. I don't know where the tears are. They feel trapped in the ache inside my chest.

But soon I'll take the first birth control pill in preparation for IVF#2. I'll get back on the bike. Dusty and wobbling, lacking what confidence I had before the fall. But I'll pedal because I have to. The fear of standing still is worse than the fear of falling off again.

The no-guilt diagnosis

2006-03-17T17:20:00.000-08:00

I went to see a doctor today for something entirely unrelated to infertility. There were no wands employed. No poking around in inappropriate places. No stirrups. I didn't even have to get undressed; although I'm so used to hearing the command "Get undressed from the waist down," that upon entering the exam room I almost did it anyway, just by instinct.

The downside of this doctoral visit is I've been diagnosed with patellar tendonitis (basically, my knee hurts). The upside is I don't have to do squats anymore. ... But, wait. I wasn't doing squats before this. So I guess that makes the upside not having to feel guilty about not doing squats. Sweet!

The prometrium advent calendar

2006-03-16T17:15:00.000-08:00

Since my IVF was converted to an IUI, I really have no idea how to count the days of this cycle. Usually my cycles are 24-25 days long, but in this case, when exactly was day 1? The day I stopped taking birth control pills? The day I got my period? The day I started stims? I'm not sure and the prospect of having to do math was hurting my head, so I came up with a better approach.

My doctor gave me a 15-day supply of prometrium (progesterone supplements) that I started the day after my hcg shot. I decided I won't do a home pregnancy test until I've run out of prometrium. So everyday (twice a day, actually) I take a prometrium and count how many are left. That's how long I have before I can test. It's like the Advent calendars I used to love as a kid. Except instead of enjoying a chocolate each day leading up to Christmas, I get to shove a yellow pill up my hooha. It goes without saying that I'd prefer the chocolate.

And now for some comedic relief

2006-03-15T17:49:00.000-08:00

Just who, exactly, were these instructions written for? (Click photo to enlarge)

Meltdown in FAO Schwartz

2006-03-14T17:56:00.000-08:00

You should have seen it. A crazy woman crying in the middle of FAO Schwartz. Red face, puffy eyes, running nose. It was quite the sight. Of course, to have seen it myself, I would have had to look in a mirror. Yes, I was that crazy woman.

I should have know there would be trouble. The first mention of the colossal Vegas-sized toy store filled me with dread. But I was with my sisters-in-law (who each have several young kids) and my mother (dotting grandmother to said kids), and who was I to spoil their fun? So I steeled myself against the fuzzy pastel onslaught, and agreed to go. I wasn't naive enough to think I'd enjoy the visit, but nor did I think I'd end up a blubbering mass in front of the Thomas and Friends display.

This is what my life has been reduced to: a grown woman crying in the middle of FAO Schwartz. Pathetic, isn't it? You see, I've never been one to begrudge others their prizes in life. I don't get upset when I hear friends or acquaintances are pregnant. I don't sniffle at the sight of babies. I can go to baby showers. And for heaven's sake I can go to a toy store without having a meltdown. ... At least, I used to be able to do all those things. But something is different now. I've snapped. I've crossed a line I never realized was there.

I've begun to lose hope.

It used to be that I believed in the end we would have our own kids. That the road might be hard, but if we were patient and persistent, we'd get there. In the end. I don't think I believe that anymore. I'm no longer sure this fairy tale will have a happy ending.

That's what I realized standing among the stuffed bears, pink tulle princess dresses and wooden train sets. Looking around, it felt as if all those brightly-colored manifestations of childish happiness were meant for someone else's life. Not mine. And it made me incredibly sad.

Vegas, baby!

2006-03-08T16:16:00.000-08:00

I'm off to drown my sorrows in gold lamé and all-you-can eat buffets. (Hee. That rhymes.) May I have better luck at the slots than I've had with the big roulette wheel that is infertility.

So begins the waiting

2006-03-04T13:16:00.000-08:00

We were back in the cheap seats yesterday, but the IUI proceeded largely without incident, if you don't count a little game of hide-and-seek with my cervix. And so it is that we begin the 2-week wait. For those of you who don't know, the 2-week wait is the period of time between when you ovulate and when you can check to see if you're pregnant. It's interminable.

I will attempt to distract myself as much as possible. I'll watch the Oscars and chuckle at the absurdity. I'll go shopping. I'll clean the bathroom and do laundry. I'll go to Vegas next weekend with my family. I'll (attempt to) stay focused on work. I'll do anything and everything to keep from thinking about the possibility that I might be fostering life, from succumbing to the bitch that is Hope.

Making a baby in someone else's kitchen

2006-03-02T20:02:00.000-08:00

J and I went to the clinic today for the first of two consecutive IUIs. When we got there the place was dark. A power outage if you can believe it. After all the anxiety of this do-we-or-don't-we IVF cycle, I had assumed that once we made the decision to downgrade to an IUI, at least the rest of the cycle would be quiet and uneventful. I mean, I've had IUIs before, I knew what to expect. I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. The power outage was like a little parting gift from fate or karma or something, just to keep us on our toes.

But as luck would have it, the lab still had power as did some of the exam rooms. Not the normal exam rooms, but those reserved for embryo transfers and other procedures. And I can tell you, I now know how the other infertile half lives. These are the VIP rooms: cushy padded exam tables with Craftmatic adjustability, a modesty drape of real cloth (I know!), and comfy padded leg rests instead of stirrups. It was like flying first class. I half expected to be offered a tasty little cocktail. If only.

But the nurse was a bit disoriented. Apparently, she doesn't get to work first class very often. She kept opening drawers and cabinets searching for the supplies she needed. She struggled to adjust the big overhead light and fiddled with the Craftmatic controls all the while furrowing her brow and scrunching up her nose. J made the comment that it was like trying to cook in someone else's kitchen. Which I suppose it was.

So now that I've tasted first class, I'm not sure I can go back. Tomorrow I'll try to trade in some infertility frequent flier miles for an upgrade. I'm sure I have enough by now.

Bruised

2006-03-01T18:41:00.000-08:00

I'm a bit exhausted tonight, so this is going to be a short one. There's no good news to report anyway. We only had 3 (maybe 4) follicles this morning, so we converted to an IUI. J and I are utterly disappointed. All those shots for 4 follicles. It sucks.

You know what also sucks? The nurse having to stick you in the arm four (yes, four!) times before hitting a vein. So in addition to the bruises on my pincushion of a belly, I now have bruises on the inside of both my elbows plus my wrist (where they finally managed to strike pay dirt). Oh yeah, and on my butt from the hcg shot. All these bruises make me look like a total junkie. Worse, they make me look like an inept junkie.

Reports of my ovarian demise have been (somewhat) exaggerated

2006-02-28T18:39:00.000-08:00

After the ovarian death sentence delivered by Dr. Crappy on Sunday, J and I met with our actual doctor this morning and he painted a picture that was not quite so dire -- not great, mind you, but not dire. Seeing as I had convinced myself I would never have children using my own eggs, "not great" seems like a step up.

Today is day 10 and the follicle count is up to 6 (a 50% improvement chirped the ever optimistic J!). Six is still disappointing, but it's enough that we could reasonably continue with the IVF cycle. We'll decide tomorrow after we go in for another ultrasound and more bloodwork. For those of you keeping score, that's 4 sessions with the wand and 5 donations to the clinic vampires in the span of 8 days.

My other distraction

2006-02-28T18:35:00.000-08:00

Time for some non-fertility related news. As of today we are the proud owners of this little diamond in the rough:

It's difficult, but try to look past the putrid mustard-on-mustard color scheme. It's going to be a really cute house someday.

You'll never be normal

2006-02-27T17:01:00.000-08:00

That's what Dr. CrappyBedsideManner (not my normal doctor) told me yesterday at my day 8 ultrasound. I'm pretty sure he was referring to my ovarian reserve, but as someone who already feels like a card-carry member of the Land of Misfit Toys, it was hard not to take his comment personally. And so I did. There's nothing more humiliating than sitting on the exam table, your lower half covered only by a thin paper sheet, sobbing your eyes out. Not one of my finer moments.

But I had reason to be upset -- I just wish it hadn't been in front of crotchety Dr. Crappy. After 8 days of high-dose stims, I have a measly 4 follicles. The follicles themselves are not measly -- they're of decent size -- the fact that I only have 4 is the problem. It officially makes me a "poor responder." (Another descriptor that's hard not to take personally. What is it with those?)

We go back on Tuesday to see if there's any improvement. At that point we'll likely have to decide whether to continue with IVF or convert to IUI. But what depresses me even more than having to make that decision is the implication being a poor responder has on my chances of success with IVF at all, this cycle or future cycles. Dr. Crappy wasn't too optimistic (as evidenced by the "you're not normal" comment). This all has an air of finality to it that I really don't like.

The cycle continues ... for now

2006-02-23T15:42:00.000-08:00

I'm still in the game. My estradiol numbers as of today (Day 5) are still woefully low, but they decided to let me continue on to Day 8. They increased my stim dose to the absolute maximum and I go back on Sunday for another ultrasound.

My ovaries have some serious work to do if this cycle is going to continue much past Day 8. For someone who's always been an over-achiever, my slacker ovaries are proving a major embarrassment. The sonographer today called them pokey. Pokey. That's just great.

Sugar, spice and everythig nice

2006-02-22T18:42:00.000-08:00

In general I don't have a particularly foul mouth. I like a well-placed swear word as much as the next guy, but I've always believed in using them sparingly for greater effect. Not of late. Of late I sound like a sailor. I blame it on the infertility. My womb may be barren, but my vocabulary is anything but. Not exactly fair compensation, but it's something.

And I find it doesn't take much provocation to elicit an f-bomb or some such cursedness these days. I swear just to swear. For the pure visceral release. I think it bothers J somewhat, but not because he's particularly sensitive. I think he thinks we need to practice being good in preparation for having kids. But after nearly 4 years of trying, I'm so over that.

So we've agreed that for the course of this IVF cycle (which, the way things are going, might not be much longer), I'm allowed to swear as much as I like. No sooner had we made that proclamation than we watched I Heart Huckabees. The opening scene is a Jason Schwartzman voice-over of the main character's thoughts. It's comprised almost entirely of swear words, and I loved it. My favorite string o' swears was, "Fucking shit fuck!"

I repeat it as often as possible.

This isn't the way it was supposed to go

2006-02-21T17:14:00.000-08:00

I didn't have a lot of expectations going into this IVF cycle. I made few predictions about how things would go. I purposefully tried not to think about how it might play out. I certainly never expected -- although I do admit to hoping -- that I'd walk out of this with a baby. I tend to be defensive by nature, and my approach to infertility is no exception. But for all I didn't expect, I did expect at least to make it to the egg retrieval. I should have known better.

Today's blood work revealed that my estradiol (i.e., estrogen) levels are low. Way low -- like a third of what they should be. That means I'm not responding well to the stims, and they can't increase my dose since I'm already pretty much at the max. The low estradiol level combined with my low antral follicle count from last Friday means they may cancel my cycle. Cancel. As in, it's over, you're done, better luck next time. I have an ultrasound on Thursday. Unless my body decides to kick it up a notch in the next two days, IVF #1 will end before it even got off the ground.

I've thought long and hard about how I'd deal with the pain if this IVF attempt was unsuccessful. I didn't consider how I'd deal with the disappointment of having the cycle canceled. The answer? Not well.

All systems go

2006-02-19T14:02:00.000-08:00

Turns out that pesky cyst is just that -- pesky, but not causing any real trouble -- so we've been given the green light to start stims tonight. That means 3 (sometimes 4) shots a day from now until retrieval. And the needles are bigger than the one I've been using up until now. Much bigger.

Crap.

Sir! Suppression check, sir!

2006-02-17T17:22:00.000-08:00

The first half of an IVF cycle is all about suppression. The drugs you take are designed to break your body of its natural rhythm. To beat it into submission. And then once your reproductive organs are cowering in a corner begging for mercy, you slowly start building them up again. Stimulating them to perform better than they ever have before. It's kind of like I imagine boot camp to be.

Unfortunately, my ovaries are proving to be unruly and obstinate recruits. Today was my suppression check, where they perform an ultrasound to confirm that all activity is suitably quelled. Come to find out my left ovary is staging a revolt in the form of a big ol' cyst. It was somewhat deflated and may be going away, but the sonographer wasn't sure. They took blood to measure my estradiol levels. That will tell us just how feisty this sucker is. We'll get the results tomorrow.

[An aside: Why won't we get the results today, you rightly ask? Because the clinic was closing early so the entire office could go curling. Yes, curling. It so happens that J is a curler, and when the nurses found out, they pounced on him right there in the middle of the exam room. There I am naked from the waist down, my feet in the stirrups, dildo-cam in place, and all the nurse and sonographer want to do is ask J for curling tips. Hello, people! Can we put the focus back on my ovaries, please?]

So anyway, if my estradiol levels are low, we start the stimulation meds on Sunday as planned. If not, we continue the Lupron shots and go back for another suppression check in a week. As much as I can't believe I'm saying this, I actually hope we have to delay. It's not that I'm looking forward to an extra week of shots -- I'm not -- it's just that if we're going to do this, I'd like conditions to be perfect. Is that so much to ask?

Sir! No, sir!

The insurance vending machine

2006-02-15T18:08:00.000-08:00

I'm writing a big fat check for homeowner's insurance on our new place, and it reminds me how much I dislike insurance companies. Particularly medical insurance companies.

I really shouldn't complain. I have good insurance that actually covers IVF and related treatments. Even my drugs were covered. (I know!) But my clinic is out-of-network so I have to pay the clinic up front and then submit claims to the insurance company for reimbursement. Now, I thought my policy was pretty straight-forward. I thought I understood how it worked. But, apparently, I don't have the foggiest of clues.

When I send in a claim, it's like inserting a dollar bill into a vending machine. The machine might take the bill, or it might spit it back out at you. And just because you punched in the code for the package of Juicy Fruit gum, doesn't mean you'll get the Juicy Fruit gum. You could get anything. A bag of Doritos. A Mars bar. An apple, for pete's sake. It's completely unpredictable.

So I've stopped trying to predict it. Sometimes I get a check in the mail, sometimes the charges are put toward my deductible, sometimes (but thankfully not often) the claim is denied. There's no rhyme or reason to it that I can tell. But on average it seems to come out okay. And so, when the insurance vending machine spits out peanut butter and cheese crackers when what I really wanted was a Ding Dong, I think, eh. Close enough.

2006-02-14T17:58:00.000-08:00

We continue with the injections. I've decided I like it better when J administers them. That way I don't have to look. Besides, it freaks him out to do it, and part of me delights in that. Call it sharing the discomfort.

I'm not sure what the side effects of Lupron are, but a craving for anything and everything sweet must be one of them. I'm not normally a sweets-loving girl. Give me french fries over chocolate any day. But lately, all I want is sugar. Might explain why a bowl of ice cream has become my reward for a shot well done.

Ah, the indulgence. At least at this rate, I won't have to worry about running out of space on my belly for all these shots.

Get out of jail free card

2006-02-12T12:10:00.000-08:00

I know I promised comedy. I've actually delayed this post by several days while I tried to come up with some laugh-out-loud nugget from my injection adventure. But, alas, there's nothing. Fact is, it was a complete non-event. I loaded the syringe, held it three inches away from a roll of belly fat for about 30 seconds while I worked up the nerve, and then in it went. It was as simple as that. Until I started crying.

Not from the pain, there was no pain to speak of. I cried because somehow that first shot made this whole IVF thing real. From the moment the doctor told us we needed to do IVF, in the irrational reaches of my mind, I thought somehow we'd get out of it. Somehow, something would happen that would mean we didn't have to do IVF. We'd be given a get out of jail free card.

But of course, that didn't happen. Instead, that first shot marked the beginning of a road I never wanted to travel. And standing here at the beginning of that road, syringe in hand, I only wish I knew where it ended.

Babies are slippery when wet

2006-02-09T17:52:00.000-08:00

That was the warning my mother issued upon hearing I was babysitting a friend's new baby and that the babysitting gig included a bath. Now, I'm 35 years old and have never bathed an infant, so the advice was warranted, I suppose. Even if the subtext was "So don't drop her on her head, dumbass."

2006-02-06T17:06:00.000-08:00

I'm a writer by profession. Not a real writer, mind you, a technical writer. I write about software. Really cool software that lets people do some amazingly creative stuff, but software just the same. This week I'm at a software conference. Nothing like a room full of computer geeks to sap the creativity right out of you.

That's not actually true. There are some really great and creative ideas being bandied about, but none that would be of interest to anyone reading this blog, so I'll refrain. Suffice it to say, my mind is elsewhere this week, so forgive me if the posts are a bit light.

Thursday I start injections. A comedy-rich post is sure to follow. Stay tuned.

The weeping wall

2006-02-03T17:47:00.000-08:00

Here comes the sun, do do do do ... Oh, no, wait. It's just more rain. Lots and lots of rain. Buckets of rain. For weeks on end now. You're not surprised? I live in Seattle, after all, you say? Oh, silly reader. The truth is Seattle's weather is typically quite mild. Sure it's gray from November through June, but when it rains it's usually just a drizzle. A misting, really. But not this year. This year we've had downpours of biblical proportion. We've had more than twice the rain we normally see in the month of January. And all this wetness has not been good for our walls.

The plaster below this window in our dining room was so soft, we could have scooped it out with a spoon. The paint bubbled to a Shrek-sized boil. Drips rolled down the wall like tears. Oh, wait. Maybe those were my tears thinking about how much this will cost us to fix.

[Update: The window guy was here. Turns out when the previous owners installed the windows, they framed the exterior in such a way as to block the weep holes. Now, I'm no Bob Villa, but even I know a window needs weep holes. Seesh.]

2006-02-02T20:19:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like a room full of infertile women to cheer you up. Really. I know that sounds like sarcasm, but I mean it in all sincerity. Once a month I meet with a group of women who are traveling the same crappy road I am, and it's fabulous. Infertility is an isolating experience. It's not something that gets discussed in polite company, and when you look around, it's easy to come to the conclusion that everyone -- I mean everyone -- has kids except for you. And so you feel like a freak.

I remember the first time I went to the fertility clinic. As I sneaked peeks around the waiting room, what struck me more than anything else was how normal everyone looked. I mean, the men and women sitting there looked like people we could be friends with. It was startling. I'm not sure what I expected. Weepy women with mascara streaks down their faces. Oddities of nature that probably shouldn't procreate anyway. Republicans. Who knows. The point is, they all looked just like us.

So this group of women I meet with, they're all beautiful, intelligent women who deserve to be mothers. We sit around and drink wine (at least those of us who aren't in the middle of a cycle drink wine), eat, tell our stories, and most of all, commiserate. And as we talk, the experience of infertility is normalized, if only for a few hours.

Knowledge is power

2006-02-01T17:18:00.000-08:00

If you're a Seattle resident looking for home design books in the Seattle Public Library, don't bother. I have them all. All of them. At least, all the good ones. It's a bit absurd, actually. I don't know what made me think I'd have time to read them all. But when faced with uncertainty, this is how I respond. I research, I read, I take notes and (in this case) draw pictures. Crappy pictures, but pictures still.

I hate needles

2006-01-31T17:45:00.000-08:00

I hate needles. I know, everyone says that. But I really mean it. I haven't had a tetanus booster since I was about 10 because each time my doctor suggests I get one - which she does every time I see her - I say, "Next time, I promise." Next time, my ass. A few years ago I had the brilliant idea of regularly donating blood as a way to get over my needle fear. Lets just say I didn't get many cookies or glasses of juice out of that deal. And when I had surgery last summer, the thing I was most anxious about? The IV. They were about to cut my abdomen open and muck around with my internal organs and I was worried about a poke in the hand. Pathetic.

So you can imagine how much I enjoyed yesterday's injection training. The nurse took us into one of the consultation rooms, where laid out on the table was an alarming assortment of syringes, needles, alcohol swabs and little glass vials. I considered bolting, or fainting, but did neither. Instead I calmly affixed needles, loaded syringes and practiced jabbing them into a pin cushion made to resemble skin (a skin cushion?). I was composed. I asked questions. I took notes. And I didn't cry until after we had left.

As we walked back to the car, J played at being strong. He was all optimism and we-can-do-it-ism. But when I employed some questioning techniques not likely condoned by the UN, he caved and admitted he was freaked out, too. At least it's not just me.

My life for the next 8 weeks

2006-01-26T19:13:00.000-08:00

We got our calendar. Our IVF calendar. The calendar that tells us what the next 8 weeks have in store. It tells us when we have injection training (next Monday), when I start giving myself shots of Lupron (on 2/19), when I start stims (10 days later), when I have appointments for blood work and ultrasounds (too many to list). And it tells us -- albeit approximately -- when egg retrieval and transfer will happen. These are the big dates. The dates I will circle in red.

We got our IVF calendar. And it's hanging on the fridge.