It started most innocuously. Being ever-aware of the gross over-use of diagnostic imaging by healthcare practitioners forced to cover their asses, or (perhaps more cynically) who have a financial partnership with an imaging center, I first shrugged off Dr. M's suggestion to get an MRI of the 'ute to rule out an endometriosis-like condition of the uterine muscle. But a few days later, the hubs and I had decided we'd dealt with the unknown long enough, and that we at least wanted to rule out this possibility. I scheduled myself an MRI.
On an ordinary Tuesday, I went NPO after lunch, saw a busy afternoon of patients, fought beltway traffic, and arrived early for my appointment. I turned in the detailed patient questionnaire--it even asked for the date of my last period, or if I could be pregnant. I scribbled "highly unlikely" beside that question. I suppose it was possible, just as winning the multi-state PowerBall Lotto drawing was possible. However, the past three years of unsuccessful attempts to have a baby with the latest technology and thousands of out-of-pocket dollars of medication had resulted in the conclusion that I couldn't get pregnant using my own eggs. Period.
A moment later, a young assistant informed me they couldn't do the MRI based on the date of my last period, as there was a chance I could be pregnant. I smiled and laughed off her silliness. I'm infertile, I explained. Let me talk to your superior. I was shuffled to a back room to speak with a radiology tech. Surely someone with some sort of medical experience would agree with me, and we'd laugh it off together as healthcare practitioners. She arrived with a fake tan, bleach blonde hair, and a reflective nude lipstick reminiscent of something I had in my Esprit purse circa 1988. She explained to me that I would need a pregnancy test before I had the MRI. I said I was happy to take one. Unfortunately, their office didn't do them on-site. I offered to get an HPT at CVS and come back. No-go. The test had to be a blood test, and it had to be ordered by the referring physician. "Why wasn't I told this!" (I was sounding frantic now.) She said I should have been told when I scheduled the appointment. Which, of course, I wasn't.
Not that Fake Tan could have predicted a situation like mine, but I feel at some point along the way, there has to be a point where the clinician reaches out to the patient. A hand on the shoulder. An "I know you must be so frustrated." A simple but appropriate "I'm sorry." I got nothing from Fake Tan. Could I have paused time at that moment, I would have gently--and firmly--suggested to Fake Tan the following: Do not turn away an infertile woman from an MRI to find the cause of her infertility because she "might be pregnant." It's going to to over as well as a physical assault.
Clearly she didn't understand what I was saying. A panicky feeling rose in my throat. I explained to her the ridiculousness of the situation, that my ovaries no longer produced eggs with a chance of viability, that we'd thrown away tens of thousands of dollars in the past few years to find that out. (Oh, no, quiver in voice.) That I'd recently had a surgery cancelled at the last second--I said this while gesturing frantically towards the bruise on back of my hand, proclaiming "they cancelled it after I'd had the IV in for over an hour!" (Eyes welling up, starting to loose whatever semblance of being a rational adult was left.)
Once the tears had started in earnest, I blurted "I want to talk to whoever's in charge here." To which Fake Tan responded "I am in charge." I asked her to contact the radiologist on call, which she did reluctantly out of my earshot (I wonder if she even called, or if she prefaced the call with "I have a crazy lady here..."), and returned shaking her head again.
At this point the rejection of being infertile and the failures of the past three years culminated into what seemed the unbearable, and my crying elevated into sobbing. I could only stand there, alone, with Fake Tan staring blankly at me. There was no one with me, no hubs to quietly take Fake Tan by the arm and explain to her that this one straw had, in fact, broken the camel's back. Fake Tan assured me she would get me scheduled again as soon as possible. But the damage was done. I was a mess, miles away from home, alone, and felt utterly defeated.
And then she said the words "if you'll just calm down, I can help you get rescheduled." If I could have paused time again, I would have screamed this time: "Do not tell an infertile lady (the one who just got rejected again, this time the by radiology department) to calm down, YOU BLAME FOOL!" But I was too emotionally beat-down at that point to respond to her comment in any way.
She led me, still sobbing, to the front desk to reschedule. I went through half a box of Kleenex trying to contain my tears to the facial area while re-scheduling my visit. All the while an elderly woman watched from the waiting room, looking rather alarmed. The receptionist looked like a deer in the headlights. She wore the same expression when she looked up from her desk a few days later, when I stepped back into the office (with a piece of paper proclaiming that I was, in fact, a non-pregnant female) and met her eye. I had to smile a little. I had become THAT patient. The crazy one.
In my years as a clinician, I've seen "crazies." But mostly, I've seen regular folks who had a bad day, had suffered for too long, or were just plain overwhelmed. And for those days, I hold hands, I hug, I pass Kleenex, I listen. I'm glad I'm that kind of clinician. Maybe my fake-tanned radiology technician just had a bad day herself. Thankfully, she wasn't there when I returned. The MRI showed no signs of adenomyosis. It seemed an unnecessarily difficult hurdle, but we could move forward.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Thursday, November 15, 2012
To those who love us...
So in no particular order, to those who love us...
Some only know we're "trying." They might not know my daily E2 levels or follicle count, but they know it hasn't been easy. Parents of my close friends have e-mailed words of support. My mom's girlfriends sent cards before and after each IVF cycle. Her church group continues to pray for us. Our priest somehow crafted homilies that at times seemed meant for us. My dad's neighbor quietly toasted us on New Year's, winking and saying "here's to YOUR year."
Our colleagues know, and it's made our lives easier. With all of the packages stamped with a penguin figure arriving at the office and being deposited into the fridge, the last-minute shuffling around of our own patients, and a few "pop to the loo" injections, our colleagues were bound to find out. We didn't make an announcement at happy hour, but our colleagues are also our friends, and they came to know what we were going through. There have been gentle questions during stims, and a wordless understanding that came after each of our failed attempts. After our first IVF, I found a card on my desk addressed to "Beautiful," which brought me to tears. My sweet friends knew to leave it quietly on my desk at the end of the day.
I think it's safe to say that my closest girlfriends know more about my ovarian function than their own. About a year after starting TTC, I began to let them in on the happenings. They listened. They hoped for us. They "amen, sister-ed" me when I bitched about women popping up pregnant all over Facebook. They checked in on my cycles. A far away friend sent a mother's day card with words of encouragement. A tech savvy friend offered to create a "Courtney & the hubs are adopting" website for us if needed. In the wake of our final IVF cycle cancellation, they understood our sadness. A dear friend sent a spa gift card, an old friend who had suffered a miscarriage the year before sent us flowers. They continue to make me feel normal and beautiful. They make me laugh. More than anything they tell me I'm strong. Thank you beautiful friends.
While sometimes a bit dry--a light joke goes a long way in the fertility field--Dr. M is clearly respected in his field. We trust his guidance based on both empirical data, years of experience, as well as intuition. Our nurse, S, has been incredibly patient, informative, and warm. She has actually cried with me on more than one occasion (for which my mom then cried, knowing she was so good to us). She has tempered honestly with optimism. When we only ended up with three embryos at our first IVF, she assured us she had "seen perfect babies come from not-so-perfect embryos." Our tech is always smiling, and on days when I've had blood pregnancy tests, she always asks "how you doin', darlin?" and assures me her fingers are crossed for the both of us.
There's a baby boy I need to mention. My big, sweet, and beautiful nephew, H. Friends have asked if it's difficult to be around him, what with the infertility diagnosis and all. But being around my sweet H is a cure for what ails me. I feel calm, happy, and hopeful in his little presence. He's been amazing to watch grow up in the past year. I've been honored to be with him for his first Christmas, first snow, first trip to Pottery Barn, and for thousands of smiles, grasps, and steps. I love seeing my brother in his precious baby face, or seeing my sister in law in his eyes. His amazing parents have been so good to us through this. When we found out we weren't eligible for shared risk IVF, they sent us flowers. My brother has faithfully called to "check in" after each disappointment, being mostly silent on the phone, and letting me talk. And they both humor my ruthless demands for pics and video of "my" baby H.
My step-dad has offered more support than I would have ever thought to his once bratty teenage step-daughter. My aunt has been another source of love, support, and a shoulder to cry on. She has cried with me, her heart has broken for me, but she has also kept me laughing when what I really needed to do is laugh. She and my uncle have both helped us with our expenses, completely of their own accord. Quietly, modestly.
My Dad, step-mom, and in-laws stepped forward with such generosity as to make it possible for us to move on past our IVF failures and onto the next step. Again we never asked. We have shared our disappointment and hopes with them. They have been cautious not to invade our privacy--one's fertility can be a delicate thing to discuss beyond the "mom" realm for women. But hey have been wonderful through it all, and offered to "nurse" through various recoveries if needed. Their gift has allowed us to hope again.
My sweet mama has been with us from day one. In the past three years, it's safe to say she's fielded the most meltdowns (along w/ the hubs) with unfailing kindness and hopefulness. We never asked for any help, but from the beginning, she has helped us with the overwhelming expenses we were just starting to encounter. We literally could not have started down the IVF route without her support. She knows the ups and downs as intimately as I do. While with me through our first IVF, she realized that in no way is IVF a "given." She was with me for each report on our embryos, sitting breathless beside me while I took each phone call. She's been with me, either physically holding me, or on the phone, when I've been overwhelmed with emptiness. She realizes just how sad infertility has been for us, as she has experienced it alongside my husband and I as another partner. Hubs and I would not be where we are today without her support.
From hope to disappointment, and back again. And again. And again. The times that I thought I could never hope again, its our friends and family who have helped us to believe again in hope.
Some only know we're "trying." They might not know my daily E2 levels or follicle count, but they know it hasn't been easy. Parents of my close friends have e-mailed words of support. My mom's girlfriends sent cards before and after each IVF cycle. Her church group continues to pray for us. Our priest somehow crafted homilies that at times seemed meant for us. My dad's neighbor quietly toasted us on New Year's, winking and saying "here's to YOUR year."
Our colleagues know, and it's made our lives easier. With all of the packages stamped with a penguin figure arriving at the office and being deposited into the fridge, the last-minute shuffling around of our own patients, and a few "pop to the loo" injections, our colleagues were bound to find out. We didn't make an announcement at happy hour, but our colleagues are also our friends, and they came to know what we were going through. There have been gentle questions during stims, and a wordless understanding that came after each of our failed attempts. After our first IVF, I found a card on my desk addressed to "Beautiful," which brought me to tears. My sweet friends knew to leave it quietly on my desk at the end of the day.
I think it's safe to say that my closest girlfriends know more about my ovarian function than their own. About a year after starting TTC, I began to let them in on the happenings. They listened. They hoped for us. They "amen, sister-ed" me when I bitched about women popping up pregnant all over Facebook. They checked in on my cycles. A far away friend sent a mother's day card with words of encouragement. A tech savvy friend offered to create a "Courtney & the hubs are adopting" website for us if needed. In the wake of our final IVF cycle cancellation, they understood our sadness. A dear friend sent a spa gift card, an old friend who had suffered a miscarriage the year before sent us flowers. They continue to make me feel normal and beautiful. They make me laugh. More than anything they tell me I'm strong. Thank you beautiful friends.
While sometimes a bit dry--a light joke goes a long way in the fertility field--Dr. M is clearly respected in his field. We trust his guidance based on both empirical data, years of experience, as well as intuition. Our nurse, S, has been incredibly patient, informative, and warm. She has actually cried with me on more than one occasion (for which my mom then cried, knowing she was so good to us). She has tempered honestly with optimism. When we only ended up with three embryos at our first IVF, she assured us she had "seen perfect babies come from not-so-perfect embryos." Our tech is always smiling, and on days when I've had blood pregnancy tests, she always asks "how you doin', darlin?" and assures me her fingers are crossed for the both of us.
There's a baby boy I need to mention. My big, sweet, and beautiful nephew, H. Friends have asked if it's difficult to be around him, what with the infertility diagnosis and all. But being around my sweet H is a cure for what ails me. I feel calm, happy, and hopeful in his little presence. He's been amazing to watch grow up in the past year. I've been honored to be with him for his first Christmas, first snow, first trip to Pottery Barn, and for thousands of smiles, grasps, and steps. I love seeing my brother in his precious baby face, or seeing my sister in law in his eyes. His amazing parents have been so good to us through this. When we found out we weren't eligible for shared risk IVF, they sent us flowers. My brother has faithfully called to "check in" after each disappointment, being mostly silent on the phone, and letting me talk. And they both humor my ruthless demands for pics and video of "my" baby H.
My step-dad has offered more support than I would have ever thought to his once bratty teenage step-daughter. My aunt has been another source of love, support, and a shoulder to cry on. She has cried with me, her heart has broken for me, but she has also kept me laughing when what I really needed to do is laugh. She and my uncle have both helped us with our expenses, completely of their own accord. Quietly, modestly.
My Dad, step-mom, and in-laws stepped forward with such generosity as to make it possible for us to move on past our IVF failures and onto the next step. Again we never asked. We have shared our disappointment and hopes with them. They have been cautious not to invade our privacy--one's fertility can be a delicate thing to discuss beyond the "mom" realm for women. But hey have been wonderful through it all, and offered to "nurse" through various recoveries if needed. Their gift has allowed us to hope again.
My sweet mama has been with us from day one. In the past three years, it's safe to say she's fielded the most meltdowns (along w/ the hubs) with unfailing kindness and hopefulness. We never asked for any help, but from the beginning, she has helped us with the overwhelming expenses we were just starting to encounter. We literally could not have started down the IVF route without her support. She knows the ups and downs as intimately as I do. While with me through our first IVF, she realized that in no way is IVF a "given." She was with me for each report on our embryos, sitting breathless beside me while I took each phone call. She's been with me, either physically holding me, or on the phone, when I've been overwhelmed with emptiness. She realizes just how sad infertility has been for us, as she has experienced it alongside my husband and I as another partner. Hubs and I would not be where we are today without her support.
From hope to disappointment, and back again. And again. And again. The times that I thought I could never hope again, its our friends and family who have helped us to believe again in hope.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The hope thief
The Reader's Digest version of Lupron is that it suppresses your own hormones. Hubs administered it twice a day for several days prior to starting with my old friends Follistim and Menopur. And then it was Lupron and Follistim every a.m., and Lupron and Menopur every p.m. That was 4-5 injections every day. For twelve days. As the days passed, virginal abdominal surface area became less and less. The hubs became a little more ballsy with--and deft at--pinching up a little fat just adjacent to bruises. The injections still stung a bit, but this time around I was prepared.
I was not prepared for the bloating that accompanied this new cocktail of fertility drugs. I saw a good 3-5 pound weight gain on the scale over a few days, and was getting dangerously close to developing my very own "muffin top" with certain jeans. Another reason to be thankful I wear scrubs to work. I asked Dr. M if a lot of women complain of weight gain on the Lupron. His response: "not really." Thanks, Dr. M. For all of you ladies who may be doing the Lupron thing: it's not you, it's the hormones. And it will go away. Promise.
After our first IVF, I expected a slow go of it. And my body didn't disappoint. It was SLOW. We passed our previous medication cost and then some. At day 10 of stims my estrogen was finally creeping up into the 400s. But it was ugly. None of the expected "doubling" of E2 levels. In the back of my mind, I was afraid our cycle would be cancelled. When I went in for my ultrasounds, Dr. M indicated things were going very slowly. My right ovary was, per usual, inconspicuous much of the time. Some sessions they didn't even bother probing around for ol' righty to see how many follicles had developed. Even when they did, my follicle count was never more than 6 that cycle.
The Saturday before Labor Day, the hubs and I decided to pack the cooler, our books, and hang out at our pool. That morning's ultrasound had been less than promising. Looking back I can't remember the number of follicles. That afternoon whilst lounging at the pool, our nurse called. Our estrogen had surprisingly increased from the 200s to the 400s. I remembered my husband and I breathing a sign of relief that we were still "on." We clinked our Tervis Tumblers together and stopped fretting for a bit.
Labor Day morning we went in for our day 12 monitoring. Just another early morning holiday/weekend/snowday monitoring session; the life of the infertile. And bless the medical team, who show up smiling every single holiday/weekend/snowday that I've been in the office. The doctor on call did my ultrasound. It was quick and no probing! I remember for a split second thinking "that was easy" before I realized why it was over so fast.
I was naked from the waist down when I heard our fate. "You only have 2 follicles. We don't retrieve for less than 3. Have you considered donor egg?" I sat up and clutched my paper drape. The tears started immediately.
"This was our last chance," I blubbered through the tears. I wanted my husband, my mom, anyone with me who could articulate clearly what this meant for us. This wasn't just a cancelled cycle. This was THE cancellation. The one to end it all. After all of the injections, money, and hoping, we didn't even get to retrieval. Not being my regular doctor, he could offer condolences, but couldn't offer much advice on how to proceed. I would see Dr. M again the next morning to discuss things.
I was numb on the way home. I could tell my poor sweet hubs was trying to think his way through it all. We got home before 8 a.m.--an entire day off stretched before us--and I climbed right back into bed, too scared to even discuss what to do next, and laid there for a few hours before I could get up. In my head it seemed hopeless:
-we'd just spent a lot of money for nothing.
-we'd need to replenish our savings before even considering adoption.
-maybe if we lived like paupers we could do it sooner?
-could one/both of us take a second job/work PRN at a hospital on weekends?
-if we moved straight to adoption, we wouldn't have a "cushion" and I wouldn't be able go to part-time to stay home with our baby.
I had no idea what to hope for anymore.
While I was prepared for a BFN after transfer, I was clearly not prepared to fail out of the cycle before retrieval. I was not prepared to be denied the last chance that we'd been building up to, physically as well as emotionally.
I felt utterly robbed. And for that day, I felt that nothing would ever be okay again.
I was not prepared for the bloating that accompanied this new cocktail of fertility drugs. I saw a good 3-5 pound weight gain on the scale over a few days, and was getting dangerously close to developing my very own "muffin top" with certain jeans. Another reason to be thankful I wear scrubs to work. I asked Dr. M if a lot of women complain of weight gain on the Lupron. His response: "not really." Thanks, Dr. M. For all of you ladies who may be doing the Lupron thing: it's not you, it's the hormones. And it will go away. Promise.
After our first IVF, I expected a slow go of it. And my body didn't disappoint. It was SLOW. We passed our previous medication cost and then some. At day 10 of stims my estrogen was finally creeping up into the 400s. But it was ugly. None of the expected "doubling" of E2 levels. In the back of my mind, I was afraid our cycle would be cancelled. When I went in for my ultrasounds, Dr. M indicated things were going very slowly. My right ovary was, per usual, inconspicuous much of the time. Some sessions they didn't even bother probing around for ol' righty to see how many follicles had developed. Even when they did, my follicle count was never more than 6 that cycle.
The Saturday before Labor Day, the hubs and I decided to pack the cooler, our books, and hang out at our pool. That morning's ultrasound had been less than promising. Looking back I can't remember the number of follicles. That afternoon whilst lounging at the pool, our nurse called. Our estrogen had surprisingly increased from the 200s to the 400s. I remembered my husband and I breathing a sign of relief that we were still "on." We clinked our Tervis Tumblers together and stopped fretting for a bit.
Labor Day morning we went in for our day 12 monitoring. Just another early morning holiday/weekend/snowday monitoring session; the life of the infertile. And bless the medical team, who show up smiling every single holiday/weekend/snowday that I've been in the office. The doctor on call did my ultrasound. It was quick and no probing! I remember for a split second thinking "that was easy" before I realized why it was over so fast.
I was naked from the waist down when I heard our fate. "You only have 2 follicles. We don't retrieve for less than 3. Have you considered donor egg?" I sat up and clutched my paper drape. The tears started immediately.
"This was our last chance," I blubbered through the tears. I wanted my husband, my mom, anyone with me who could articulate clearly what this meant for us. This wasn't just a cancelled cycle. This was THE cancellation. The one to end it all. After all of the injections, money, and hoping, we didn't even get to retrieval. Not being my regular doctor, he could offer condolences, but couldn't offer much advice on how to proceed. I would see Dr. M again the next morning to discuss things.
I was numb on the way home. I could tell my poor sweet hubs was trying to think his way through it all. We got home before 8 a.m.--an entire day off stretched before us--and I climbed right back into bed, too scared to even discuss what to do next, and laid there for a few hours before I could get up. In my head it seemed hopeless:
-we'd just spent a lot of money for nothing.
-we'd need to replenish our savings before even considering adoption.
-maybe if we lived like paupers we could do it sooner?
-could one/both of us take a second job/work PRN at a hospital on weekends?
-if we moved straight to adoption, we wouldn't have a "cushion" and I wouldn't be able go to part-time to stay home with our baby.
I had no idea what to hope for anymore.
While I was prepared for a BFN after transfer, I was clearly not prepared to fail out of the cycle before retrieval. I was not prepared to be denied the last chance that we'd been building up to, physically as well as emotionally.
I felt utterly robbed. And for that day, I felt that nothing would ever be okay again.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
The 3-5
Sweet hubs and I were in a bar again. This time in Portland, Maine, stopping through for a night of local brews on our way up to Bar Harbor. It was my 35th birthday. Thirty-five as in I was now officially in that next category of infertile women. Those whom specialists deemed it necessary to put in two blastocysts to start instead of one, because of "advanced age." Nearly two months had passed since our BFN following IVF 1. I'd since fallen in love with the idea of a domestic private adoption. I'd been frequenting parentprofiles.com to check the status of other couples in their search for a birth mother. I read the "recently matched" section with excitement. This could be us in a year or two!
In those few weeks since the heartbreak of our failed IVF, I'd somewhat settled into the idea that I may not actually get to be pregnant. As a coping mechanism, after two years of wanting it more than anything, I was starting to make a mental list of the cons of carrying one's own child. Weight gain. My aversion to the empire waist. Nausea. Sleep disturbances. Cankles. The fear that comes along with caring for and growing something so precious inside of me. Mind you, if I'd happened to get pregnant at that time, these "cons" would have vanished.
So we saddled up to the bar. I'd already tossed a pint of beer all over myself in a tragically sober misfire of the hand whilst reaching for my first sip. We'd also had our schooner tour cancelled due to the torrential downpour which soaked us as we walked from our B&B to the waterfront. I spent a good 15 minutes crouched under the hand dryer in the ladies' room and got back in the game. Hubs and I listed out the pros and cons of another IVF cycle versus moving straight onto adoption. We were still a little drained from the emotions (and the $5k we spent on injectible stims) of our first cycle. The list leaned heavily towards forgetting a second IVF. But somehow we walked out of that bar having made the decision to give it one more shot.
We'd already decided to take the summer off. We had trips planned, a family wedding, our pool to enjoy, and evenings better spent on the patio of a restaurant than inside timing our next injection. We decided we'd like to start stims in August and aim for late August/early September for retrieval/transfer. We spoke to Dr. M, who wanted to try a lupron protocol, meaning that I'd do a daily lupron injection daily along with our stims. He estimated a 50% chance for this cycle. So then I did what any infertile girl does when she's trying to have a baby: I went back on birth control.
In those few weeks since the heartbreak of our failed IVF, I'd somewhat settled into the idea that I may not actually get to be pregnant. As a coping mechanism, after two years of wanting it more than anything, I was starting to make a mental list of the cons of carrying one's own child. Weight gain. My aversion to the empire waist. Nausea. Sleep disturbances. Cankles. The fear that comes along with caring for and growing something so precious inside of me. Mind you, if I'd happened to get pregnant at that time, these "cons" would have vanished.
So we saddled up to the bar. I'd already tossed a pint of beer all over myself in a tragically sober misfire of the hand whilst reaching for my first sip. We'd also had our schooner tour cancelled due to the torrential downpour which soaked us as we walked from our B&B to the waterfront. I spent a good 15 minutes crouched under the hand dryer in the ladies' room and got back in the game. Hubs and I listed out the pros and cons of another IVF cycle versus moving straight onto adoption. We were still a little drained from the emotions (and the $5k we spent on injectible stims) of our first cycle. The list leaned heavily towards forgetting a second IVF. But somehow we walked out of that bar having made the decision to give it one more shot.
We'd already decided to take the summer off. We had trips planned, a family wedding, our pool to enjoy, and evenings better spent on the patio of a restaurant than inside timing our next injection. We decided we'd like to start stims in August and aim for late August/early September for retrieval/transfer. We spoke to Dr. M, who wanted to try a lupron protocol, meaning that I'd do a daily lupron injection daily along with our stims. He estimated a 50% chance for this cycle. So then I did what any infertile girl does when she's trying to have a baby: I went back on birth control.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
After a BFN
Our biggest BFN had come conveniently on our wedding anniversary, the week prior to Mother's Day. Really won the lotto on that one. Over the next few days, there were sweet and gentle words from our
family, friends, and several colleagues who knew of our struggles. I had a day off work several days following our BFN, and allowed myself some wallow time, which consisted of lounging in
pajamas until the middle of the day, and turning to staple distraction
shows such as House Hunters and the Nate Berkus Show. My day of self-pity was rudely interrupted when the Ellen Show came on, and in honor of Mother's Day, the entire studio audience was pregnant women. The camera panned the audience of glowing mothers-to-be, those women who had so much to look forward to, such happiness awaiting them. Ellen started into the audience in her suit and sneakers. Come on, Ellen, REALLY? Total disappointment. My day of wallowing turned out to be not quite what I needed. What I did need was the next plan.
My biggest fear at that time was that we would fail out of IVF and have nowhere to go. Amazingly, that weekend a seminar called "A Family of My Own" was going on in D.C. It was an overview of options for individuals and couples dealing with infertility: IUI, IVF, egg donor, adoption of all sorts. The hubs and I signed up. Upon hearing about it, my mom insisted she and my step-dad come along for moral support. Bless them. My poor step-dad was probably thinking "son of a bitch," but he arrived pen and paper in hand, and the four of us were actually quite a team. If my mom and I went to a seminar on, say, nutrition and infertility, the hubs and my step-dad would sit in and take notes on financing adoption.
We learned that international adoption wasn't really a viable option as we'd hoped: very expensive, long wait times. When I thought of adoption previously, I'd imagined myself flying to China or Ethiopia to pick up my child in a dusty orphanage. But the thing about international adoption, besides the wait and expense, is also the restrictions. Over 38? Sorry, you're out. Only married for four years? Out. Not Catholic? Forget about it. Hmmm...skip to the domestic adoption seminar.
I'd never considered going through private domestic adoption, doing things like putting ads in the Penny Saver, a la the 2007 indie hit "Juno." But suddenly, it seemed like a possibility. We met couples who were just like us, who failed out of IVF and had to move on. They chose domestic private adoption because it afforded them a little more control over the situation, and it was less costly on average than an agency adoption. I cried during their testimonials. Suddenly I was in love with the idea of adoption. It worked. Ovarian function could be horrid--you could adopt! Uterine lining could be paper thin--you could adopt! You could be 35 and married for 3 years--you could adopt! It seemed right to me.
That same day, the hubs and I signed up for a private domestic adoption workshop scheduled the following weekend. We had a "Plan B" in place, even if it was really more of a "Plan T."
My biggest fear at that time was that we would fail out of IVF and have nowhere to go. Amazingly, that weekend a seminar called "A Family of My Own" was going on in D.C. It was an overview of options for individuals and couples dealing with infertility: IUI, IVF, egg donor, adoption of all sorts. The hubs and I signed up. Upon hearing about it, my mom insisted she and my step-dad come along for moral support. Bless them. My poor step-dad was probably thinking "son of a bitch," but he arrived pen and paper in hand, and the four of us were actually quite a team. If my mom and I went to a seminar on, say, nutrition and infertility, the hubs and my step-dad would sit in and take notes on financing adoption.
We learned that international adoption wasn't really a viable option as we'd hoped: very expensive, long wait times. When I thought of adoption previously, I'd imagined myself flying to China or Ethiopia to pick up my child in a dusty orphanage. But the thing about international adoption, besides the wait and expense, is also the restrictions. Over 38? Sorry, you're out. Only married for four years? Out. Not Catholic? Forget about it. Hmmm...skip to the domestic adoption seminar.
I'd never considered going through private domestic adoption, doing things like putting ads in the Penny Saver, a la the 2007 indie hit "Juno." But suddenly, it seemed like a possibility. We met couples who were just like us, who failed out of IVF and had to move on. They chose domestic private adoption because it afforded them a little more control over the situation, and it was less costly on average than an agency adoption. I cried during their testimonials. Suddenly I was in love with the idea of adoption. It worked. Ovarian function could be horrid--you could adopt! Uterine lining could be paper thin--you could adopt! You could be 35 and married for 3 years--you could adopt! It seemed right to me.
That same day, the hubs and I signed up for a private domestic adoption workshop scheduled the following weekend. We had a "Plan B" in place, even if it was really more of a "Plan T."
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Getting through it
My sweet husband and I were in Nashville, sampling fried pickles and live music in a smoky honky-tonk bar downtown, when I just knew. I was five days from my beta following our first IVF. I sipped a PBR gingerly, as if somehow I might discourage an embryo from implanting by consuming a few ounces of light beer. But I knew.
My boobs were no longer exquisitely tender as they had been in the days following retrieval and transfer. And somehow my body just knew it wasn't pregnant. I tried to be hopeful. IVF is what works for people when other options fail. It worked for so many women I read about online. For ones who'd had three or more failed IUIs, like myself. Plus, as of the week before, we'd had several-celled embryos that were multiplying.
We went to a wedding that weekend where people talked about their kids, and then in the absence of any discussion of kids on our part, asked if we wanted any. Loaded question is an understatement. Recalling that I was still on hormones several times daily, and had a glass of champagne for the toast, it's a wonder I was able to give my standard diplomatic answer: "we would LOVE to have children; it hasn't happened for us yet, but we'll be thrilled when it does."
Cue onslaught of comments from well-meaning men and women who haven't a clue what it's like to not get pregnant after, say, 2 years or so of TTC:
Standard comment (followed by the response in my head)
"You're still young." (You have no idea how old I am)
"It'll happen soon!" (Know anything about FSH? Mine's 15.9)
"Just relax and it'll happen." (We're in the middle of a 2WW, "just relax" doesn't happen)
"You've got plenty of time." (Please Google "diminished ovarian reserve")
Occasionally I'd hear a comment like "we wish you well with that." Which seemed to suffice beautifully, and didn't minimize our struggle. I have to remember that most people don't have any idea what it's like to be infertile and desperately want children. I have to remind myself they're well-meaning.
It was not a surprise but still a slap in the face when we got the call in the middle of a busy workday, five days later, on our wedding anniversary, and learned we were not pregnant. I took a few minutes in the back office to attempt to blot my tears, cleanse the streams of mascara from my face, and collect myself to the point of providing patient care for the next few hours. I'm a crier by nature, and sometimes once the floodgates open, it's done. Looking back, I amazed myself that evening. I pulled it together and just got through it. Which is so much of what this journey has been about.
My boobs were no longer exquisitely tender as they had been in the days following retrieval and transfer. And somehow my body just knew it wasn't pregnant. I tried to be hopeful. IVF is what works for people when other options fail. It worked for so many women I read about online. For ones who'd had three or more failed IUIs, like myself. Plus, as of the week before, we'd had several-celled embryos that were multiplying.
We went to a wedding that weekend where people talked about their kids, and then in the absence of any discussion of kids on our part, asked if we wanted any. Loaded question is an understatement. Recalling that I was still on hormones several times daily, and had a glass of champagne for the toast, it's a wonder I was able to give my standard diplomatic answer: "we would LOVE to have children; it hasn't happened for us yet, but we'll be thrilled when it does."
Cue onslaught of comments from well-meaning men and women who haven't a clue what it's like to not get pregnant after, say, 2 years or so of TTC:
Standard comment (followed by the response in my head)
"You're still young." (You have no idea how old I am)
"It'll happen soon!" (Know anything about FSH? Mine's 15.9)
"Just relax and it'll happen." (We're in the middle of a 2WW, "just relax" doesn't happen)
"You've got plenty of time." (Please Google "diminished ovarian reserve")
Occasionally I'd hear a comment like "we wish you well with that." Which seemed to suffice beautifully, and didn't minimize our struggle. I have to remember that most people don't have any idea what it's like to be infertile and desperately want children. I have to remind myself they're well-meaning.
It was not a surprise but still a slap in the face when we got the call in the middle of a busy workday, five days later, on our wedding anniversary, and learned we were not pregnant. I took a few minutes in the back office to attempt to blot my tears, cleanse the streams of mascara from my face, and collect myself to the point of providing patient care for the next few hours. I'm a crier by nature, and sometimes once the floodgates open, it's done. Looking back, I amazed myself that evening. I pulled it together and just got through it. Which is so much of what this journey has been about.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
A funny thing happened at transfer
The call came that morning, 3dpt (or three days post transfer, for those who may not be familiar w/ infertility speak): one good looking 6-celled, and one fair 8-celled embryo (good enough for me!), all ready for transfer. Started on my twenty ounces and mama and I were out the door.
No husband required on transfer day. No fasting required, either. Quite a change from retrieval day, where my mom and I waited, dressed and ready, on the sofa downstairs watching "Today," and poor sweet hubs had to "produce a sample" just one floor up (we're talking ten feet as the crow flies, our ceilings aren't that tall).
Prior to transfer, I again combed the internet looking for what I could expect to feel during and after. I came upon many comments in which women said things like "the full bladder was the worst part." Clearly, I thought, these women did not work in health care. For over ten years in the outpatient setting, my bladder had been trained against the urge to relieve myself. I considered myself somewhat of a ninja in that area. I could potentially wait for hours if I was busy enough, all while providing comprehensive care and patient education. Heh heh. I would sail through this and then my mom and I could spend the day watching season season two of Downton Abbey.
I may have gone a little overboard on the water. They said 20 ounces. I have a 32 oz Nalgene. I downed half of it and brought it with me to my appointment.
Dr. M was running a bit late. Just more time for me to ensure that I got plenty of water in that bladder so they could visualize my uterus and implant those embies exactly where they needed to be. I was transferred into a holding pen for infertiles. A narrow hallway with small curtained rooms on each side. My mom could come with. Perfect! More time for girl chat.
Let's say I began consuming water in earnest like a good patient at approximately 9 a.m. Arrived to surgi-center at 9:30, transferred to infertile girl holding pen at 10 or so. At 10:30 (past the time of my scheduled transfer), I looked at the clock and voiced to mama that I really needed to pee. Laugh laugh laugh. All for the sake of having a baby. I was certain to be taken back soon.
11:15 a.m.: bladder distention pain begins interfering with ability to hold a conversation. I can no longer laugh; am afraid I may pee, and also it just hurts. Any voluntary or involuntary increase in intra-abdominal pressure increases the cramping, and I begin to fear for the integrity of my bladder. Minutes later a nurse comes to retrieve me. I gingerly get up and take step by painful step down the hall towards my embies and the transfer room. Loading and unloading my pelvis during walking causes cramping, and I have to assume a somewhat hunched posture.
The transfer room is climate controlled and adjoins the embryology lab, so my little embies don't have to go far to be transferred. I'm invited to "get up" on the plinth, making sure I position a folded pillow under my pelvis. Ummm...as stated before, any voluntary or involuntary abdominal contraction significantly increases the pain on the stretched out smooth muscle of my bladder. Trying to "back oneself up" on a mound of pillow on top of a high table: not so easy. Or comfortable. I could barely bridge to scoot the pillow back under my pelvis when I managed to heave myself onto the table.
So I'm about to burst, nether-regions angled up to my poor doctor, who will certainly be covered in urine if I can't do some serious yoga breathing and get through this. And then what happens is you get a speculum inserted, and someone else presses down on your bladder with the ultrasound head. I remember hearing "WOW, that's a full bladder" prior to closing my eyes and breaking out in a a cold sweat. The procedure took only moments, but passing out was a serious option at one point. Not sure what they would have done, I was already supine. But I remained conscious and they soon wheeled me back to the holding pen, my pelvis still elevated and my body somewhat crooked over that mound of pillow. Any attempt to reposition myself would result in wetting the bed. "Fifteen minutes and then you can get up," my nurse instructed and set a timer. When I voiced concern that, really, I may pee the bed, he smiled sweetly and patted me. Realization: those women in the blogs were right.
My mom noted that I was devoid of color, and my hair had been plastered to my face by my cold sweat. She felt under my neck and shoulders and exclaimed "you're soaking wet!" Yes, well, just a wee nervous system response to an organ whose walls are strained to near rupture. I could only lay there, half on my mound of pillow, miserable, until my time was up. And when it was, I could not get out of bed. I literally could not contract my abdominals to roll or sit up in bed. My attempts to do so resulted in a flailing of limbs that sent my gown above my waist and mom exclaiming "honey!," and then checking the integrity of the curtain across our little pen before restoring my modesty and helping me out of bed.
The relief was not as sweet as thought. My bladder had been through some trauma. I sat for about 10 minutes in the bathroom, letting the loose walls of my bladder slowly shrink down to size dribble by dribble. I felt as if I may have betrayed my body slightly by not acting on it's obvious and urgent distress signals. I was exhausted.
On the way back home, my mom recounted how, in the minutes that I was gone from my holding pen, other women began to drop like flies. It was only Dr. M doing transfers for all of these ladies. He was obviously very busy and somewhat backed up. She heard one patient shuffle off to the bathroom in her little surgical stocking feet, and then heard a flush. Then it happened again. The would-be glory of knowing that I didn't falter in my bladder-holding efforts was diminished by the vague fear that irreversible damage may have been done.
Back home in my bed, my mom making cookies downstairs, I felt like I'd run a marathon instead of enjoyed a Downton Abbey marathon. I curled up for a nap to let my insides settle back to their rightful places.
No husband required on transfer day. No fasting required, either. Quite a change from retrieval day, where my mom and I waited, dressed and ready, on the sofa downstairs watching "Today," and poor sweet hubs had to "produce a sample" just one floor up (we're talking ten feet as the crow flies, our ceilings aren't that tall).
Prior to transfer, I again combed the internet looking for what I could expect to feel during and after. I came upon many comments in which women said things like "the full bladder was the worst part." Clearly, I thought, these women did not work in health care. For over ten years in the outpatient setting, my bladder had been trained against the urge to relieve myself. I considered myself somewhat of a ninja in that area. I could potentially wait for hours if I was busy enough, all while providing comprehensive care and patient education. Heh heh. I would sail through this and then my mom and I could spend the day watching season season two of Downton Abbey.
I may have gone a little overboard on the water. They said 20 ounces. I have a 32 oz Nalgene. I downed half of it and brought it with me to my appointment.
Dr. M was running a bit late. Just more time for me to ensure that I got plenty of water in that bladder so they could visualize my uterus and implant those embies exactly where they needed to be. I was transferred into a holding pen for infertiles. A narrow hallway with small curtained rooms on each side. My mom could come with. Perfect! More time for girl chat.
Let's say I began consuming water in earnest like a good patient at approximately 9 a.m. Arrived to surgi-center at 9:30, transferred to infertile girl holding pen at 10 or so. At 10:30 (past the time of my scheduled transfer), I looked at the clock and voiced to mama that I really needed to pee. Laugh laugh laugh. All for the sake of having a baby. I was certain to be taken back soon.
11:15 a.m.: bladder distention pain begins interfering with ability to hold a conversation. I can no longer laugh; am afraid I may pee, and also it just hurts. Any voluntary or involuntary increase in intra-abdominal pressure increases the cramping, and I begin to fear for the integrity of my bladder. Minutes later a nurse comes to retrieve me. I gingerly get up and take step by painful step down the hall towards my embies and the transfer room. Loading and unloading my pelvis during walking causes cramping, and I have to assume a somewhat hunched posture.
The transfer room is climate controlled and adjoins the embryology lab, so my little embies don't have to go far to be transferred. I'm invited to "get up" on the plinth, making sure I position a folded pillow under my pelvis. Ummm...as stated before, any voluntary or involuntary abdominal contraction significantly increases the pain on the stretched out smooth muscle of my bladder. Trying to "back oneself up" on a mound of pillow on top of a high table: not so easy. Or comfortable. I could barely bridge to scoot the pillow back under my pelvis when I managed to heave myself onto the table.
So I'm about to burst, nether-regions angled up to my poor doctor, who will certainly be covered in urine if I can't do some serious yoga breathing and get through this. And then what happens is you get a speculum inserted, and someone else presses down on your bladder with the ultrasound head. I remember hearing "WOW, that's a full bladder" prior to closing my eyes and breaking out in a a cold sweat. The procedure took only moments, but passing out was a serious option at one point. Not sure what they would have done, I was already supine. But I remained conscious and they soon wheeled me back to the holding pen, my pelvis still elevated and my body somewhat crooked over that mound of pillow. Any attempt to reposition myself would result in wetting the bed. "Fifteen minutes and then you can get up," my nurse instructed and set a timer. When I voiced concern that, really, I may pee the bed, he smiled sweetly and patted me. Realization: those women in the blogs were right.
My mom noted that I was devoid of color, and my hair had been plastered to my face by my cold sweat. She felt under my neck and shoulders and exclaimed "you're soaking wet!" Yes, well, just a wee nervous system response to an organ whose walls are strained to near rupture. I could only lay there, half on my mound of pillow, miserable, until my time was up. And when it was, I could not get out of bed. I literally could not contract my abdominals to roll or sit up in bed. My attempts to do so resulted in a flailing of limbs that sent my gown above my waist and mom exclaiming "honey!," and then checking the integrity of the curtain across our little pen before restoring my modesty and helping me out of bed.
The relief was not as sweet as thought. My bladder had been through some trauma. I sat for about 10 minutes in the bathroom, letting the loose walls of my bladder slowly shrink down to size dribble by dribble. I felt as if I may have betrayed my body slightly by not acting on it's obvious and urgent distress signals. I was exhausted.
On the way back home, my mom recounted how, in the minutes that I was gone from my holding pen, other women began to drop like flies. It was only Dr. M doing transfers for all of these ladies. He was obviously very busy and somewhat backed up. She heard one patient shuffle off to the bathroom in her little surgical stocking feet, and then heard a flush. Then it happened again. The would-be glory of knowing that I didn't falter in my bladder-holding efforts was diminished by the vague fear that irreversible damage may have been done.
Back home in my bed, my mom making cookies downstairs, I felt like I'd run a marathon instead of enjoyed a Downton Abbey marathon. I curled up for a nap to let my insides settle back to their rightful places.
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