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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
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.
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