There is No Turning Back…

I went running (read: mostly walking) today for the first time in a long time.  Three songs in, Fighter by Christina Aguilera came on my iPod.  In case you are unfamiliar, here are some of the lyrics:

‘Cause it makes me that much stronger
Makes me work a little bit harder
It makes me that much wiser
So thanks for making me a fighter
Made me learn a little bit faster
Made my skin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much smarter
So thanks for making me a fighter

I am a fighter and I
I ain’t goin’ stop
There is no turning back
I’ve had enough

I listened to it 5 more times on repeat while alternately crying, belting out the lyrics, and gasping for breath for the rest of my run.

That is definitely how I feel right now.

Ray made a joke yesterday when we were on our way back to our third stop on our quest to get his phone repaired or replaced or whatever would get him a working phone again for the least amount of money.  He said: Of course it’s not easy, it’s us.

I’m sure lots of people feel that way, and they are probably correct, quite probably more correct than we are.  Believe me, we also know that we are fortunate in many ways.  But, the last couple of years (well, most of my life) have felt like an uphill battle every step of the way.  Maybe I should have listened to the Climb by Miley Cyrus.

Since Ray and I got married in May of 2013, we’ve:

• moved
• gone back to school (me)
• started a new job (me)
• tried to get pregnant in every conceivable way (pun intended)
• reconciled ourselves to the fact that that wasn’t going to happen

And that just takes us through last summer.

Last fall, we had dinner with some friends to discuss their journey to becoming adoptive parents through the foster system.  In October, we attended an orientation to get the ball rolling on that process.  But because of Ray’s work schedule, we couldn’t start the classes right away.

(The day of the orientation and the way that decision was reached is a blog post for another time, but suffice it to say, harsh words were spoken, tears were shed, and the drive home was very long and very silent.)

In the meantime, we decided to get our home set up so we’d have everything we needed by the time we were getting evaluated to be a resource family.  Since we were living in a one bedroom apartment at the time, that meant moving.

So, you know, as long as we’re moving, we might as well just go ahead and buy a house.

We managed to get our finances arranged, find a house that we could (just barely) afford that we’d actually want to live in, and move in by February. (Again, there’s probably an entire blog post there.  Again, it would likely contain harsh words, tears, and long silences.)

At the same time we were closing on the house, we began the resource family approval process: classes, home visits, home improvements, references from friends, financial disclosures, uncomfortably personal interview questions (even for me). (The blog post on those won’t contain nearly enough silences.)

We rearranged our schedules, filled out all the forms, divulged our secrets, and on April 26th, we were approved to become a resource family by the DCFS.

Except we didn’t find that out until May 19th.  When I specifically emailed the social worker to ask if she knew when we’d hear.

The report arrived in the mail a week later.  That’s how I know we were approved in April.  The date was on the report.

We’ve been approved for 7 weeks now.  We’ve known for 3.  We’ve had 0 babies placed with us.

Every time the phone rings, my heart starts pounding and I lunge to pick it up.  Every time I’m disappointed.  Every time another telemarketer gets to taste a little more of my wrath than the previous caller.

We decorated a nursery, made a baby registry, and threw a baby shower.  Friends came over and drank mimosas and celebrated with us.

But not a hint of a baby.  Not a whisper.  Not a hint of a whisper.  Silence, again.  Worse than the other ones.

At the moment, I feel like this house full of baby stuff is mocking me.  Just a whole bunch of unused bottles, unworn onesies, and unplayed with toys collecting dust and reminding me of my failures.  Sticking their collective, metaphorical tongues out at me as if to say: Hahahahahaha!  You actually thought that you were going to get to be a mother???  How stupid are you?

Oh.  And Ray lost his job.  The job that meant we had to wait 5 months longer to start our resource family classes?  Yep.  That job.

We have a mortgage we can just barely afford and we’re waiting for someone to deem us worthy of being given a child to care for, and Ray’s company decided that the decline in his sales caused by the new store that they themselves opened near his store was a fireable offense.

So, yeah, at the moment, I feel like I’ve been fighting forever and I’m gonna have to keep right on fighting.

And by fighting, I mean staring obsessively at my phone and willing it to ring.

Makes me that much stronger…

 

Running on Empty

Right after the last failed IVF, I signed up for a half marathon in December – mostly to give myself something to go Type A on besides having children.

As any of my running friends can tell you, to prepare for a long race it’s good to plan out a schedule of longer runs for the weekends and then make sure you go for a couple of short runs during the week.

Today was one of the days I should have gone on a short run.

You might notice I said ‘should have’.

Perhaps you’re wondering where it all went wrong.

Well, allow me to explain…

The first 3 times I opened Facebook today the first story I saw was someone announcing the birth of their brand new baby.

3 different brand new babies.

I shit you not.

Apparently, it’s baby season.

… which fucking sucks.

(B-T-Dubs: Congratulations! They are all adorable!)

If our first IUI had worked, I’d be announcing my brand new baby about now.

I know I don’t have to tell you this, but, for the record: it didn’t work.

Yesterday, Ray and I went to an orientation for parents who are hoping to adopt through the foster system. To get on the list of eligible foster parents we need to take a 6 week class and fill out an application to have the state inspect our home to make sure we are equipped for a baby.

Not one of the classes being offered between now and the new year is compatible with Ray’s work schedule.

Not a single one.

Which means we can’t even hope to start the process until January.

And, I gotta tell you, I love my students, and 99.9% of the time working with them is the highlight of my day…

But…

it can be a real insult to injury feeling working with other people’s kids all day long when you have tried in vain for the last 3+ years to have some of your own.

Plus, most of them were acting like little hellions today.

(No, that doesn’t make me reconsider wanting children.  I’ve spent a lot of time around children.  I am going into this with my eyes wide open.)

Although, honestly, it can be even more painful when I walk into a kindergarten classroom and they all scream my name like I’m a rock star.  Talk about all the feels — the good, the bad, and the insanely jealous.

Add to all this that I got some potentially really bad, work-related news (that I don’t think it would be prudent to share at this time) this afternoon, and you can imagine what kind of mood I am in.

I honestly feel like I can’t take it anymore. I am so tired of the Universe sending me the message over and over again that I don’t deserve to have a baby. That it will always be someone else’s turn and never mine.  That I am apparently such a terrible person that I, in fact, do not deserve to be a mother.

Not now, says the Universe.

Not now, Melissa.

Not your turn.

Never your turn.

Never going to be your turn.

You’re not fit to be a mother.

You don’t deserve a baby.

No.

No.

NO.

That about sums up how I’m feeling right now.

It fucking sucks.

That also sums up how I feel.

At this point, all I can say is:

Some days you go for a run like you planned.

Some days you pat yourself on the back for not getting shit-faced at 3:00 in the afternoon.

Some days you just go ahead and get shit-faced at 3:00 in the afternoon because nothing matters anyway.

For the record, I’m on option 2.

The Aftermath

I can’t believe I fell for it again.

All week long I’ve been waiting for my period to start.  Friday night when it still hadn’t started, I checked my fertility app, and lo and behold, Day 30.

I’m usually a pretty consistent 28 or 29 day cycle.  Plus, I didn’t even feel an inkling of my period coming on.

Maybe my moodiness of the last 2 weeks wasn’t hormone withdrawal segueing into PMS, maybe it was the first sign of pregnancy.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. I told myself.

Stop getting your hopes up.

The first month following an IVF cycle is incredibly unpredictable.  There’s no telling what your body is going to do while the tons and tons of hormones you injected into it are working their way out of your system.  Normal rules of cycle length do not apply.

Sure, Ray and I followed my sex schedule a couple weeks ago, so it’s not completely preposterous…

Plus, many well-meaning people have been telling me the triumphant story of their cousins/coworkers/dentists getting miraculously pregnant just when they’d given up.  Maybe, we are about to become one of those couples too.

I tried to talk myself out of it all evening.

But, I also checked the linen closet for a pregnancy test.

Just as I was about to go to bed, I decided to share this revelation with Ray.

Very hesitantly, I explained to him what day of my cycle it was and what that could mean.  I was careful, however, to emphasize how far fetched the idea of actual pregnancy seemed to me.  We agreed that if my period didn’t start the next day I should take a pregnancy test.

Literally within 3 minutes of this conversation, I started to feel cramps.

A trip to the bathroom confirmed it.

False alarm.

Resume despondence and despair.

The last couple of weeks have not been pretty.

School started, so I have a lot more demands on my time – just when I feel like crawling under a rock and avoiding all human contact.

Honestly, it’s taking pretty much everything I’ve got to get through the school day.  Kids are hard. You can’t just function: You have to be positive and nurturing and supportive but still challenge them and hold them to high standards and never lose your cool no matter what they do or don’t do.  Not that I’d know.  I don’t have kids.

Everyone’s been telling me to be gentle with myself.

It’s good advice and I appreciate it.

But, I seem to have lost something in translation.

I heard them say be gentle with yourself.

Then, I proceeded to make a million lists and schedules of all the things I feel I should be doing right now.

I signed up for a half marathon and created a training schedule for the next several months.

I decided I needed to plan out my lunches every week and make them ahead of time to make sure I eat healthier.

I created a detailed schedule for myself listing what I think I should be doing every day of the week: working, exercising, housework, writing.  I even mapped out when I should take a shower.

I’m trying to exert control over every single aspect of my life I possibly can to compensate for the one thing I can’t do anything about.

For the first time that I can remember, I’m trying to avoid the thing that is causing me pain.

In the past, I’ve always been a wallower.

After various breakups, I’ve pored over every detail of what may or may not have been wrong with me while either eating way too much or eating next to nothing.

In high school, when a boy I liked didn’t like me back, I would put in my cassette tape of Les Miz and sing along to “On My Own” at the top of my lungs over and over.

The trouble is the avoidance isn’t working.

So, also for the first time I can remember, the pain and sorrow is bubbling up at really random times.

Ray got a flat tire on his way home from work last Saturday night.  When he texted me to let me know, I was in the middle of making dinner.

I freaked out.

Ray was the one stranded at a gas station waiting for AAA on a Saturday night, but I was the one who was furious.  I couldn’t decide if I should keep making dinner and the time that AAA was going to arrive kept changing and I hadn’t eaten all day and Ray needed me to drive out to Woodland Hills to pick him up and I got mad at him.

I’ve been sleeping terribly and Monday night I wanted to go to bed at 9:30, but Ray was out recording his podcast and I was trying to wait up for him so we could switch our cars when he got home so he wouldn’t have to get up in the morning to do it.

When it became clear he wasn’t going to make it back before 10:00 I texted him that I was going to bed.  He told me he was on his way which made me feel like I should wait up for him.

We argued by text and he told me I should go to bed.

I did.  Only then I burst into hysterical tears and didn’t calm down enough to go to sleep for another hour.

The couple who lived in our apartment before us live in a 2 bedroom down the hall now.  They needed a bigger apartment because they had a one year old.  Last time I saw them in the elevator, she was pregnant again.

Thursday night, on my way to switch cars with Ray, I walked past their apartment and heard the sound of a new baby crying.  I was in tears before the elevator arrived.

All of this is to say, I’m not doing well.

I’m sad and tired and irritable.

Is it still depression if you can pinpoint one very specific thing that’s making you miserable?

I’m trying to accept that we’re not going to try another IVF.

I’m trying to mentally and emotionally prepare for whatever difficulties lie ahead in the adoption process.

I’m trying.

For now, that’s about all I can say.

Well, that and the thousand words before it.

 

Shoot the Moon

We had a follow up appointment with our fertility specialist on Monday.

I tried to avoid it… mostly by refusing to get out of bed in the morning… but somehow or other it came just the same.

I had a pretty good idea of what she was going to say to us.  That still didn’t stop me from crying the moment I entered the waiting room and continuing to cry while making myself a cup of coffee, getting called into the doctors office, telling the nurse I was good when she asked me how it was going, discussing our (very limited) options, and having a follow up meeting about pricing with a different nurse.

I thought I was prepared for it.  I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I thought I was ready.

Ray and I even pregamed in the car.

I told him I expected her to mention egg donation.

She’s mentioned it before and for reasons I don’t fully understand – beyond the prohibitive expense – I am very resistant to it.

I thought she’d tell us we’d exhausted our other options and trying to get pregnant with my own eggs was an exercise in futility.

She did say all those things, just not exactly the way I had expected her to.

For one thing, she asked me to go first.

Ummm…

I was barely feeling functional enough to listen.  I didn’t think there was gonna be a quiz.

I told her that I knew our odds had been pretty slim to begin with and that the fact that we only got 2 eggs when she had me completely maxed out on hormones didn’t seem to bode well and that we have already spent more than we can really afford to on fertility treatments and it seems like now is the time to accept some harsh truths no matter how much I don’t want to.

Apparently, I passed the test, or at least I got partial credit.  She agreed with my assessment.

But there were a couple of unexpected twists.

First, she mentioned the possibility of trying one more cycle.

She kept referring to a natural cycle, where, as far as I can tell, there’d be no hormones, she’d just track my follicle development and… tell us when to have sex?  Collect Ray’s sperm and clean it up like with the IUI?  Is there a trigger shot?  I don’t know.

But, she also mentioned mini IVF.  Really, she kind of skimmed past it on her way to reiterating that trying another full IVF with tons of stims would be a bad idea.

Basically, she was trying to say that she would be willing to attempt one more treatment cycle with us, that the natural cycle would be her recommendation, that mini IVF could be on the table, but that full IVF is not advisable.

I tried to explain all this to my brain.  I tried to remind myself that I already reached the conclusion myself that we are very unlikely to have a successful treatment unless we’re prepared to try egg donation.

But, inside, my heart leapt.  All my heart heard was we could try again.  We have another chance, my heart screamed.  We’ve got to take it.  This is sure to be it.  My heart knows nothing about statistics or probability.  My heart wants to shoot the moon.

Meanwhile, back in the doctors office, the conversation moved on to egg donation.

Of course, egg donation is a medically viable option.  The odds of an IVF cycle working are based almost solely on the age of the eggs, the age of the uterus is essentially irrelevant.  An egg donation could have as high as an 80% success rate.

Honestly though, I just don’t see much difference between egg donation and adoption.  I tried to explain that to the doctor.  Other than the fact that Ray would get to have a child that is biologically his, we may as well adopt at this point.

Somehow she elided over the word biological and concluded from this statement that I wouldn’t consider a child made by a donor egg to be my own child.

We talked about this in circles for a while, until Ray finally jumped in to sum up our options and we moved on to talk to the nurse to talk financials.

The doctor doesn’t talk financials.  She acknowledges financials, but always steers the conversation away by explaining she doesn’t know any of the specific costs.

Must be nice.

We cannot afford that luxury.

For the record, a mini IVF would cost about $5000 less than the full blown IVF, depending on how many meds I end up taking.

An egg donation cycle would cost about $5000 more than the full IVF, but that doesn’t include the agency fees, the lawyers’ fees, or whatever fee we’d pay to the woman whose eggs they actually are.

Realistically, using an egg donor could cost us between $40,000 and $50,000.  In other words, it is prohibitively expensive.

Except, of course, that that $40,000 or $50,000 would nearly guarantee us a child, whereas the $10,000ish we could spend on another IVF using my own eggs would have incredibly low odds of succeeding.

It’s confusing as fuck, you guys.

I feel like somehow I’m supposed to decide if the experience of pregnancy, not motherhood, just pregnancy, is worth $40,000 to me.  Is it worth more to me than the chances of ever owning a house?  Because, at this point, that’s probably the trade off – or at least part of it.

The problem is that question is nearly impossible to answer.

I can’t tell you why I feel so strongly about making my own baby with my own eggs.

Logically, it doesn’t really make sense.  I want to be a mother.  There are other ways to be a mother.  I’ve thought about stealing enough people’s babies to know that I don’t have to make one to love one.

I suppose it’s the instinctual manifestation of the biological imperative that’s meant to keep our species alive.

I honestly don’t know.

I just know that facing the fact that I probably won’t have that chance is eating away at me.

I’m frustrated.

I’m sad.

I can’t get Ray on board with trying another mini IVF.

And, unfortunately, I know he’s right.

Adding another $10,000 to our debt load just so I can put off this feeling of despair for another month or two is a terrible idea.

Although, my heart disagrees.

This is how movies ruin us.  All those stories of everything working out just as all hope is lost create the illusion that that could happen in real life.  It’s not a good road map for real life.  Real life includes disappointment; gut-wrenching, insurmountable disappointment.

And yet, I still can’t guarantee you that I’m not going to spend another $10,000 I don’t have trying to shoot the moon.

 

 

Back to Reality

Hi friends,

I hate that I have to tell you all this.

The IVF was not successful.

We found out last Monday morning on our way to the airport.

I cried some in the car, and then I kind of pushed it aside because we were on our way to vacation, I was supposed to be having fun and relaxing, not facing potentially the worst news I’ll ever receive.

For most of the week, I didn’t really let myself think about it.

I avoided it.

I avoided it by drinking way too much wine with my sister-in-law on Tuesday night.

I avoided it by nursing the resulting hangover all day Wednesday.

I avoided it even while my period started and we had to take a detour on our drive to the resort to stop at CVS so I could pick up tampons because the whole time I was shipping syringes to my in-laws’ house and getting my estrace refilled and getting non-refrigerated suppositories, it never occurred to me to prepare for the possibility that I wasn’t pregnant.

But I’m not.

And I’m still trying to wade through all the things that I feel.

I’ve said it before, and practically speaking, it’s true.  We can’t afford another IVF.  The insurance has run out.  I just racked up $15,000 in extra debt with nothing to show for it.  We gambled and we lost and logically I don’t see how we can do it again.

Oh, but I want to.

Even though I know I was completely maxed out on meds and we still only got 2 eggs.

Even though I’m nearly 44 at this point and it’s getting a little absurd.

Even though I’ve put myself through 6+ months of hormones and shots and blood draws and transvaginal ultrasounds with nothing to show for it.

I just wanted to be pregnant.

I had hoped it wouldn’t be too late.  I didn’t want to pay such a high price for my meandering, follow-your-dreams, take-your-time-and-explore-the-world life path that brought me to this point.

I haven’t fully accepted it yet.  I’m already working on our sex schedule for this month.  As if Ray and I alone can do what 3 IUIs and 2 IVFs could not, what we couldn’t do in more than 2 years of trying on our own.

I guess I’m hoping that my ovaries, like the rest of me, respond well to deadlines and pressure and will step things up in the final moments to miraculously pull out a win.

Maybe accepting my infertility is just too close to accepting my own mortality.

Ray says we will get what we want one way or another.

We are lucky to know a lot of wonderful people who have made their families through adoption and I know we can reach out to them for advice on getting the adoption process started.

I still feel a loss.

I have no doubt I will love an adopted child just as much as I would a biological one.

But I wanted to be pregnant.  I wanted to give birth.  I wanted to nurse my baby.

I wanted all those things that are supposed to come so easily and naturally and apparently just aren’t meant to be mine.

Adoption comes with its own set of daunting challenges.  We have to convince someone we actually deserve a child and are capable of caring for one.  At the very least, I’m probably going to have to vacuum more often.

As for this blog, I don’t know what’s going to happen.  Maybe I’ll continue writing about our navigation of the adoption process or the aftermath of the fertility treatments.  At this point, I just don’t know.

Thank you all for the love and support you have shown me over the past several months.  I honestly don’t know how I would have weathered this process without it.

Love,
Melissa

Vacation All I Ever Wanted

I’m going with Ray to the World Boardgaming Championships on Monday.

In the last 2 days, I’ve stocked up on prenatal vitamins, refilled my estrace prescription, and asked the pharmacy to ship some needles and syringes to Ray’s parents house so I don’t have to try to take them on a plane.

I’ve also looked up Quest Diagnostics locations on the route from Grand Rapids to Seven Springs, PA.

Hold your congratulations.

I’m not necessarily pregnant.

I could be.

But if I wait until I know for sure, it’ll be too late to make sure I have all the things I need to have with me if I am.

I hate acting as though I assume that I’m pregnant.

I want to be.

Desperately.

But I’m superstitious.  It feels like a kind of it’ll-only-rain-if-you-leave-your-umbrella-at-home situation, and I’m bringing like 5 umbrellas.

The only exception is the massage I booked.  I could have booked a maternity massage which would be best if I’m pregnant, but I couldn’t bear the idea of possibly having to call them back in a few days and tell them I wouldn’t be needing it after all.

I booked the bamboo massage where they use a piece of warm bamboo to do the massaging.  No, I’m not making that up.

If I find out I am pregnant, I’ll just call them and switch it to the maternity.

That sounds so breezy and reasonable, doesn’t it?

Oh… la di da… maybe I’ll have to call and change my massage because I’m pregnant.  It’s totally plausible and within the realm of possibility.

It doesn’t feel that way.  It feels like a million-to-one shot, or like I’m one of those crazy ladies faking a pregnancy for attention or to trap someone into marriage or maybe as part of an international jewel heist.

Because pregnancy is something for other people.  Lucky people.  Like acting careers or home ownership.

Ray and I are in agreement.  This is our swan song.  We definitely can’t afford another IVF cycle financially, and I’m not sure I can afford it emotionally.

The last 6 months have been a rollercoaster.

Even more so than the 2 and a half years of trying on our own before that.

The fact that this feels like our last chance makes me doubt even more that I really am pregnant.  When do you ever say “Well, I’ll give it one last shot and then I’m done trying” and it actually works.  In my experience, that’s for sitcoms, not for life.

Of course, we’ll give it a few more tries the old fashioned way.  See if we can be one of those couples who end up telling everyone how it happened right after we’d given up.

Those are the couples you hear about.  That’s a good story to share.

But there are also couples for whom it never happened.

They don’t talk about it as much.

I’m hoping for a miracle.  In some ways I’m even preparing myself for one.

But I’m bracing myself for some harsh reality because it seems much more likely.

Don’t worry though, I’m still gonna make Ray carry my suitcase for me.

Just in case.

Waiting Womb

The egg retrieval went well.

We had to be there at 7:00am on Sunday morning, but that’s probably good practice for life with a baby. (Fingers crossed)

While we were waiting, Ray found 2 Pokemon in the waiting room.  Probably also good practice for parenthood.

While I was anesthetized, I apparently dreamed I was married to Barack Obama.  I don’t remember the dream at all, but I remember telling the nurse and the anesthesiologist about it, so there you go.

We got 2 mature eggs and one immature egg.  Not sure how immature it is, but I did hear it making fart noises with its armpit.

When I sobered up enough to remember who I’m actually married to, Ray drove me home.

I was a little groggy for the rest of the day, but I have to say, it was nice to have ownership of my body back, for the most part, at least temporarily.

Between the egg retrieval and the embryo transfer, there were 3 glorious days where I didn’t feel like I had to analyze how every movement, lack of movement, thing I ate or drank, hour of sleep I did or didn’t get, 5 minute difference in my shot schedule, sneeze, or change in the weather might affect my follicle growth or my maturing eggs.

We even had 2 nights off from shots.  Ray didn’t have to stick a needle in my ass on Saturday or Sunday.  I did have to start a lot of pills (as you may remember from the spreadsheet I made for the last IVF), but they all go in my mouth, so overall, it was like a holiday weekend.

Monday night I started the progesterone injections and suppositories.  Holiday over.

We had the embryo transfer yesterday morning. Two of them.  Guess that immature egg just wasn’t ready to become an embryo.  I think it’s trying to find itself by taking a gap year to backpack across Europe.

At some point in my valium and acupuncture induced semi-haze, I think I had another dream about Barack Obama.  So, either I’m going to give birth to a future president or we might need a paternity test.

Now, I’m on my second day of bedrest.

It’s weird lying down all the time when you pretty much feel fine.  It’s weird asking your husband to do everything for you when you feel like you should do it yourself.  Also the bedrest directions are somewhat vague:  Stay off your feet and rest as much as possible.  Keep your feet up as much as possible.

Don’t worry, though.  I’m allowed to sit up to eat and to use stairs once a day if I need to.  I’m not allowed to lift over 10 pounds.

Once again I have plenty of things to plenty of things to analyze to see if I’m doing it wrong.  Is sitting with m feet up ok or should I really be flat on my back?  Should my feet be up higher?  How many times is too many times to get up to go to the bathroom?  Am I sleeping enough?  Is it really bedrest if I spend most of it doing homework?

Every movement has me wondering, is that the twist or bend or stretch that stopped the embryos in their tracks and ruined my chances of implantation.

We may not have that great a chance of implantation anyway.  This time the doctor gave the embryos grades.  One is a good minus and one is a fair minus.  See if you can tell which is which:

I’m rooting for the fair minus, because I like an underdog.  Ray is more interested in backing the winning horse.

I have one more day of bedrest, and 9 more days of shots and pills (and not lifting anything over 10 pounds) before we’ll find out if either of them chose to stick around.

Until then, I’m just kicking back with my feet… and my anxiety… up.

 

Time Will Tell

I was late to my appointment this morning.

In my defense, I have scheduled and rescheduled so many appointments this week that it was pretty easy to lose track of what time I was supposed to be there.

Nobody minded.  I guess once you’ve paid them $12,000, you can pretty much waltz in whenever you want.  Now I know what rich people feel like… minus the mansion and unlimited financial resources.

The follicles have progressed nicely.  One’s at 18 and one’s almost 17.  They weren’t suddenly joined by throngs of cohorts, but at least they seem to be doing well.

Unfortunately, my progesterone is also progressing.

I do finally have an answer to the elusive question: Why is high progesterone bad news when during previous cycles I’ve been on multiple not-too-pleasant progesterone supplements?

Because when your progesterone reaches about 1.2, your uterus is ready for implantation, but if your eggs aren’t ready, then there’s nothing to implant and you can essentially miss your window.

So both my follicle sizes and my progesterone level are increasing.  At this point, it’s basically a race to see which one will reach critical mass first.

At this very minute, I am waiting for the call or email that will tell me how it’s going to play out.

If the progesterone is too high, then we’ll give the eggs an extra day to develop and the retrieval will be on Sunday.

Wait, why are we giving them an extra day if the progesterone is already high?

Because if it’s too high, then essentially we’ve already missed our window and it’s already too late.  In that case, we might as well let the eggs have more time because we will likely end up doing a frozen embryo transfer.

If the progesterone is not too high, then we’ll plan the egg retrieval for Saturday and hope the progesterone doesn’t creep up too much before then so we can do a fresh transfer.

Honestly, I don’t even know what to hope for.

I mean, obviously fresh is better than frozen.  You only have to watch one episode of Gordon Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares to know that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

And, of course, the frozen embryo transfer adds another $3500 to our ever-growing tab.

Plus, I’m not crazy about the idea of waiting another month before we can see if anything actually worked.

On the other hand, I’ve read a few studies online that seemed to suggest that success rates were slightly higher with frozen transfers.  I’m not a medical expert and I don’t have enough context to judge whether those studies are applicable to our situation, but anything that nudges the odds up, even ever so slightly, sounds good to me.

Or… there’s a previously unexplained third option that will apparently come out of nowhere.

*Breaking News*

This just in:

My blood levels “look good”, but I am not triggering tonight.

Ummm…

It wouldn’t be unusual for me to have misunderstood what the doctor was telling me.  However, she actually asked me to repeat it back to her so she could make sure I understood what was happening.

I don’t know what to make of this.  I certainly don’t know if I should be mentally preparing myself for a fresh transfer or a frozen transfer.

Ray thinks it’s good news.  He could be right.  Maybe my progesterone level isn’t even an issue right now.  Maybe we can let the eggs take their sweet time and still do a fresh transfer.

All will be revealed at tomorrow’s appointment… I hope… assuming I’m on time.

The Cost of Doing Business

Well, the insurance has run out and I needed another refill on my meds.  So, now I know exactly how much everything costs.  Which means I now know exactly how much each injection is worth.

4 vials of Menopur at $80 a pop, plus a 300 unit cartridge of Follistim at $300 per cartridge means the cocktail Ray is currently injecting into my ass every night is worth approximately $620.  Honestly, I feel like $620 worth of meds should hurt more.

By comparison, the Lupron, which works out to about $10 per shot is an absolute bargain.

I needed another refill because my follicles aren’t developing as fast as we thought they would, or at least as I thought they would.  The doctor didn’t seem that surprised.

I had an appointment this morning.  I was supposed to have another appointment tomorrow morning.  It’s on Friday now.  No point in coming in tomorrow: a 13’s not going to grow into a 17 over night.  Am I right, or am I right?

I currently have 2 follicles that measure 13… millimeters? inches? decibels?  There’s also one that’s 6, but I think we can all agree we’re not gonna be able to rely on that follicle for any meaningful contribution.

I’m worried.  I can’t remember for sure how many follicles were developing during the mini IVF, but I think there was one really good one and one pretty good one, and I really thought that taking quadruple the medicine would have more of an impact.

I know it’s still early and I shouldn’t think ahead too much because I don’t know what’s going to happen, but it seems pretty clear that we’re not going to get more than 2 follicles ready, which I assume means we’re probably not going to get more than 2 eggs, which sucks.

The doctor sort of casually dropped the idea that we could switch to an IUI into our conversation after the ultrasound, which I am probably reading too much into, but it seemed like even she’s discouraged.

I told her we should stick with the IVF.  Full steam ahead.

Even though I feel like I’m having a panic attack.

Of course, my first instinct is to assume that something completely within my control that I did or didn’t do is to blame for this poor showing:

I’m not eating right.  I’m not exercising enough.  Or I’m exercising too much.  I’m too stressed.  I’m not getting enough sleep.  The timing of my shots has been too inconsistent.

My second instinct is to wonder if my body’s having trouble bouncing back from the 4 straight weeks of active birth control pills I took while I was waiting for my stupid progesterone to go down.

My third instinct, which really isn’t an instinct at all, but something I am trying to train myself to do, is that things are what they are and there’s no one or two things I can point to that are definitively responsible for my seemingly lackluster follicular performance.  We just have to keep going and hope for the best.

My fourth instinct is to check my bank balance, because if we have to get more meds again, I’m gonna need a refill there too.

I’ll Be the Judge of That

I had to report to jury duty yesterday.  They told us the trial was expected to last into the middle of next week.  I already have three fertility appointments scheduled between now and then.

Right before we broke for lunch, the judge told us that anyone who wanted to be excused for hardship could stay behind and discuss it privately… as privately as you can discuss something with a judge, a clerk, a bailiff, 2 lawyers, a plaintiff, a defendant, and a stenographer.

Everyone else was pleading financial hardship.  They went in one by one, came out three minutes later, and got handed their slip of paper excusing them.

When it was my turn, I was already worked up before I walked into the courtroom.  I’ve been pretty candid about our fertility issues with people that I know, but trying to discuss them with a roomful of strangers had me feeling a little uneasy.

After I sat down, the judge asked me why I wanted to be excused for hardship, and I tried to tell him as calmly as I could that I wasn’t asking for a financial hardship, but that my husband and I were in the middle of an IVF cycle and I couldn’t control or predict when I would need to visit my doctor or undergo a procedure.

Before I even got that far he interrupted me to ask what IVF is.  I knew right then that he wasn’t going to be understanding or sympathetic.

Once I explained to him what IVF was, with 8 pairs of eyes staring at me, he placidly told me that IVF is not a hardship.

Fuck you.  Fuck you, dude.  3 years of trying and failing to get pregnant is the biggest hardship of my life.  Fuck you.

Yes, I know he’s defining hardship differently than I am.

No, I didn’t say any of that to him.

Yes, I did start crying in the courtroom.  So, not only am I on public record talking about my IVF to a bunch of strangers, but I’m also on public record crying about it.  Score.

He offered me a postponement.

I tried to explain that the IVF would be going on for the next month and that Ray and I have a trip planned for the end of the month and school starts in the middle of August and I have to go to several trainings and prep days in the couple of weeks before that, and none of it mattered to him.

He told me he would schedule me for the week of December 19, and then made it clear he was done talking to me.

As I was walking out, the court clerk asked me to hang on a second.  After she sent the next person in, she told me that they almost never hear cases the week before Christmas and I probably wouldn’t have to report.

She also wished me good luck.  That was nice of her.  I guess she knows what IVF is.

Walking out of the building I was upset, and I couldn’t totally put my finger on why.

Objectively, I’m off the hook for the rest of the summer and I don’t have to worry about jury duty until December.

Still, it would have been nice to have received a little empathy or compassion.

Plus, I hate feeling like anyone thinks I’m being flakey or irresponsible.  That’s why I hated being late for work all those times for my doctor’s appointments.

Yes, I know I’m doing what I need to do for myself and my potential family, but I need them to know that too.  They don’t, and eventually, halfway through the train ride home, I realized I have to let that go.  I can’t make anyone understand what I’m going through.  I just have to take care of myself.

If I’d gotten myself to that place while I was still in the courthouse, I might not have felt the need to explain to the clerk that I’m taking hormone injections so she’d understand why I was crying.

But, even without jury duty hanging over my head (at least for a few months) I’m still feeling anxious.

And, not just because I have to stick myself with needles again for the first time in 2 months, but because: what if it doesn’t work.

I realize now that there was something comforting and low-pressure about having that word mini in front of the IVF.  Oh, it’s just a little, tiny, partial IVF.  No big deal if something doesn’t come of it.

This one feels like it’s for all the marbles.

Like when you’ve been talking for years about what a great actor you are, and you never really go on any auditions, so there’s no risk.  No reward, but no risk either.  And, then you get a huge audition and you think, well, this is it.  Now I have to put up or shut up.

It’s different when you haven’t really tried.  “I’d be unstoppable if I just got the chance.”  But once you’ve had the chance, you have no more excuses.  You have to face the fact that you truly tried and you truly failed.

What if I give it my all and I still don’t get a baby?

This cycle is my all.

You can tell from the injection schedule:  20 units of micro lupron twice a day.  Then, every evening a cocktail of a double dose of menopur mixed with a double dose of follistim.  Ray has to shoot that one in my ass.

We’re not fucking around.

Part of me thinks.  This is great.  We’ll probably get like 5 or 6 eggs.  We could even get multiple embryos.  I might have twins.

Another part of me is scared shitless that we won’t get any viable embryos, maybe not even any good eggs.

Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle that.

That’s my definition of hardship.