IVF Archives - burnt toast life

Nov 11

three on the move

Nov 11

Hi there.

I’ve been a mess lately trying to work out the logistics of a big situation. It’s still not completely figured out but we’re getting there. I’ve been waiting to share until I was sure it would work out, and even though I’m still not 100% positive, I am fairly confident now that it will happen. Very soon.

I’ve mentioned many times now that no embryos are getting left behind and that we are planning to implant all three of the remaining little frosties at some point. Well…the time has come.

There are several time-related and financial reasons for the rush. First, don’t laugh, but I’m feeling old. As of four days ago I’m 32 and a half which of course is not old, but is kind of old when you’re facing the prospect of three more pregnancies. (Or two more… that’s a whole other issue). Especially considering that every one of those deliveries will be a scheduled c-section, which will be harder and harder to recover from as I get older.

Financially, the time had to be now because of boring insurance reasons. Thanks in large part to Eric’s multiple ER visits in April, we managed to meet our gigantic deductible for 2016. I know, who would have thought? Because we accomplished this feat, all future medical visits and procedures for this year are covered at 90%, and now that we have coverage for ART despite it not being state-mandated (HALLELUJAH), the embryo transfer has become – dare I say – affordable.

Of course, as of January 1st our enchanted carriage turns back into a pumpkin and we’ll need to meet that big scary deductible all over again before we can enjoy that awesome 90/10 coverage. So even though mentally I’d feel better about doing the transfer in 6 months, truly, what’s the difference? December, June, who cares? Going from two kids to three kids is going to be a giant change no matter what. If we wait until we’re truly ready we’ll never do it. At this moment, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, and I’d much rather take advantage of all the money I’ve paid into insurance so far this year.

We had our consult last week with the new/old RE. She’s the one who originally diagnosed our infertility issues in 2011. We went to her for all our initial testing and then promptly did nothing about our crappy diagnosis because we didn’t have the money or the coverage. It was pretty funny giving her updates on our situation at our most recent appointment. Five years later things couldn’t be more different.

Considering the fact that New Hope is two hours away, it was an easy decision to leave them. Also, they are not an in-network provider with our insurance, so meeting our deductible for the year would mean diddly squat in terms of out-of-pocket expense. Interestingly, and I believe I’ve mentioned this in a prior post, doing the transfer at New Hope is about half the price as doing it at the local clinic. Yes, bizarre! But yes, I also don’t care, because again I’m only paying 10%. So whatever.

As Dr. L was going over my history she had some matter-of-fact observations, as I knew she would. First she asked that I manage my expectations. “There is very little chance of you bringing home three babies from these remaining three embryos,” she cautioned. She reiterated what I already knew – that these were the worst quality of the bunch. Of course I realized their likelihood of sticking was much less than the first five we tried. She was also alarmed by my history of repeat pregnancy loss and asked if I’d be able to handle another miscarriage. “I’ll handle it. I’ve handled it,” I said, but her words really got me thinking.

I’ve not yet experienced a miscarriage since having my babies and I wonder what the difference would be (if any). I know I would be incredibly sad regardless, but I do think it would be a different kind of sad. When I lost the twins and the next pregnancy I was mourning their loss, obviously, but beyond that I was mourning the potential of never getting to be a mother. I had no consolation in the form of living children because I had no living children. Now, I won’t be mourning both things, because no matter what happens I am a mom and no future miscarriage will change that. It makes the prospect significantly less scary. I hope I’m not making is sound like miscarriage would be totally fine and easy. I would still be an absolute wreck; I know I would. But I also feel like these past three years have given me so much perspective and I do think I’d handle it better. Even though I think I handled it pretty damn well the first two times around, considering.

Sorry, tangent. Back to the topic at hand. We went in for our little discussion, yada yada, and Dr. L wasn’t even that surprised when I mentioned the whole ‘let’s get this in by the end of the year, insurance, deductible, etc.’ song and dance. Apparently we’re not the only ones trying to get the most bang for our buck from insurance companies. I had a quick U/S on the spot to check my ute and c-section scar (man, was it weird to be back in that chair again) and was sent off with instructions to come back in a week for a lining check. The plan is to go forward with my next cycle – the last possible one of the year – which would make the transfer date sometime in mid-December. Cue the cautiously enthusiastic music here.

The next big hurdle lies in transporting the embryos from Manhattan to Pennsylvania. I have three frustrating options for this:

Option 1 – Rent a tank from the PA clinic. Pick up the tank in PA, drive to NYC, drive back to PA, drop off embryos + return tank. Tank rental cost: $300 + $1,000 credit card hold that would be refunded with the tanks safe return (are people seriously stealing these things?)
Option 2 – Rent a tank from the NYC clinic. Drive to NYC, pick up the tank & embryos, drive to PA, drop off embryos. Drive back to NYC within 1 day to return the tank. Drive back to PA. Tank rental cost: $100
Option 3 – Pay to have them safely and securely shipped. Shipping cost: $750

Ok, that last one is obviously off the table. I’d be a nervous wreck the whole time and the cost is insane.

Do you see my dilemma, though? Eric said I need to weigh the cost of making the trip back and forth four times vs. paying triple the price for the tank rental – for example, with Option 2 I’d be paying for gas, paying for parking, and paying to go through the Lincoln Tunnel multiple times which was like $12 last time I did it. It’s a big pain in the butt. But $100 vs. $300 rental fee? Come on…

I also need to figure out if I’m driving myself or taking the bus. I know it sounds completely effing insane to be riding a public bus with my embryos in a cooler tank but truly, isn’t the situation just as bizarre no matter how I do it? The alternative is, what, strapping the cooler (and yes I am literally picturing a Coleman camping cooler right now) into Molly’s carseat and driving down the highway? Either way… it’s weird. Totally weird.

The bus sounds pleasant because 1) I wouldn’t have to drive and 2) I wouldn’t have to park. Also, have you ever driven in Manhattan? It’s terrible. I’d much rather zone out with a book, Coleman cooler + embryos safe by my side on a comfortable luxury bus than white knuckle my minivan through midtown traffic and pray a cabbie doesn’t hit me.

So that’s where I am right now – trying to figure out how to get those little embryos from point A to point B. Once they are back in PA I’ll be much happier because the cost of storage will drop from $100/month to $60/month, and then once they’re moved to long-term storage that will further reduce to $40/month. No more paying exorbitant Manhattan rent, hooray!

As we cautiously approach a December FET, we’re managing expectations (haha, not really) and hoping for miracles. If all goes to plan, I’ll be able to test the week of Christmas.

What an amazing gift a double line would be to end this crazy year.

May 23

commencing countdown, engines on

May 23

Anyone going through infertility knows that waiting is a huge part of the process. We’re always waiting for something – appointments, AF, ovulation day… you get the picture. I’m not sure if the constant waiting leads to inevitable impatience or if I’m just an impatient person stuck in a long process. All I know is that I despise all the waiting (as I’ve mentioned a hundred times before. Sorry.)

Tomorrow marks 6 weeks since the D&C. It’s been a lifetime and it’s gone by in the blink of an eye. By that I mean it feels like the tragedy is still fresh, but it also feels like eternity waiting to move on to next steps. Infertility makes you feel empty; hollow; barren. Miscarriage, as I’m sure some of you may know, defies explanation. It is the exponential version of all those words. It is more extreme than language can express.

After my miscarriage, I just wanted to be pregnant again. People cautioned against rushing things and mentally replacing the babies I had lost with a new pregnancy. It’s a tough thing. It’s tough to know when you’re “done” mourning since I don’t think you’re ever really over it. Every day just gets a little easier.

The good news is that my wait is officially over. I went for my Day 3 baseline testing yesterday. Dr. Z, who has the most abrupt bedside manner I have ever encountered in the medical field, burst into my ultrasound without knocking and barked out instructions in broken English, “You come back in 2 weeks, yes? Two weeks today. That Wednesday. We do natural cycle transfer.” He never even looked at me (which was OK, because my legs were up in stirrups at that point), just furrowed his brow and stared at my chart before rushing out again. The tech was even chuckling to herself at how he handled it. I mean, it was funny, and also a relief. I didn’t have to wait for the phone call confirming my levels were normal or abnormal. I didn’t have to sit down and justify myself to anyone, or plead my case to do the transfer this month.

I’m not sure why I assumed I would have to explain myself, but I spent the past few days preparing myself to do it. I pictured the New Hope people sitting me down and demanding to know why this happened and what I was going to do to prevent it from happening again. Turns out they’re just as eager to get me pregnant again as I am to be pregnant again. Is it because of the trial? Is it because they want as many live births to report as they can get? Probably. But that’s OK by me. I don’t need them to care about me and my life on a personal level; I’ll take a brusque bedside manner and good success rates any day.

So we’re good to go for round two. I’m happy that I don’t have to wait. I did get the call eventually and my levels are in range. My HCG is still 8 (down from 33 two weeks ago) but they did not seem to care about that. It’s low enough that we can move forward. I didn’t have to defend myself, I didn’t have to beg and plead and no one barred the doors or changed the number. It’s just like riding a bike, people… it’s just like riding a bike.

Feb 24

pretty darn healthy

Feb 24

Overall, I’m a healthy girl. A few minor exceptions: I have a geographic tongue (which I’ve had my whole life, and is weird but harmless), I’m lactose intolerant and I have an adult onset allergy to latex. I’ve never been really sick, never broken a bone, never been hospitalized. On the lady parts front, I started my period a few months before my twelfth birthday and have gotten it every 28 days since, like a damn clock. I’ve never been on birth control. I ovulate on day 14. (I’m sorry, I suck. There’s a point to this seemingly useless bragging, I promise).

I’ve been thinking a lot about why this transfer feels like it’s leading up to an inevitable BFP despite so much evidence to contrary (such as other people’s stories). I envision that once the embryos get shot into my uterus, they’ll get a playful nudge from my reproductive parts and my lining will say, in a mock angry voice, “Where the hell were you? We have been waiting for you.”

You may have noticed from my stats at right that our problem is MFI. I haven’t gone into too much detail because this is my blog and I don’t want to be blabbing about my husband’s health all over the internet. But let’s just say we were conceptionally challenged because we needed some swimmers who could make it to that egg. The egg who was waiting every single month. On day 14. I’ve spent hours trying to find another blogger with the exact same issues so I could compare timelines, but so far to no avail. So I really have no basis for thinking this will work except for my weirdly optimistic, can-do attitude.

Besides the inherent yearning for children, I feel like I was actually created to do this. My grandmother had six kids, my mom five and my 23 year old sister has two with another on the way (ugh. I know. But she’s not a bitch about it). I come from a long line of fertiles. I ~~want deserve~~ need to join their ranks. I cannot picture a future without it.

My first RE said, “Sorry darlin’, don’t even waste your money on IUI. It probably won’t work. You’re going to need IVF or a miracle.” Of course at the time, it was discouraging. We had more of a “wait for a miracle budget,” not an IVF budget. We also had zero insurance coverage for any of this. So we went back home and said, “Let’s ignore this problem for a while and hope for the best.” If he was ignoring it, I never was. Each month was a tragedy. Some months I told him the best day, some months I didn’t and just put the moves on when the appropriate time came and on what I hoped he considered random days. I figured eliminating the pressure could only help. I have a tendency to be a bit controlling (cue Eric/my family/anyone who knows me saying, um, yeah A LITTLE), especially when things are totally out of my control. I wasted so much money on OPKs even though they said the same thing every time. Day 14. Day 14. OK, once it was day 13. But I’m textbook.

Now that I’ve been reading about what will happen after that (hopefully inevitable?!) BFP, I’ve been getting freaked out. I honestly thought that once you got that second pink line, it was time to pop the champagne and celebrate. Only now am I seeing how woefully uninformed I really am. First of all, two pink lines mean nothing. I’ve watched people photo document test after test at different times on different days (And does the line really get darker as more time passes? What is the significance of this? Someone please tell me!) Plus, the first beta (originally in my mind “the icing on the cake.” HA.) is only cause for minor celebration because if your numbers aren’t doubling by the second, you’re screwed. There are so many things that I did not prepare for. I had no idea you could be just a little bit pregnant.

I know thousands (millions?) of women suffer misses and that I am strong, but guys… I just don’t know if I can handle it. I really don’t. I’m not sure what that means, “not able to handle it.” I’ll have a mental breakdown? I’ll spontaneously combust? I’ll drive off into the sunset, never to be seen again? No clue. But the mere prospect of this possibility – of having something that I’ve wanted so badly yanked from my grasp before I’ve even had the chance to shop for belly band denim… I can’t. Any of you who have gone through it, fertiles and infertiles included, my heart goes out to you and I am in awe. I simply can’t fathom how you survive it.

I know, I’m worried about losing a baby that isn’t even implanted yet. It’s madness. My brain is always 5 steps ahead prepping for any eventual trauma. We’ve dealt with so much, we’ve come so far and we’ve made it here. So now… what’s next?

Feb 21

I broke the zipper on my fat jeans (true story)

Feb 21

I laughed when it happened. It was yesterday at NHFC while dressing after my ultrasound. Then I went to work hoping that my long sweater did not ride up to expose my busted zipper. How did I become this person?

Let me tell you something and then back it up with photographic evidence: I used to be thin. Like, actually thin.

little brother Michael and me, ’08.

seriously… LOOK AT THAT CLAVICLE

I didn’t really diet per se, but I did take diet pills that made me never want to eat. They worked. I’m not even going to tell you exactly what they were because this is the internet and I’ll probably get arrested, but let’s just say I put together a concoction and used things in ways that they weren’t intended to be used. Don’t judge me. I was thin and pretty, remember?

It’d be so easy to blame this weight gain on infertility, so that’s what I’m going to do. As soon as we started TTC, I went off the diet pills. I was also newly married and enjoying the prospect of cooking well-rounded meals. Before I lived with Eric, I used to have a bowl of peas for dinner and call it a night. That’s still one of my favorite meals (but he is not too keen on it).

That’s the thing, guys – I’m largely in denial. I still pick up a pair of size 2 jeans and think, “Well that looks about right.” I still gravitate towards the extra smalls. I have an itty bitty coworker who laments her gain of microscopic pounds and cries that she went from a size 0 to a size 2. I used to be her! Seriously! I desperately want to join in, but when I pipe up with, “Oh my God, I gained, too,” there’s no chorus of “Shut up, you’re so thin!” No one says that to me anymore. It’s really sad.

Fat crept up on me. I never thought I would be one of those people (like, how can you not notice an extra 30 pounds? Are you blind?). I think it finally sunk in around my birthday last year. I remember my dad snapped a photo of the lovely moment at Texas Roadhouse where they make you sit on a saddle while everyone sings to you. I looked at the photo and thought, “How can that be my arm? Whose chubby arm is photo bombing me?” It made me realize that I hadn’t liked a photo in a while. Then I slowly pieced together that none of my clothes fit. And yeah, it really was my arm. I would show you the photo but I untagged myself and deleted it from Facebook. I wish I could delete it from memory.

Then I started the injectables and it was really over. I swear, I gained 10 lbs this January alone. After digging out my best flowing, oversized shirts and wraps and praising God that it was winter and I could at least cover up in sweaters, I braced for a potential pregnancy knowing that I already weighed what I wanted to weigh at 40 weeks. I keep reading all these articles about breastfeeding being such a great calorie burner (oh em gee, not like I’m overly hopeful or anything reading BREASTFEEDING articles! Let’s get pregnant first, how about that). Then I mention them to the moms I know and they roll their eyes and say, “Yeah, OKAY. Right.”

I get it. I do. This is all for a higher purpose. My mom swears she could never get pregnant weighing less than 120 or while taking the concoction of diet pills (which SHE actually introduced me to. Thanks, Mom). I don’t think bony/angular/gaunt is an inviting description for a growing child. So I obliged and became soft/cushion-y/warm. It just sucks right now.

You know what? It’s more than just vanity. I don’t feel like me in this body. I’m long past the days of dressing like a total hoochie, going to bars and acting all offended when the guys stare. But I have all these clothes, and I like my clothes. I don’t want to start over just because my self control has gone to shit. But then at the same time, I want my body to change in huge, life-altering ways. I’m ready for that kind of fat, I’m just not ok with this pointless fat.

I don’t even care when you start to show, my first stop after a BFP will be some store selling maternity clothing. I cannot wait to do it. My wardrobe is at this weird place right now and I don’t want to (and can’t afford to) buy anything new. Plus, I hope it would be a waste to do that anyway. I also have this weird obsession with maternity clothes and have wanted to be buying stuff all along, but have not pulled the trigger yet, because clearly that would be considered “jinxing it.” I keep thinking I’m not going to have anything to wear, even though plenty of people have promised bags of clothes. I just want to look cute.

I almost entitled this “my obligatory ‘I’m so fat’ post” because in my travels through IF blogs, I’ve seen so many. We’re all stressed out, freaking out, pumped full of hormones, bloated, depressed, and well acquainted with Ben and Jerry. So I know, I’m not alone. I’m just so ready for the next part where you don’t notice my other fat because you’re so focused on my huge round belly. Can I get there, please?

not quite obese… but on the road

Feb 11

I post my blog on Facebook (and I don’t give a shit)

Feb 11

photo credit: the berry

I recently rediscovered all the infertility blogs. I’m not really sure why I ever forgot they were there. Yesterday afternoon I was bored and had just done a little redesigning on this blog, so I decided to head over to Stirrup Queens and start searching around. One hour of reading turned into seven.

As much as I appreciate all the kind words and support of family and friends, there’s something about reading tales of other IF journies that gives me contentment. The world of IF blogs makes me feel… normal? Yeah, that’s it. Like I totally fit in.

I remember back when I had my old blog, I used to feel a little thrill of shock when I saw someone posting with their real name and picture on an IF blog. I thought to myself, “Wow. Ballsy.” But now I’m one of them and I take it one step further – I post that shit on Facebook. Yeah, that’s right, all 308 of my friends and frenemies and old high school classmates know my most intimate secrets. Why did I start doing this? Well, for one thing Burnt Toast started out as a blog about living with dogs and chickens, not about infertility. That one bomb-drop post was sort of unprecedented.

I’m starting to realize that I posted spoiler alert because I’ve been incredibly cocky since we got accepted into the clinical trial. I can tell you I’d never be writing about this and sharing it with everyone if we weren’t doing IVF. On my last blog there was a lot of complaining and not a lot of problem solving, whereas here I’m actually going down a road. It may not be a guarantee, but it’s a hell of a lot better than just sitting around whining.

That’s not a dis to anyone who remains anonymous by any means. Sometimes it feels a little weird knowing that anyone on my friend list may know when I’m ovulating. But I figure I give enough disclaimers and clicking on the links is a conscious choice, so if you know that about me, it’s your own fault for looking. It’s not like I’m putting “Ovulation day – YAY!” as my status. It’s basically a good way to keep everyone who cares up to date with what’s going on.

I also wasn’t prepared for any backlash. Again, I’m not sure why I think I’m immune to these simple things. And 99% of you have all been supportive, so thanks for that. I’m hesitant to say anything about that other 1%, so I’m just going to leave it at that for now.

I noticed that I’ve been making my posts like little stories with intros, middles, and hopeful little end phrases. I don’t know why I keep doing this. Blogging is kind of hard because nine times out of ten I hate what I write three days later. It sounds less cheesy when I’m writing it, and then I post it, and then I go back and it sounds all chipper and happy and fake. I think a part of me is trying to maintain this veneer of perfection for all those Facebook followers just so no one gets uncomfortable. And that’s why it’s really refreshing to go back to my anonymous IF sisters and see the nitty gritty, which makes me want to get back to speaking from the heart with the good, the bad and the very ugly. Going through IVF is harrowing. It’s messy, it’s weird, and I hate it while simultaneously being so grateful that I have the opportunity to do it. So there you have it. If you came here looking for sunshine and roses, I don’t have any. I’m terrified out of my friggen mind. And if I recently showed up on your blog with a random comment, I want to thank you for reminding me why we’re doing this.

Feb 10

A quiet house

Feb 10

I have always known that I wanted children, and here is one of the reasons why.

I grew up in a loud house. There was always someone yelling, lots of commotion, and lots of noise in general. I was one of three (for a long time, until I was one of five), but I would argue that my brother Eric counts for two or even three in terms of noise-making abilities.

Holidays were even crazier, typical Italian drama-fests with an entire extended family crammed into tight quarters. I loved it. That is what spoke to my heart. It felt comfortable, it felt safe, it just felt like home.

One of the first things I loved about Eric was his big, loud family. I immediately felt like I belonged there, because it felt just like my family gatherings. One of my great joys in life is our weekly Sunday dinner at his parent’s house, a cacophony of kids and grandkids and spouses.

Naturally, I imagined a noisy house of my own, filled with the harmonious sounds of kids and dogs and happiness. Of course, I treasure silence at times, but I like it as an unexpected surprise, not a normal state of being. This morning is so quiet here that you can hear the fish tank filter humming. Sometimes we keep a TV on to drown out the silence, but sometimes we don’t. And in those moments of quiet it can be so lonely.

The silence felt oppressive when there was no solution in sight. Now that we hopefully have one, it feels like the quiet before the storm. It’s a quiet anticipation. It’s like we’re collectively holding our breath, waiting for the next moment, waiting for the noise to finally come into our house. I like when things are clean and orderly, but once the laundry is done and the dishes are done and the vacuuming is done it’s a little bit sad. I definitely feel a sense of “Now what?” I mean, it’s obvious that I’m lacking a purpose. But it’s not so much lacking as it is having a purpose that’s unfilled for right now.

I’m just really looking forward to the noise.

Feb 06

It’s February

Feb 06

I keep referencing February and psychics, so I figured I would give a little background on that for anyone who doesn’t know the whole story.

Back when we were diagnosed as infertile and when I was riding the emotional roller coaster of not getting pregnant every month, certain things were tough. Baby showers were tough. Kid’s birthday parties were tough. Any event that may or may not feature children was tough. That’s practically everything, by the way. Kids are everywhere and any little thing was likely to set off a sadness bomb inside of me.

As you may imagine, Mother’s Day was a particularly hard day. On that Sunday in 2011, I awoke in a foul mood. I distinctly remember lying in bed at my apartment, delaying the start of my day and wallowing in self pity. I checked my phone, as I always do first thing in the morning, and discovered the following message from my dear friend:

I would like to offer you this small piece of hope on this special day… I went back to the psychic yesterday. The one who did a group reading for me a couple of months ago and left me with goosebumps after reciting my entire life story. This time we were alone and I asked her about you and Eric. I told her I had friends who are having trouble conceiving. She asked me for your first name only and paused for a while. She said she definitely sees you getting pregnant and the pregnancy surrounds something with a 2. She thinks the 2 is for February. She said to give you 2 pieces of advice. One, be patient because IT WILL HAPPEN, and 2 continue using those fertility sticks. The second they show you’re ovulating you need to find Eric and go to town!
I know it doesn’t take a psychic to know fertility sticks help people conceive, but the specifics of info this women gives about everything else tells me she certainly knows her stuff.
Also, she said sees a beautiful baby girl. (I loved that part because she said it so full of emotion.)
I hope you have a Happy Mothers day, because you are a mommy, even if your baby hasn’t arrived yet.

Ok, let me premise with this: I didn’t know if I believed in psychics. It certainly never occured to me that I should go to one for this issue. And given the choice, I’m not sure I would want to know. What if the psychic said I would never have kids? How could I live with that every day, true or untrue? So this scenario was perfect. I had not asked my friend to ask for me, so I wasn’t worried about getting an answer. Plus, the answer was so full of hope on a day that I desperately needed it.

Remember, this was May. I manipulated that psychic prediction every way I possibly could all year long to fit my needs at the time and justify a pregnancy. In late May and June, I said the baby would be due in February. In the summer, I said the baby could be premature. In the winter, I said February would be the month we found out the gender. So no, I did not sit by patiently waiting for February to arrive.

February 2012 was a fantastically stressful month. It was, not coincidentally, the time of my first panic attack. I was driving home from work and had to pull over because I got myself so worked up that I could not breathe. To say that I had become obsessed with the prediction would be an understatement. I spoke to people about it as though it was a fact, not a prediction. The friend who sent the message was probably ready to disown me. I begged her for more details, nuances, anything she may have left out. She’s probably happy to live 300 miles away or I would have been at her house every night dissecting something that may have been literal, symbolic, or who knows, may have just been a big hoax.

February came and went. We did not get pregnant. It was almost a relief to have it over with, even if relief was quickly replaced with despair. I went through the rest of 2012 with a lack of enthusiasm compared to the year before. I don’t know if I believed it anymore.

As soon as we got our appointment with New Hope last year, I began thinking about February again. I started getting really excited. Without trying, all of the scheduling lined up for February of this year. Our first tentative embryo transfer (ET) was supposed to be Feb 1, but with my high estrogen was delayed to Feb 24-27. It’s still February. It’s still all about February.

I’m definitely less worked up and anxious than I was last year at this time. This is our first real, honest-to-goodness try, and that’s incredible. But tell someone you’re undergoing IVF and they’ll tell you about their friend’s neighbors cousin who tried 5 times or 6 times or 12 times and was unsuccessful. It rarely works on the first round; I know that. But I do have my determination, my hope, and a very promising psychic prediction on my side. Take THAT, universe!

Jan 28

eggs!

Jan 28

I feel like the theme of this journey has been “we just made it by the skin of our teeth.” I don’t know if it’s actually that way, or if it just feels that way because everything is so unpredictable and so important. We aren’t in the clear just yet, but after today it definitely feels like the scariest parts are over.

The egg retrieval was Sunday at 9:20 a.m., precisely 36 hours after my giant needle “trigger shot” to the ass on Friday night (administered by my mother-in-law, thank you very much, since Eric could not stomach it). Eric and I took the train into the city and thanks to my inability to comprehend very obvious schedule change signs on the subway, arrived 15 minutes late for the appointment. I was immediately whisked off to get blood drawn, where the tech had trouble finding a vein because I’m so black and blue and yellow. Great times were had by all. It was especially fun hearing that they accidentally took blood when they didn’t need to and had to just throw it away. Thanks for that!

I went in for an ultrasound, my very first interaction with the doctor whose name is on all my prescriptions. He reprimanded me for being late and quickly confirmed that I had not ovulated yet, saying “Good, good. Eggs still there. You go now.” Only after this all transpired did I realize how badly that could have gone if the eggs were NOT still there – that would basically mean this entire month of needles, stress, hormones and excessive drainage to my bank account would be worthless. Had I known it was that easy to fail, I would have been a lot more anxious going in for that part. I’m so glad that I didn’t know.

While still trying to process the gravity of what had happened, I was sent in to the on-site OR and instructed to put on my cap and gown. There was a small waiting area where 2 other women were already waiting. I sat there, mentally freaking out as usual, convinced that in the 30 minutes I had to wait I would somehow lose all the eggs and suffer the same tragedy that I had just narrowly avoided. Seriously, my capacity for worst case scenario planning knows no bounds. Of course, that did not happen. They called me in and the wonderfully over-the-top flamboyant anesthesiologist quickly got to work making me laugh and feel totally comfortable, saying things like “Ohh girrrrrl, we gonna get you a Dora band aid for that arm. You deserve it!” That’s probably the only reason I didn’t punch him in the face when he put the IV in the same freaking vein they had just drawn from accidently. Yeah, that kind of HURT LIKE HELL.

This was also the moment that the doctor chose to tell me that my estrogen levels were too high and I was at risk for Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome (OHSS), a complication that can affect up to 33% of women undergoing IVF. For that reason the embryo transfer had to be delayed 1 month. I started panicking (what else is new?) and said, “No wait, it has to be this month!” She asked why and I stupidly stuttered, “Well… because..I’m impatient.” The doctor was not amused, reminding me that my health was the #1 concern and also saying that the transfer was more likely to work if my levels went down. She also acted like I was being a big baby, which was absolutely true. The anesthesiologist had found my vein by this point, and one second I was looking at blue stars projected on the ceiling, the next I was being helped into a wheelchair. Easy, peasy lemon squeezy.

The anesthesia, or as Eric would say, “Amanda’s $500 nap,” was optional. If you ever find yourself in this situation and have the option – DO IT. I was stressed enough, and the thought of being awake and “kind of” feeling this procedure still makes me want to cry. I know that I 100% made the right decision when I chose to be put under.

Recovery was fine, but took forever. On a scale of 1 – 10 my pain was a 2, just like mild cramps but higher up. Today it’s a little worse, but still just maybe a 4 on the pain scale. I would have expected much worse.

So that’s where we are. I’m pissed off that I have to wait, but then I remind myself I’m lucky to be doing this at all. Matt the study coordinator had tentatively proposed doing a pregnancy test by Valentine’s Day, so that date was stuck in my head and that would have been so cute. But no, that won’t be happening now.

It is nice to be giving my body a rest from all the shots, I think I obviously need that. Sorry folks, we have to just march on to March. Side note: I’m making an egg casserole for dinner tonight. Creepy, weird or funny? Maybe all of the above.
eggs

Jan 21

IVF: not for the disorganized

Jan 21

This ride has been quite bumpy. At times I feel like I’m getting my master’s degree in anxiety (and I’m acing all my classes).

My first prescription was a 14 day supply of Lupron with 14 syringes. I was told to get the next medication, Bravelle, by the 14th of January. Despite the fact that I was in Colorado and the shipment was delayed a whole day due to “excessive fog,” it arrived on time. I almost felt smug – but I wasn’t quite in the clear. My next appointment in NYC was on the 15th, after a full day of air travel, going to bed at 3 a.m. and waking up at 6 a.m. To say I was tired would be an understatement. My appointment went fine but by the time I got home, all I wanted to do was sleep. Possibly forever. I woke up from my nap to a voicemail from NHFC. A no-nonsense nurse read off my numbers in quick succession (assuming I would understand their significance?) and gave explicit instructions for dosage on the Bravelle. But then she said, “also continue taking the Lupron, we’ll see you on the 21st for bloodwork, goodbye.” Wait, what? But… I have no needles? What to do? Obviously this was after office hours (it was a nice, long nap) and the Bravelle needles were too huge to use for the Lupron. The units of measure were different. Plus, I suck at math.

I had a mini freak out and became convinced that not doing my shot would ruin everything. But this “keep doing the Lupron” was a complete surprise. I managed to go to sleep, wake up, go to work, play catch up after practically a week off, and send an urgent email and leave an urgent voicemail on the clinical trial mailboxes. No reply. By 1 p.m. I called the main number, practically in hysterics, and said, “I need to speak to a person. Please do not transfer me to an extension and make me leave another message. No one calls me back. I NEED A HUMAN.” The receptionist thankfully obliged and transferred me to a living, breathing nurse. She promised to call in the prescription to my pharmacy immediately.

At 2 p.m. I called the pharmacy. Of course, they had no record of the prescription. I called NHFC back and was promised a returned call from the “prescription specialist” even though that’s not even necessarily who I spoke with in the first place. Another hour went by. I called NHFC again and magically, someone did call in the prescription (though did not call me back as promised). I called the pharmacy to confirm. The pharmacist looked up the prescription, confirmed it was received, and then went on to say, “Looks like we’ll need to order it…” If I could have jumped through the phone, I would have. Not in stock? Regular old syringes, like diabetics use? I made some sort of strangled gasping sound and she quickly asked “Oh, do you need it today?” I said, “YES. I DEFINITELY NEED IT TODAY.” She put me on hold and I lost it. Just cried like I meant it in a dark and empty conference room at work. She was back in under a minute with assurances that I could pick them up that day. Thank GOD.

I find it funny that I ever used to cringe at needles. Not only do I get 2 injections per day at my kitchen table, but I’m now a pro at rolling up my sleeves and giving blood, upper arm rubber band (whatever the hell that thing is called) and all. It wasn’t too long ago that the mere thought of this made me queasy. The tech today asked if I wanted to use my other arm and whether my left arm was sore, and only then did I notice it’s bruised a lovely yellow and purple color. I can’t even feel it.

I hope this doesn’t sound like complaining; I’m only slightly aggravated with how things are going. This clinic is busy with a capital B and that’s not their fault. I insisted on seeing study coordinator Matt today – if nothing else, to prove that he’s still around – and without saying so explicitly, he managed to make me feel paranoid and slightly delusional. Once I am at NHFC, my fears all seem exaggerated. At home, I’m constantly questioning if I’m really doing it right.

We’re on track to do the retrieval this weekend, or thereabouts. My blood results were “good/normal/in range.” Argh, this is getting more detail oriented than I ever intended. Apologies! After next week I plan to stay quiet, or at least about this subject matter, for a while. I hadn’t really planned on what to do once the big day came and went. I guess I’ll just go with the flow. In the meantime, please enjoy this illustration.
funoutof .