burnt toast life

can someone get me off this emotional roller coaster, please?

I’ve mentioned before that at my RE’s office, most of the doctors/nurses/techs don’t speak English very well. So far my biggest issue with that has been the recurring need to make them repeat things during phone calls, and the occasional abrupt and funny conversation. Then yesterday happened.

I went for CD11 blood and sono and had to wait until 4 freaking 30 for the results. The whole day started off on a sour note because I had my least favorite tech for the sono, the same tech who did my “your babies have no heartbeat” scan, so I was already feeling a little weird about the whole thing (at least it wasn’t the same room). She usually tells me nothing, except life-changing, terrible news, but today she said, “Mostly we are looking at the lining… you’re at 7.7, that’s perfect… Follicle on the left is measuring 21, and you’ll ovulate soon.” OK, I can live with perfect. Great. But then I had to wait eight hours for the blood results, which is uncommon. Despite my earlier good news, throughout the day I convinced myself that my hormone levels would be unacceptable and we’d have to cancel this cycle. They finally called.

English as a Second Language Nurse: “I do not know how to say this…”

Shit, right? She even repeated it, followed by a long silence. My heart dropped. Tears formed. I was working from home, so I looked forlornly out into the backyard, doing quick mental calculations of how we could possibly afford to do an FET on our own by next month. What about a yard sale? Maybe I could sell a kidney? How long would it take to raise the money? Seriously, in the space of 30 seconds I was already offering up my own organs to get pregnant again. Then she continued:

ESL Nurse: “I do not know how to say this, but did you give us a copy of the tissue results from your D&C? Do we have those?”

On the list of phrases to be banned from fertility clinics, I’m going to have to recommend that “I do not know how to say this” should be in the top ten. She literally did not know how to say something. I guess she didn’t realize that in the English language, prefacing your statement with, “I do not know how to say this,” means that the next thing you say will be awful, awful news. I felt both relieved and emotionally drained once I figured out what the hell she was actually saying. We straightened out the paperwork snafu and then she gave me my transfer date – June 6th. I don’t even have to go back for monitoring between now and then. I just have to start my Estrace, start my lovely PIO injections, and show up at 11:30 on Thursday to get pregnant.

I feel weird about this. We did a natural cycle FET last time, so I feel good about that, but I remember going back every day around ovulation to determine the precise time of it happening. They even gave me some nasal spray to induce it when I hadn’t ovulated by CD15. But this time, they’re just like, “Uhhh… yeah, come back Thursday. That should be good.” Maybe because it worked last time, so they don’t feel the need to be so precise? Maybe they don’t care that much? I just don’t know. And once again…I’m at the mercy of these people and cannot demand answers since I’m not a paying customer. I’m just a number in a study. I’m just a girl getting a free ride who needs to sit down and shut up.

I got a second emotional smack in the face on that same phone call. At my miscarriage ultrasound, Dr. L mentioned the possibility of just transferring one embryo for the next round. I’ve been mulling that over for the past 6 weeks and had finally come to terms with it being a good idea. I was scared of my ability to handle twins, especially for my first children, not to mention the added risks of having multiples. Plus it felt even more like trying to “replace” my lost children. So I made the decision. Yes, we would just transfer one. I had a higher level of confidence that just one would work since both of them stuck last time.

On the call, ESL Nurse said, “We will transfer two embryos.” I protested, mentioning that Dr. L had offered to just do one, but she said, “No, no that would break protocol. We have to do two.” So again… six weeks of planning and decision making was out the window. I’m scared enough to be pregnant; now the likely chance of twins again? I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m just so worried. (And before you ask if I can just talk to Dr. L, I’m now remembering that she kept getting confused if I was a clinical trial or regular patient. So she probably thought I was regular when she offered to do one. I know it makes more sense that they would have to do two again, so they don’t screw up the study).

I know, I sound like an asshole. Here I am so concerned about achieving the greatest goal: getting pregnant. Poor Amanda, her lining is just too welcoming and sticky. But I am a little messed up about the twins thing. More than I realized before I got that call. I’m stuck in that same conflicting place of wanting both my babies but only wanting to have one at a time. I can’t have it both ways, I know that.

This post just reeks of skepticism and negativity, I’m now realizing, but the entire gist of it is good news. I get to do a transfer this cycle. I knew it would be June 6th because that is my dear friend’s birthday, a friend who has been inexplicably linked to my infertility in strange and amazing ways (post explaining this further to follow). When I saw that things were lining up for early June, I thought, “The 6th. It’s definitely the 6th,” and it was.

Onward to Thursday, then…

Wheee!

Wheee!

back in the saddle

Greetings, my friends, and thank you all for doing your best AF-fairy dances! By this morning I was MOODY. I was irritable; I was pissed off. For those of you afflicted by long/abnormal cycles: I finally have a tiny bit of insight as to how you feel. I am so, so sorry that anyone should have to suffer through waiting for a period that just won’t come. Ugh! The good news is that AF did not come on Friday or Sunday and I had a fabulous time at my Color Me Rad 5K. I even ran for about 35% of it, which is particularly amazing considering that I did not train for one minute and had planned on power walking the whole thing. And then today, just when I thought I would die from waiting another minute, I got my period. *cue huge sigh of relief*

shoes are ruined (worth it)

shoes are ruined (worth it)


I walked immediately from the ladies room to a quiet place to call New Hope. My stomach was in my throat, terrified they would tell me to not bother coming in until next month. Thankfully, the receptionist did tell me to come in Wednesday for Day 3 baseline, but I’m not 100% sure she knew my whole story. Not that I care. At least going in will make me feel like I’m still part of the show, and I can ask to speak with Dr. L plus give her all the paperwork from my OB/GYN. I feel the need to see the inside of the office just to prove I still belong there. It probably sounds odd, but again, not being a paying customer makes me very, very nervous that the gravy train will stop at any moment.

So that’s where I am, back at square one but also excited to get started again. And here’s where I need an opinion or two. I have the prescription to get the clotting disorder tests, but from everything I’ve read it looks like I’ll be giving anywhere from 21 to 678 vials of blood for them. Typically these tests aren’t really ordered until you’ve had multiple losses (does it count that I had two at once?) but my OB/GYN seemed fine with ordering them. I’m just sort of hesitant. On one hand, that’s A LOT of blood. On the other, maybe I should rule out clotting disorders, just to be safe. I just really don’t think that was the problem. These issues are more often than not genetic, and none of the disorders run in my family. My mom tested negative for all of them. I know I’m a different person, but physically, I’m so much like her… I’m torn. I will talk to Dr. L about it since she suggested getting them on that dreaded day which shall not be mentioned, but I don’t know how adamant she was. Obviously the last thing I want is to have another miscarriage. Blah, I don’t know. Should I get them, or should I wait?

birddietIn related news, my diet is going… OK. Let’s just say I’m fully aware that I’m not actually pregnant right now, so the Life or Death thing doesn’t fully ring true. It’s a tough way to eat, especially on weekends, at parties, at home, at work, in the evening… yeah, it’s not easy any time. It’s very difficult to be good. And what makes it worse is that my stomach isn’t fully at peace yet, even with all the changes I’ve made. Bananas are supposed to be on the “fructose acceptable” list, but I found out that my body does not like bananas, not one bit. Eliminating so many foods makes it 100 times easier to determine what’s bothering me, which is nice. But I still have not figured it out completely. Every day I allow myself fewer and fewer different foods, hoping I will feel settled. It’s just so frustrating and now that I have a potential timeline, I feel like I really need to figure it out, and quickly. That means no more justifying Thin Mints on Sunday nights (though I have to say, they don’t even taste as good anymore. Such a disappointment).

That’s all for now. Getting back on track for arm pricking, attempting to get on track for dieting and trying to talk myself into giving up 678 vials of blood. No big deal.

waiting (sucks)

I hate waiting. I hate it, but I’m getting better at it.

We’re coming up on 3 years of TTC (mom – that stands for “trying to conceive”). My TTC anniversary is easy to remember; it’s the same as my wedding day. We started actively trying to start our family that very night and have been ever since. I’m grateful for the successes we’ve had, but the subsequent failures pushed us further into the year. Every day that I do nothing fertility-related feels like an eternity. I’m so flippin’ sick of waiting.

Right now I’m waiting for AF to show. I finally feel “normal” again – my stomach shrank back to normal size, mysterious cramps stopped, incessant m/c bleeding slowed to nothing. Now I feel like I’m in limbo. Just like before the egg retrieval, rather than dreading AF’s arrival, I’m eagerly awaiting it. If Good Ole Auntie Flo really does come one month after the D&C, that would mean she’d arrive right on Mother’s Day. You’d think that’d be upsetting, an infertile getting her period on such a day, but for me it would be a huge relief. For once, getting my period means that everything in my body is on track. It’s certainly a strange feeling.

For some reason, Mother’s Day does not decimate my emotional stability. I’ve been able to handle it very well these past two years, so I don’t anticipate there being a huge problem. Then again… talk to me when I’m cramping and bleeding while happy moms in church cuddle their newborns. Then I might be singing a different tune. But as of this moment, I’m not dreading it. I think it’s because I’ve always associated it with my mom and not myself, so I still think of it that way. But this is my first MD post-loss, so who knows… maybe a mental breakdown is just lying in wait for me. I guess we shall see on Sunday.

It’s only been just over a month, but I feel like I haven’t been to the RE in ages. For some inexplicable reason, I imagine myself calling them up only to find the number disconnected, or arriving at a completely revamped office and being treated like I’d never been there at all. Like I didn’t experience my greatest joys and my lowest lows within the confines of those office walls.

I know I’m being quite dramatic. I think the difference between being a paying customer vs. a clinical trial patient is that it’s always seemed too good to be true. I keep waiting for someone to realize that they’ve accidently given me $20,000 worth of medical procedures for free and send me a bill or lock the doors or something. I remember feeling relieved after we found out the procedure worked, thinking there was nothing they could do to take it back if they changed their minds. Now once again, I’m at their mercy. There’s small comfort in knowing that at least we have the embryos created and frozen, but if I had a nickel for every time I felt a shiver of panic imagining a fire/mix-up/catastrophe in the lab and losing those little snow babies… well, I’d have a whole bunch of nickels.

My impatience isn’t entirely unjustified. The deal with this clinical trial is that they’ll try to get you pregnant for six months or until they run out of embryos, whichever comes first. I don’t know when they start counting from (again, questions that I only think to ask in retrospect), but I started my IVF protocol on December 31st. If we start counting from then… June is it. The end. Finito. How strict are they on the six month thing? Again, not a clue. The doctor certainly didn’t mention it at that fateful ultrasound, and made it sound like we could definitely try again. But what if it takes two months to get my period? What if they try again and I don’t get pregnant? What if this happens all over again and we lose the pregnancy? I could sit here and “What if?” all day long.

I’m definitely making a bigger deal out of all this than they do at the RE. I’m sure as far as cases go, I’m one of the less tragic/complicated, I’m sure. I also doubt someone is sitting there with a calendar, just waiting for me to hit the six month mark so they can boot me out of the trial. But I still have to worry (because it’s ingrained, that’s why). I’ve intentionally avoided calling or emailing anyone from the clinic – first, because what the hell would I say (“Hey it’s me, still no period, just making sure you still have your phone connected, K thanks bye!”) and second, because I don’t want to hear any bad news. My imagination has been working hard enough to come up with worst-case scenarios, I don’t need any reality to add to them.

On a totally unrelated note, did anyone else go see Gatsby yet? I agree with most of the reviews, and I believe this one sums up my feelings most accurately, but may I just say: Leonardo DiCaprio is so talented. Without him I may have despised the movie, but with him I give it a solid B+ for effort. It makes me want to dust off my copy of Romeo + Juliet, bust out some old Teen Beat posters of Leo and relive a little bit of teenage angst.

A very dramatic New Year’s Eve

I bet you thought this would involve drinking, didn’t you? Well, it doesn’t. At least, that wasn’t the dramatic part.

I had my second appointment in the city on NYE. Yup, I traveled to Manhattan on New Year’s Eve. Totally sane. Anyway, I took the 7 a.m. bus and somehow made it to the NHF office (a bus ride and a subway ride) in an hour and 40 minutes. That is unprecedented. Smug and satisfied, I strolled in 20 minutes early for my appointment and made plans for a leisurely brunch with a friend. I felt breezy.

In the back of my mind there was a slight problem – blood test results. We needed them to be officially accepted into the trial and to get all of my fun prescriptions  (You know – injections and stuff). Eric got his results immediately, but since I had to have genetic testing the results took longer. For some reason I was convinced that while I sat in the French cafe with my croissant and coffee, the results would magically appear in my email inbox. Because life always works like that, right? Of course, the results did not come. I called Quest and was told that some results were back, but for some reason my PCP was not authorized to get partial results. Great.

I went back to NHF and broke the bad news. They said that if one particular test was holding up the works, they could still get stuff done that day. I gave them all the info and let them deal with Quest.

Now comes the fun part. Have you ever waited for a fax that someone said was coming? Have you ever stared down a fax machine, willing it to spit out that life or death piece of paper? I have. My car got towed in Philly many, many years ago. I was totally that girl that you see on Parking Wars, fighting with Allstate and fighting with PPA and waiting in the filthy, noisy waiting room for seven straight hours for a mystical proof of insurance document. If that show had been around back then, I would have been on it.

This “waiting for fax” episode was not quite as dramatic because someone else did all the phone fighting for me. I simply sat in the waiting room. And sat some more. I read an entire book. (Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me by Mindy Kaling. Highly recommend; laugh out loud funny). I changed seats. I watched people come and go, nurses wish each other a Happy New Year and leave, and receptionists switch off lights and head out. By the time they finally summoned me back to the office it was just me, a dark waiting room, and a young Asian child sleeping on a nearby sofa.

I’m not sure where the study coordinators are from, I’m so bad with that. I want to say they’re Russian? Ukranian? Something like that. They have thick accents and don’t understand some of my sarcasm (more’s the pity). Anyway, coordinator Matt said they finally, FINALLY got the fax after many threatening phone calls placed on my behalf. Thinking about his colleague,  a sweet and soft spoken woman whose name escapes me, on the phone battling with Quest Diagnostics for hours in broken English just to get MY blood test results gave me an instant surge of gratitude.

I drew my envelope. Matt made a big deal about this part but I don’t know, by this point I was tired and anxious and just wanted to get home to celebrate New Year’s. Plus I don’t even know if I wanted Conventional or Mini IVF; there are pros and cons to both. We got placed into Conventional.

Conventional IVF means daily injections. Matt demonstrated how to do these on a small rubberized button meant to resemble my stomach fat roll while I tried not to look visibly ill. He also said that since we are Conventional, the injections had to start that day. As in, within a few hours. He gave me directions to a pharmacy a few stops Uptown that he knew would carry the drugs and sent me off.

I should probably mention at this point that my phone was dying. I think by the time I left NHF I had 6% battery life. I also had no idea what time I could catch a bus out of Port Authority and my mom had borrowed my car, so I needed to be able to communicate with someone to pick me up. Stress levels began to escalate.

I made it to the pharmacy pretty easily. I confirmed with them that I could use an HSA card over the phone to pay for this $200 prescription. I also warned Eric that I would be calling to get the number. I called him from the pharmacy’s phone – twice – no answer. Desperate, I called him from my cell phone, thinking he wasn’t answering because he didn’t recognize the number.

Conversation:
“WHAT! What do you WANT! I’m in the shower!!”
“Hi I’m at the pharmacy I need the number now please give me the number now I have to talk fast phone is dying hurry please.”
“Oh MY GOD I am DRIPPING WET! FINE!”

I could type out even more of this story but this post is getting ridiculously long and I’m not close to finished here. Basically the card wouldn’t go through, a line formed behind me, I broke out in a rash and started sweating profusely, called Eric back at least three more times, got yelled at again, and I think our final communication was him screaming “JUST LEAVE. ABANDON ALL HOPE AND FUCKING LEAVE!” as I hung up the phone and whipped out a different credit card. If you were behind me in line, you would have hated me. I hated me.

I raced back to the subway, practically jumping over an old woman who had collapsed in the street. Sorry, didn’t have time for that shit (a large group of people was helping her, don’t worry. I’m not a monster). Somehow I made it to Port Authority in time for a bus going to William Penn. Phone life was at 2%. I called my dad and said, “Shut up don’t talk be at bus stop at 6:50 with my car phone dead k love you bye.” And with that – my phone died.

You think it ends there? Nope. I still had an injection to do, remember? Eric and I had already decided that neither of us were up for the task and we would get his mother, a (***now retired!) nurse to administer the injections. I knew she was going out for New Year’s Eve but had no way to warn her I was coming over with this urgent matter. Once I got in the car and charged my phone enough to turn it on, I called her, right as she was walking out the door. She was kind enough to wait for me to race over so she could stick me before heading off to her party.

After that we made it to our party 2 hours late, which I figure is fashionable. 2013 arrived. It better have a baby in it, and he/she better be pretty effing adorable.

calm. down.

I haven’t felt calm for more than two years. Sure, I’ve had brief periods of relaxation – mostly wine-induced – but on the edge of my subconscious there has always been been a tiny voice screaming, “You have to do something! You have to do something! Do something now!”

The voice was referring to the baby situation (some might call it a biological clock, but I think it’s more complex than that). However, it extended well past scheduling specialist appointments and Googling “homeopathic fertility methods.” Every aspect of my life has been affected by this anxiety. I’m often impatient and irritated at work. My catchphrase at the office is a deep, exaggerated sigh, and my cube mates often giggle when I let out one of these overly dramatic, oh-so-put-upon exhalations. I stress out over the state of my home’s chaos, such as how many dishes are piling up in the sink, how much laundry is piling up in the hamper and how much dog hair is accumulating in the corners. Even as I sit on the couch watching TV, my mind often keeps going a million miles a minute thinking of all the things I should be doing.

We went for our initial consult appointment on Friday. The office was gorgeous, and huge. It took up the entire floor of a building and reception had no fewer than 30 people waiting. We were ushered into the consult with two other couples – an awkward proposition at first, but once the meeting started we quickly got over being self-conscious. We were all there for the same reason.

All the tests took 4 hours. To my surprise, they said we would get a 98% acceptance or denial into the study that very day. We were sent to lunch, and promised that upon return, we would have our answer.

I have had two panic attacks in my life that I can recall. The first one was last year, in February, and that story almost bears a whole other post. Suffice it to say it had to do with a psychic prediction that foresaw us getting pregnant in February. I managed to stress out my body enough to delay my Aunt Flo three full days. Cue panic attack #1.

The second happened this past Friday. As the clinical trial coordinator sent us out to get lunch while our tests were analyzed, my heart started racing. My mouth went dry. I felt like I was going to throw up, pass out and levitate all at the same time. While Eric scarfed down a burger and cheese fries, I quietly died in the corner of the Goodburger on Columbus Circle. He couldn’t understand my meltdown. I couldn’t understand his lack of a meltdown.

When you’re trying to have a baby and you’re not able to, people like to tell you to calm down. “It will happen if you just relax! Don’t think about it so much!” Yeah, ok. I feel like the phrase “easier said than done” was created specifically for this sentiment. The amount of stress created by trying to force myself to relax was almost as bad as the stress that already existed. Does that make sense? I’m sorry if it doesn’t. Let’s just say I was doubly stressed out.

We got back from lunch (by this point I was shaking visibly) and were finally, finally escorted back into an office. The coordinator Matt took his time getting to the results. He said, “You seem like good candidates for the study.” I made him confirm three times that yes, this in fact meant that we WERE accepted into the study. I breathed the hugest sigh of relief and started babbling thanks and nonsense, while Matt (a non-native English speaker) looked at me puzzled and said, “But I do not understand? Why you freak out? You don’t need to freak out.” Eric just laughed.

That’s it folks: we are in. I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest. I feel like a gigantic part of this stress I’ve been lugging around has melted away. This weekend I sat under my dog hair covered blanket, dishes in the sink, laundry in the hamper and smiled, completely unconcerned. The funny thing is that Matt suggested that we start using condoms. You see, oftentimes people accepted into clinical trials can accidentally get pregnant from being too relaxed, and our next visit will be too early to test for such a phenomenon  I think this may be the definition of irony. Or maybe not. Like Alanis, I’ve always had a hard time defining irony.

Anyway – this is good news! I will try to keep you all updated as much as I can without saying too much. Just know that if my hopes have ever been sky high, now is that time. It’s like an inevitable that I have to now patiently wait for. But I just think it will be worth it.