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The Groups
That’s all folks.
You know how you start a new school and you begin to make new friends and everything is looking fabulous and then for no obvious reason whatsoever something happens and your friends ditch you and you are all alone at the lunch table with your bagged lunch and feeling sorry for yourself? That is sort of what being suddenly unpregnant feels like.
Except maybe worse. Ok, a lot fucking worse.
My beta went from 155 to 160. The RE does not believe that it is viable and gave me the option of staying on estrogen and progesterone and doing another beta on Monday or just stopping the supplementing and letting nature take its course. I am going with nature.
I wonder if a part of me actually did this to myself. All of that doubting and comparing and not being grateful enough. Who knows what sort of damage that did?
I feel like the hugest failure on the most primal level. I feel like a broken and damaged woman. I feel like a small child who wants to scream, “why can’t I do anything right?!”
This is not the time when I need to be reminded that I can try again. To be honest I can’t. Not for at least a year. (no job=no money=no plane ticket=no clinic money=no trying) I am out & I am out for a long time.
And I hurt. Like physically hurt in ways I never have before. I feel like I suddenly know what a barbaric yawp is. And I hate that as soon as I got the phone call my gut began to twist and turn in a way that I knew bleeding would happen soon. And I have no tampons in my house.
I am unpregnant and it has slayed me.
In the moment. (now with beta)
I am one of those crazy, foolish people that ask for and look for signs in every day life. If the sun hits the prism on the ceiling fan just so then it will be a good day. If the dog barks to be let back in before 8am it will be a shit day. If GM is pleasant when she rises it will be a wonderful day. If the laundry in the dryer is still damp it will be the worst day.
I apply this whimsical illogical logic to the important stuff as well. You can be assured that every step of the way on this IVF journey I looked for and declared signs. When shit things happened, like having a touch of OHSS and almost having transfer canceled, I embraced the news as it made sense. You see just that morning I woke up with a sore back and a sore back SO means bad day.
When I first began to wonder if maybe something had happened I wanted an enormous sign. I needed something beyond a pee stick and beyond my evening of gagging over the onions on my Mother’s dinner. I wanted a fucking stork. I wanted the cliche.
At first, when I put it out in the universe that I would need a stork to verify the impossible, I knew that I was making the declaration as a cushion. Just as it was insane to think that I could be, “you know”, I knew no big, white bird would swoop down either.
But soon I found myself trying to change my original sign request. Those of you that know me know that I detest change. I like a plan and I like to know the outcome of something before I start it. No surprises for me, please. The very idea that something might have worked scared the shit out of me because it would swiftly thrust me into a world of complete unknowns. Botched IUI’s and short luteal phases are what I know to my core. I can do a failed cycle like a champ. But that other thing? What the hell would I do about that??
And yet I couldn’t stop whispering to the universe drivel such as, “a stork please…or maybe a white duck?”
This morning I woke up early, showered and took another test. The total is now 6. And yet each time I look at it it is easier to imagine that knocked up women have broken into my home and tampered with my hpt boxes rather than believe that my pee from my body made that mark in the window. No way is my pee capable of such things. No way.
I woke Mother up and begged her to come with me to the blood lab. I know, such a brat move, but I knew that I couldn’t sit in a waiting room full of people and keep my shit together without my Mother: the sane-maker. I mean what if there were KIDS in the lobby. Of fucking babies. Oh cripes would that paralyze me.
Luckily the lobby was full of geezers and cops and dirty vintage magazines (not to be confused with vintage dirty magazines- now that would have been some fun lobby) and eventually they called my name.
As life has a way of pushing you in a circle I was amused to discover that the woman that would be drawing my blood for my beta was the same woman that drew it for all of my hep C tests. “Hello again!”, she chirped. “Looks like you are going to have some fun tests today. How exciting for you!” I looked over at Mother who was sitting in my eye line and we smiled at each other. I had sort of forgotten- this was exciting. I was told that the blood would be sent to a local lab for testing and that they would have results to my doctor before 3pm.
gulp
On the way home Mother & I sang along to The Beatles and day dreamed about the possibility. As we passed one of the many finger lakes in my neighborhood something caught my eye. At first it looked like a white bucket, but something told me that it wasn’t. I backed up and pulled over and the bucket looked up.
It was a stork.
for reals
EDITED TO ADD: NEC has called. Beta is 36. I am to repeat on Monday and hope for the best. The local lab didn’t send the estradiol and progesterone results with the beta so I should be getting another call to fill me in on that. I was hoping for some insanely high & comforting number, but am reminding myself that today’s number doesn’t mean jack- it is ALL about Monday.
EDITED AGAIN TO ADD: NEC called with Estradial & progesterone. E2 was 85- a bit low for the clinic’s taste (they like it to be at least 100) and progesterone was 42.4. I am to continue the 1.5 cc’s of PIO and will begin taking 2mg of estrace twice a day.
Fuck. This is freaking me out.
It’s a squinter.
This morning’s test revealed something. Not an in your face something. Not a celebrate by throwing out the feta cheese something. But something. It was a squinter. A maybe.
It was enough to get me to wake up Mother to see if she could see what I saw. My Mother, I should point out, was legally blind for years and even after eye surgery to replace her lenses, still needs strong reading glasses. If my Mother could see something then maybe it would be more of a something.
She could see something.
We then proceeded to try and photograph the something in the hopes that seeing it on a computer screen would make it more real. We tried my camera and my mother’s point & shoot. While my view of the something began to fade Mother swears hers increased. “Don’t you SEE that?” she begged? And I didn’t.
And I really, really wanted to.
I can see the something when I have the test in my hand. I don’t need to hold it up to a light or tilt it a certain way- there is something there. But like Bigfoot it refuses to be documented to my satisfaction.
But it does give me a bit more hope as I approach tomorrow’s blood test. Blood is for reals and there is no squinting involved.
Oh PLEASE let this be it.
Edited to Add: Link to 11:00am’s ept test
The day after.
Christmas was a sleepy little hour on our tuesday. Just as GM was beginning to look like she was going to sneak off to bed Mother and I presented her with our lovely stack of holiday cards. She touched the cards that seemed unreal, the ones with shiny gold or flecks of glitter. She traced outlines of signatures and looked on the back of the card to see if any notes were written there. Cards, in general, were sort of this unknown for her. “What’s this?”she would ask Mother and Mother would reply, “it’s a card from your cousin.” “Cousin?” GM would ask. And Mother would try to do a quick lineage lesson.
Most of the people behind the cards were a blur for her. Old neighbors, people she shared a pew with for decades, women that were co-chairs of committees…all of those people are like little lightening bugs. One moment she can sort of make them out, and then the next they are vanished.
We called the appropriate people and wished them a Merry day and then I watched Mother get GM ready for bed, trying to make notes of all of the changes that have happened in the 3 weeks I was away.
The crying is new. It comes out at in little whimpers as she shuffles along the hall. The absent-minded pessimism is also new. When Mother says, “We will see you in the morning!” GM now replies, “If I am still here.”
ouch.
Today is my first day back as primary. Mother has been so, so good about letting me ease back into the caretaking role. Some things are easier than others: laundry, cleaning..The things that are hard are hard because I have this sort of shyness around GM now. She seems so unfamiliar and different to me. I don’t know all of the new tricks that get her to eat or get her to calm down.
I am terrified that I will fuck something up today.
As for that other thing going on. I just have no idea. None. I had some very bad, “get me the tampons and bottle of wine” cramps a few days ago, but yesterday and this morning I actually am feeling my ovaries the way I did before retrieval. You know, that sort of dull throb of stimulated medication ovary sensation. I have not had any desire to puke nor do I have any other sort of “symptoms”. My beta is scheduled for friday morning - which might be a bit early as it will only be 10dp3dt (ha ha ha-sorry but that just looks weird!).
The progesterone shots are still going well. I can easily give myself the shot in my right hip, but I have to count on Mother for the left hip. I think she actually enjoys being involved. She has been really great since I got back. When I say things like, “I don’t think it worked. I think I am going to get my period.” She has learned to not retaliate with, “be positive! It so worked!” Instead she flashes me an authentic bummed out look and says, “I’m sorry.”
I’m feeling a bit sad. Not a full on sad, just a sort of sad around the edges. The holidays are an in your face reminder of the things that are missing in your life. While Mother & I do all that we can to make it nice and special for each other, it isn’t like it used to be. It never will be.
The occupied lap.
My lap has not been empty since I arrived home Friday afternoon. If I am sitting there is, most often, a perpetually purring cat claiming the lap as her own. She digs a paw into my sides as if to permanently scar my skin- all in an effort to claim me. By these markings here- I am her person!
However if I am standing, my lap, which then understandably becomes my gut, is covered by my hands. I find that I am constantly touching my stomach in some sort silly attempt to detect something. That twinge? Was it something more than gas? That tightness there- what does that mean?
It doesn’t help that I am constantly aware of my body every time I move. This is, of course, made possible by my bad-ass progesterone bruises ink-blotting the outer quadrant of my hips. While the shots still do not hurt as they go in, or go out, they always leave a mark and hurt the next day. The soreness is always there, always reminding me that either a shot is coming or a shot has just been had.
I wonder if any of us IVF banditas weren’t saddled with dastardly things such as progesterone (in bullet or injection form) we would have a more graceful wait. We could be delicate and lady-like with our clock watching instead of squirming in funky paste or ouching from bruises.
As for phantom symptoms I have nothing fun at all to report. Everything going on is PIO related. And really when I say “everything” all I have is an upset, rumbley tummy since 5dpo. Since my progesterone is, as they say, off the charts, I have every reason to blame it for my constant ich. I have no boob soreness, no smell issues, no extra fatigue.
Is it lame to say that all I want for Christmas is the desire to ralph? That would be awesome.
Speaking of Christmas…we are going to have a quiet one. Basically it will be a tuesday and not much else. The extra expenses of IVF have gutted all accounts for now (don’t you just love that extra, day before ER, call to inform you that anesthesia is not included?). Mother & I keep telling each other that we have seriously not gotten each other gifts. I am terrified that she is just saying this and will suddenly produce a pony or something Christmas morning. I honestly have nothing tactile to give. This year I plan to just give love.
Decorations are sparse here. Last year’s Christmas was pretty unpleasant and while GM is not in the same place she was then, Mother & I are being very cautious to not trigger any anxiety. We have a small rosemary “tree” that is sitting by our cable box and that is it. On Christmas morning I will make us scones and we will open Holiday cards.
Seeing GM after 3 weeks of, well, not, was eye-opening. I see changes in her that I had been blind to for months. I suffer from residual guilt for being away from home for so long, but the reunion was very, very sweet. It actually happened three times.
There are few moments when Alzheimer’s can be adorable, but leave it to GM to find a way. The first moment came when she & Mother picked me up at the airport. Even though Mother had told her where they were going and who was going to be there she was SO surprised to actually see me. Her first words spoken to me: “Hey! I know you!”
(seriously the best phrase to hear from GM)
We got home from the airport and Mother insisted that I stretch out on the sofa. Of course I was asleep in less than 5 minutes. (This is where I tell you that M & I had to wake up around 3am on Friday so that I could get to the airport in time.) When I woke up GM was no longer napping in her recliner. I was so so sad to have missed saying goodnight. Oh I was just gutted.
Not an hour later I heard the door to GM’s room open. I watched her tip toe down the hall to her restroom. I met her in the hall on the way back to her room and the look on her face was so sweet. “Am I dreaming?” She reached out to pet me and upon finding me real she started crying, “Are you home? Are you mine?” We hugged & hugged and I was able to tuck her into bed with a beautiful smile on her face.
The next morning I decided to wake her up with a good cup of coffee. I opened her drapes to stir her and she rolled herself towards me and then started clapping. “Are you here? Are you home?” And once again we embraced as if for the first time in weeks.
Tomorrow is my birthday: 32 years on this crazy orb. I am hoping that all of the things that didn’t happen by age 31 happen during age 32. Oh and world peace.
Transferred
I have written, off line, to my friends about my supreme fear and anxiety over possibly appearing smug or annoying in my recent posts. I mean for fuck’s sake, there is a damn photo of embryos over here. How the hell did that happen? I have been ( & still often reside) in a place where the mere glimpse that someone is getting to move forward towards their baby dream makes me hiccup a light and pale shade of green. The year plus that I was forced to take a break due to monetary shittiness was so, so hard for me. But even after the hiccup of green I could safely land onto a cloud of well wishing.
But somehow I am just convinced that I might be coming across as some asshole. This goes more to my own issues of needing (NEEEEEEEEEDING) to be accepted than any sort of doubt in the support of you guys. I don’t know why I bring it up, but it has been on my mind, this fear of asshole-ness, and I figured I should just come clean about it and then move on.
Ok. Moving on to the annoying hopeful shit.
Now we are going to talk about yesterday’s transfer. Yay!
I was told to arrive at the clinic at 9:30 for a 10:00am transfer time. I was also told to drink 32 ounces of water and hold my wee before I got to the clinic. Being a girl who would never turn down a trip to the bathroom I will admit that I maybe didn’t adhere to the instructions exactly. I started drinking my water and then decided that I should wee before I left M’s house. It’s a nearly 20 minute drive to the clinic plus I was certain that I would be waiting for more than 30 minutes before being called back.
M let me drive to the clinic as she knew it would satisfy my deep and adorable need to feel in control of something on transfer day. On the drive I chugged the remainder of my nearly 50 ounce electrolyte infused water. By the time I arrived I was feeling the urge and sat down in the lobby chairs, crossed my legs, and waited for my name to be called. I was so fucking bad ass with my full bladder. Totally followed directions! Go me!
When they called my name I jumped up and felt the water slosh around my insides. ugh. We went back to the white & pristine IVF suites (imagine the studio that Mike TV was a brat in during the original Willy Wonka) and I was instructed to ditch my clothes and don a scratchy paper gown and paper booties. I held the gown together tightly and shuffled my way to the transfer room and then gently eased myself onto the table.
I was given a photograph of the two embryos for transfer and found myself gazing at the clump of cells and and feeling like a giant dork for having an iota of, dare I say it, affection, towards them. (Hence the blog name of The Iotas.) An embryologist informed me that these were 8 celled, grade A-, and looking good. The others were 2 8 celled, grade B and one 9 celled grade C with lots of fragmenting. Those remaining 3 were frozen, but the grade C would probably not survive.
Soon IVF type person wheeled in an ultra sound and pulled out something unfamiliar. It was the OTHER ultrasound attachment (also known as the one that is decidedly NOT the dildo cam)- you know the one that goes on your belly. Now skip this next bit entirely. Seriously. Move along to the next paragraph. [I had a bit of a lip quiver when the tech used the ultrasound attachment on my belly because it was something that I had been visualizing as a next step for me...]
However the ultrasound machine had some not so wonderful news: my bladder was not quite as full as they would like it to be. It was filling up, but not to the point where it was pressing down on my uterus like they like it. I was brought another bottle of water and instructed to DRINK IT ALL and then given a look that clearly made it known that they knew that I had peed at M’s house.
Twenty some odd minutes later and I was about to explode. The ultrasound machine was wheeled back in and it was noted that my bladder was getting fuller but it still wasn’t cooperating. And then, “But don’t worry, we can manipulate things with the speculum.” AHHHH! Not a phrase that one should ever have to hear. Ever.
More time went by and I was certain that I was going to die from the holding of the pee. This might be why they slip you a Valium. On one hand you are all mellow and shit and on the other your bladder is freaking OUT. Finally the machine was wheeled back in followed by two nurses and an RE that I had never met. (here is where I note that the only times that I have met/spoken to an RE at the NEC have been my original phone consult back in the spring, the day of my ER and then the day of ET)
The ultrasound gizmo was brought out and mashed onto my gut (at this point I no longer had ANY sort of stupid affection towards it), but lo & behold my bladder had gotten its act together and was sitting heavy on my ute. “Perfect!” the chorus in the room sang.
I was tilted a bit back, legs in the assumed position, and then the speculum went in. My cervix was cleaned off (oh, by the way, no one had told me that you would have such crazy looking CM after ER. The stuff they use to stop/prevent bleeding while up in there eventually begins to seep out on the tails of your CM and it is truly funky looking.) and then the catheter was threaded in. I felt nothing, except the fear that I would hose everyone down with electrolyte scented piss.
Another chorus of “perfect!” was sung (love all of the affirmations) and then the worst thing ever happened. A tech pushed my legs back together (don’t worry, all of the metal bits were removed first) and then pushed a button that tilted the table so so so so far back that I was nearly upside down. Well nearly. Good fucking GAWD.
I was told to just “relax” for a while and that someone would be back in around 20 or so minutes with a bedpan. A fucking bedpan? Being a virgin pissing in a bucket on a bed type gal I spent the next 20 minutes convincing myself that I could be the ultimate over achiever and hold my pee for long enough that I would be all darling and angelic as I declined the offer of said bedpan.
Cut to 20 minutes later and I was in utter and complete agony. When the tech came back into the room with the rose colored ass shaped bucket I nearly cried from jubilation. Of course I didn’t really get the hang of it and my shyness kicked in at some point, but at least I was able to evacuate the most immediate deluge.
Then it was another 20 minutes, again tilted back, and finally I was released and allowed to use a real restroom and get dressed. Sweet relief. Sometimes a good pee is the definition of nirvana.
When I made my way back to the lobby after low-fiving all of the nurses, blood techs, and ultrasound ladies that had gathered in the hallway for a quickie holiday party I saw the sweetest thing ever: There was M, nose in an obscenely outdated tabloid, in a lobby full of husbands and men folk. When she saw me she jumped up and presented me with a small collection of large pink flowers.
& Here is where I say that as much as it has sucked ass going through this basically on my own, there is nothing more awesome than having one of your bestest friends waiting for you in the fertility clinic lobby with flowers and hugs. I looked around at the presumed husband types and knew that right at that moment I had all that I needed.
We made a quick stop to the video store and then I was tucked right into bed. I dreamed of tomatoes growing on the vine.
This morning I had an early morning acupuncture appointment with someone who was not the Acu dude (he left yesterday afternoon for a month long trip to India). However Acu dude’s replacement was so delightful. She was tiny and bouncy and joyful and wanted to hear everything about my treatment. She showed me a place on my head that I could massage that is said to prevent one of the causes of miscarriage (oh hush. I know I am not knocked up yet, but I can plan ahead). To find the spot on yourself find the top point of both of your ears and then trace up to the top of your head. The point where your fingers meet should be a little soft. As often as you like massage that point. She also added these little balls to my ears that I am to keep in for the next week. Whenever I find myself getting stressed or thinking, “it’ll never fucking work” I am to locate the balls in my ears and press on them. Trippy, right?
Leaving the clinic I saw, once again, a small and quaint looking Episcopal church tucked into one of the 1/2 blocks of downtown. I walked by the car, saw that I still had 40 minutes left on the two hour meter and allowed myself to go to church. For the first time in nearly 2 years. There was construction going on around outside so it was clamorous and crazy at first, but I made my way to a pew, bent my knee towards the front of the church and then slid in. I was on my knees in an instant and crying. I didn’t remember how to pray like I once did. I am so astray and distance to something that I once embraced so tightly.
I found myself saying “please” a lot and the phrase “allow it”. I stayed on my knees for as long as it felt right and then I crossed myself and left. I think I expected there to be a shift inside me afterwards, some sort of moment of grace. But I think the grace is what allowed me to enter the church in the first place, what I felt on the way out was just openness. I’ll take that.
And now I am trying to quiet my inner anxiety and allow the hope of the maybe to take up residence somwhere inside of me.
Guest Blogger
She did done good ya’ll.
This is the guest blogger, M. Cali took a Valium and is resting peacefully. Below is the internet debut of lil’ iota (left screen) and iota jr. (right screen).
Blogging will return to its normal schedule tomorrow. Until then, peace be with you.
Added by Cali: For an extra giggle click here.
Letting go of thinking.
Do you ever have a moment in your life where everything is so overwhelming and crazy. You find yourself thinking, “how did I get here?” and maybe, “What does it all mean?” Your head begins to hurt as you over-process every little, minute detail. I am in one of those over-thinking moments. The embryologist has just called with the report and I honestly do not understand most of what she told me. There was a moment, while I was on the phone with her, that I found myself just zoning out. I kept trying to will myself to listen to her but I couldn’t understand what she was saying.
Finally I just interrupted and asked, “can you just tell me- is everything going ok?” The answer: yes.
What I was told would happen yesterday didn’t happen. The 12 to the freezer scenario ended up being 9 to the freezer. 3 of the to be frozen gang were “faded” and so they were letting them hang out a bit longer to see if they were going to make it. Yesterday I was also told that 4 embryos were being watched in preparation for my transfer, but it ended up being 5. And try as I might I can’t figure out what the math is here. I think this means that 17 fertilized as opposed to 16.
I am ashamed that I do not speak the language embryologist, but I have been promised that every thing will be written down for me in a way that I will comprehend. Thank goodness. I really wish I could have conferenced in the IVP to take notes & translate for me.
So back to the 5. They are doing well today. All four-celled and doing what they should be. I have been told that by tomorrow we will have a much better picture of how they are doing. For now I have visions of little blobs doing back-strokes.
Speaking of pictures. I am going to get photographs of these things. Sure I have seen other women share their embryo photos, but it has always been this very beyond my scope concept. I could never imagine myself ever getting to the point where I actually HAD embryos much less a Kodak moment with them. Do you think it would be to much to ask for a shot of the embryos on Santa’s knee? You know, something to slip in with my holiday cards.
Today is acupuncture. I am hoping to be able to have a post transfer acu session tomorrow afternoon, but it may not happen until wednesday. I am supposed to have progesterone testing done friday morning but I will be on a plane headed home then (!!). [edited to add: post transfer acu will be wednesday morning & progesterone test will be thursday afternoon]
Which all of a sudden made me realize two things: 1) I am going to have an embryo transfer tomorrow!!!!! holy fuck!! It is going to happen!! and 2) by the time I am on a plane heading home I will only have a one week wait. Man, IVF rocks!
For now, like the title of this rambly post suggests, I am letting go of the thinking. I am coasting on fumes of hope and excitement. I feel as though I have an IV with champagne dripping through me: I am bubbly and silly and giddy and any minute now I just might make a fool of myself at your office holiday party. I would unplug the xerox machine if I were you.
All about the embryos
Why do clinics say to expect a call between 9am and 11am and then NOT call then? I have been up and stressing since 8am. A big ball of, “my eggs are going to be shit” anxiety.
Finally the call has come in. We can exhale. For now.
24 eggs retrieved, 21 eggs mature.
ICSI performed on 9 eggs: 9 eggs fertilized
“Natural” fertilization on 12 eggs: 7 fertilized
4 embryos (from the “natural” group) are now hanging out in swank, plaid decorated petri dishes and being willed to grow.
12 embryos will be frozen today.
OHMYFUCKINGGOODNESSGRACIOUSHOLYFUCK!
The embryologist said she will call me tomorrow to let me know how the 4 are doing. I am melted in a state of relief.
Of course there is the next hurdle of whether or not the four will thrive and grow and live until tuesday. (& 5 million hurdles after that) But for now I am just going to relax and hope for the best. I never imagined that I would ever, ever make it this far. Seriously. A girl with 13 failed IUI’s and 1 failed hail Mary home insem and the all-encompassing diagnosis of unexplained infertility never, ever presumes that good news will find her- especially when it comes to fertility. I am, for the first time in years, not hating my body, especially the girly bits. I am celebrating that I did so well and am going deep, deep into that hopeful place. It is so pretty there!
Thank you all for embracing me with your hope and good will. The power of the people behind the internet is a beautiful thing.
Groogy, but good
Quick post as a nap is calling my name in a sweet, sweet way.
I had a good talk with the RE before ER and we went over my chances for an embryo transfer. The clinic’s policy is: “over 5000 E2 and/or over 30 eggs retrieved equals no transfer.” As I was borderline with E2 everything was riding on number of eggs retrieved. The pre retrieval transfer indicated that I had 28 follicles. It could go either way.
The folks in the retrieval room were amazing. So kind and funny and quite good at calming me down. They knew I was anxious and a bit worried, but they did a fabulous job of making me laugh and it was through the calm that I was able to finally accept that all of this was out of my hands.
I went to sleep thinking of barbecue potato chips.
I woke up to the nurse patting my arm.
“You did great, girl.” And then, “The RE says you are cleared for transfer.”
The tears were there in an instant. Sweet relief and victory.
24 eggs retrieved. I will know tomorrow what those eggs turned into, if anything. But for now I am so so so fucking thrilled that if there is anything to transfer that I will be allowed to do so.
Thank you all for holding my hand through yet another potential set back.
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