They (if not the proverbial they, at least my parents) say that nobody can afford to have kids. That applies triple when you're infertile the way I am.
I met with Dr. Foulk again a couple of days ago, and after a long talk, he convinced me that doing anything but IVF would be a bad idea: it would put my health and maybe life at risk, it would be financially inefficient because of low success rates and the possibility things will go wrong again, and it would just be frustrating and miserable.
Dr. Foulk is one of the top infertility doctors in the US, so I guess when he tells me I need in-vitro to have a baby, he's right. I signed us up for September.
We'll put off buying a house, live someplace a little more modest for the next few years, and go into a bit more debt because we want to start our family at the not-so-modest price of around 6K.
I know a lot of people ask why anyone would go through such lengths and expense just to conceive a child that's genetically theirs. I used to ask that question myself. But now I'm here, and I've realized it's a complex situation emotionally, financially, and hormonally. The choices to adopt or do IVF are just too complicated and personal to be justified to or questioned by anyone else. As pro-adoption as I am, this is my choice right now, and any support you have for me, emotional or monetary, is a huge blessing.
And on that note, I sell out. We'll be sacrificing as much as we can to make this work, but we need help. A friend suggested fundable.com as a good way for us to find help doing this, and if you want to donate to help us start a family, you can visit our fundable page. I'll see if I can't get a button up in the sidebar, too. Updates to come.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Messages from Church
When Mormon missionaries come to your door, they often offer to share a message from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They tell you about the gospel of Jesus Christ and that it's been restored, since everything kind of fell apart after Jesus kicked the bucket. Gave up the ghost? Kicking the bucket sounds more . . . I don't know, intentional? And when God dies, it's intentional.
Anyway, my parents got that whole speech when I was about five years old. Since then, we've been living it up Mormon style. But not Utah style. I went to BYU and got married in the temple, but I don't listen to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir unless I really have to.
And once you get past that first missionary lesson and start praying and studying on your own and going to church meetings, you get messages from God yourself. He's a pretty subtle guy, so they mostly come as feelings, but when I was at church yesterday, I got a pretty clear message. It went something like this:
And if you're a Bible reader, you know that almost every woman who gets more than a few lines in the Bible was infertile. Maybe some of them had PCOS like me. They didn't have all the nice things we have now to help the problems, and they were mostly totally awesome, faithful women. And even when they prayed and had faith, it still took a really long time for them to have babies. A really long time.
The funny thing is, these were the women destined to be awesome mothers and matriarchs of huge families. The infertility in the Bible isn't some lesson about how the Lord curses bad people with no babies. Being barren, biblically, is not a punishment. What God's saying to any infertile woman is between Him and her, but it's not a slap in the face.
It is easy to think that God is cruel, especially when I can't get pregnant but some airheaded teen named "Bristol" can have a baby, graduate from high school, and get featured in People and who knows what else. But the truth is that life is cruel. It just is. Evil comes from people and from Satan, but not all of the bad in our lives really has a sentient source.
So some of the bad in our lives is just a condition of living. Here on Earth, things are sometimes bad. And God put us here. He's pretty smart, so I'm going to go out on a limb and say that for the purposes He's put us here on Earth, a little suffering is necessary.
To recap:
And where Christ's suffering saves souls, our suffering changes them. So life is cruel, and life changes us. And maybe God gave us life because we needed to change. Not to punish us or to be cruel, but so we could grow up a bit.
So here am I with my growing pains, feeling the strain of change caused by suffering. It's not the fun kind of change, but it's the kind I've got. What should I do? I guess I should stop whining, keep moving, and don't forget to read my scriptures. And wait for more messages.
Anyway, my parents got that whole speech when I was about five years old. Since then, we've been living it up Mormon style. But not Utah style. I went to BYU and got married in the temple, but I don't listen to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir unless I really have to.
And once you get past that first missionary lesson and start praying and studying on your own and going to church meetings, you get messages from God yourself. He's a pretty subtle guy, so they mostly come as feelings, but when I was at church yesterday, I got a pretty clear message. It went something like this:
Dear Amy,
Stop whining. Keep moving. Don't forget to read your scriptures.
Love,
God
And if you're a Bible reader, you know that almost every woman who gets more than a few lines in the Bible was infertile. Maybe some of them had PCOS like me. They didn't have all the nice things we have now to help the problems, and they were mostly totally awesome, faithful women. And even when they prayed and had faith, it still took a really long time for them to have babies. A really long time.
The funny thing is, these were the women destined to be awesome mothers and matriarchs of huge families. The infertility in the Bible isn't some lesson about how the Lord curses bad people with no babies. Being barren, biblically, is not a punishment. What God's saying to any infertile woman is between Him and her, but it's not a slap in the face.
It is easy to think that God is cruel, especially when I can't get pregnant but some airheaded teen named "Bristol" can have a baby, graduate from high school, and get featured in People and who knows what else. But the truth is that life is cruel. It just is. Evil comes from people and from Satan, but not all of the bad in our lives really has a sentient source.
So some of the bad in our lives is just a condition of living. Here on Earth, things are sometimes bad. And God put us here. He's pretty smart, so I'm going to go out on a limb and say that for the purposes He's put us here on Earth, a little suffering is necessary.
To recap:
- God isn't cruel
- Life is cruel
- Life has a purpose
- God has a purpose
And where Christ's suffering saves souls, our suffering changes them. So life is cruel, and life changes us. And maybe God gave us life because we needed to change. Not to punish us or to be cruel, but so we could grow up a bit.
So here am I with my growing pains, feeling the strain of change caused by suffering. It's not the fun kind of change, but it's the kind I've got. What should I do? I guess I should stop whining, keep moving, and don't forget to read my scriptures. And wait for more messages.
Where Do Babies Come From?
When most people's toddlers ask them this question, they'll likely squirm for a way out of explaining sex. Or they'll come up with some cute metaphor or euphemism that will have their child confused for ages.
Not me. You see, I won't have to shop for a way out of explaining sex to a three year old. Ever. Because I know the truth: babies don't come from sex. It's a widely perpetuated myth, but I think many of us know otherwise. And really, there's no reason to oversimplify the concept to sex = babies for anyone over sixteen. It's such an egregious oversimplification that I'm being nice not to call it an all out lie.
Sure, sex is a required condition, but it's one of among tens. At least tens. So when little Timmy Jr. asks me where babies come from, I'm covered.
And that's where babies come from. Simple enough for a child, and glosses over sex easily. How do the daddy cells get there? He puts them there. That's not the important part. It's the chemicals. Trust me. It's the chemicals.
So instead of putting mommy and daddy cells in a test tube and making baby soup, I'm thinking I'll risk another month like this one and try another round on Clomid. We'll see if I can get those chemicals to agree on an appropriate number of eggs to make. It could hurt, but I've been there and done that. If I've proved anything to myself, it's that I can do pain. Pain is my beeotch.
Last chance? My butt! This is America, and I can blow up my ovaries to gargantuan proportions as many times as I want. Or hopefully just until that whole baby thing happens.
Not me. You see, I won't have to shop for a way out of explaining sex to a three year old. Ever. Because I know the truth: babies don't come from sex. It's a widely perpetuated myth, but I think many of us know otherwise. And really, there's no reason to oversimplify the concept to sex = babies for anyone over sixteen. It's such an egregious oversimplification that I'm being nice not to call it an all out lie.
Sure, sex is a required condition, but it's one of among tens. At least tens. So when little Timmy Jr. asks me where babies come from, I'm covered.
It starts with a mommy. The mommy has two little organs called ovaries. They're about the size and shape of almonds, and they have million of little eggs in them. Like the kind that come from chickens.
If mommy is lucky, every month or so her ovaries will talk to a special part of her brain and together they'll make some chemicals that will help an egg grow up. Once that egg is all grown up, mommy's body lets it go from the ovaries using another special chemical. Some mommies don't make all of the chemicals in the right way, and they can't have babies.
Once the egg leaves the ovary, it's still in the mommy's body. If there are cells from a daddy in there (cells are little teeny pieces that make up the body), then one of the daddy cells might just find the egg. When it does, it turns into a little tiny beginning of a baby.
Then, when the little beginning of a baby, called a zygote, finds the right place in the mommy's tummy, it has to hold on tight. If it holds on tight enough, it makes a little home in the mommy's tummy and starts making some of its own chemicals. The baby chemicals and the mommy chemicals work together and help the baby grow. If they don't work together right, or if the baby couldn't hold on tight enough to the mommy's tummy, the baby could stop growing and die. But sometimes all of the chemicals work together right and the baby grows big!
That's when mommy's tummy starts getting all big and round until the baby is about the size of a watermelon. When the baby is big enough, mommy has to squeeze really hard, and the baby comes out!
And that's where babies come from. Simple enough for a child, and glosses over sex easily. How do the daddy cells get there? He puts them there. That's not the important part. It's the chemicals. Trust me. It's the chemicals.
So instead of putting mommy and daddy cells in a test tube and making baby soup, I'm thinking I'll risk another month like this one and try another round on Clomid. We'll see if I can get those chemicals to agree on an appropriate number of eggs to make. It could hurt, but I've been there and done that. If I've proved anything to myself, it's that I can do pain. Pain is my beeotch.
Last chance? My butt! This is America, and I can blow up my ovaries to gargantuan proportions as many times as I want. Or hopefully just until that whole baby thing happens.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Option
Yesterday and the day before, all I wanted to do was scream all the swear words I knew at the greatest volume I could muster. I've been loud since birth, so it would have been an impressive display.
But I didn't scream any cuss words. I didn't even say one. And today, with the final BIG FAT NEGATIVE showing its ugly face on my second-to-last early response pregnancy test, I'm too tired.
I'm much too exhausted to even think about how I went through absolute hell this month. How I woke up in so much pain I could barely hear myself screaming. How I landed in the ER and they made me walk to the room even though every tiny step felt like being stabbed. How this was our very last chance to have a baby of our own without spending $10,000 on a procedure that has only a probability of working. How we spent all the money we don't have on this first and last real chance I might get pregnant. How we're now at the point of either spending our lives away on amazingly uncomfortable procedures or just giving up on the idea of a little one that in the strangest ways takes after us.
Half of me knows that going through IVF is complete insanity. The other half is completely insane. And my ovaries, which take like 10% of my body volume now, are just screaming for me to leave them alone (and give them strong pain meds).
Everyone keeps telling me how strong and brave I am, but it makes no sense to call someone strong and brave just because life seems to be thrusting pure crap at them left and right. It would be brave and strong if I'd chosen to be hopelessly infertile and desperate to be pregnant. If I'd somehow taken that burden off of someone else so they could live pain free and I could have their problems, that could be considered brave. It might be strong of me not to spend 100% of my waking hours feeling sorry for myself. As it is, I'm fluctuating between 20% and 80%, if you count the time I spend picking plastic apparatus filled with my own urine out of the garbage to make sure they're definitely negative. Does that sound strong or brave to you?
I'm just going to say it: This sucks.
And if you come back with some lame silver lining like, "At least you weren't raped and murdered and left in pieces in a sewer," I will mutilate you with the sharp edges of crushed home pregnancy tests.
But I didn't scream any cuss words. I didn't even say one. And today, with the final BIG FAT NEGATIVE showing its ugly face on my second-to-last early response pregnancy test, I'm too tired.
I'm much too exhausted to even think about how I went through absolute hell this month. How I woke up in so much pain I could barely hear myself screaming. How I landed in the ER and they made me walk to the room even though every tiny step felt like being stabbed. How this was our very last chance to have a baby of our own without spending $10,000 on a procedure that has only a probability of working. How we spent all the money we don't have on this first and last real chance I might get pregnant. How we're now at the point of either spending our lives away on amazingly uncomfortable procedures or just giving up on the idea of a little one that in the strangest ways takes after us.
Half of me knows that going through IVF is complete insanity. The other half is completely insane. And my ovaries, which take like 10% of my body volume now, are just screaming for me to leave them alone (and give them strong pain meds).
Everyone keeps telling me how strong and brave I am, but it makes no sense to call someone strong and brave just because life seems to be thrusting pure crap at them left and right. It would be brave and strong if I'd chosen to be hopelessly infertile and desperate to be pregnant. If I'd somehow taken that burden off of someone else so they could live pain free and I could have their problems, that could be considered brave. It might be strong of me not to spend 100% of my waking hours feeling sorry for myself. As it is, I'm fluctuating between 20% and 80%, if you count the time I spend picking plastic apparatus filled with my own urine out of the garbage to make sure they're definitely negative. Does that sound strong or brave to you?
I'm just going to say it: This sucks.
And if you come back with some lame silver lining like, "At least you weren't raped and murdered and left in pieces in a sewer," I will mutilate you with the sharp edges of crushed home pregnancy tests.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
"Misunderstanding"
I like to think the best of people. It's one of my common practices. I like almost everyone I've ever met. I'll give people the benefit of the doubt, or I'll believe they've changed, and I'll do it as much as I possibly can.
But eventually I come to a point where I have to admit to myself that some people suck. You can chalk a lot of things up to a miscommunication, but some people are just liars. You can consider yourself oversensitive until you start to seek counseling for it, but some people are just mean. You can assume people have grown out of their terrible traits and habits, but every now and then, they'll prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are still the type of people that should end up in Hell just so nobody who doesn't deserve Hell has to ever talk to them again.
Maybe you're sure that all ill in the world is either misunderstandings or mental illness. People can't be evil, can they? I know firsthand that they can. Some people simply perpetuate evil. Haven't any of you done something just mean? If you say you haven't, you're deluding yourself.
And others are capable of doing evil things as well. Just for the sake of being mean. And you can't call it a misunderstanding or miscommunication, because it wasn't. That doesn't mean you shouldn't forgive the person, but I think we'd all be healthier if we didn't make excuses for everyone, just like we shouldn't make excuses for ourselves.
The thing that will really shock you is that normal people sometimes do evil things intentionally. It would be nice to assume that everyone is generally good, and when they do bad, it's because they were confused, they had an accident, or they made a mistake. But you know what? Sometimes that's total bull. There are real life people who just enjoy making life miserable for other people.
I'm not just talking about Saddam Hussein, either. I knew a girl in high school who would lie to people repeatedly to try and get them out of relationships. She would actually go back and forth between couples or friends telling them lies to the tune of "so and so said such and such about you." If you think that kind of thing doesn't happen outside of high school, you must still be in high school.
Or I had a boyfriend who was a manipulative liar. When I ran into him years later, I assumed he'd grown up, but it turns out he was an abusive a-hole worse than I'd known when we were young.
It's easy to look at these situations in the aftermath and admit to yourself that, hey, that person is just a bad dude. But when you're in that type of situation, it's hard to recognize whether you're being emotional and oversensitive or judgemental (take that "e" and suck it). Sometimes, you'll have to say, "Yes, I'm acting like a judgemental psycho, and I need to get over it." But other times, I would like you to take a deep breath and remember this mantra:
"Some people suck."
But eventually I come to a point where I have to admit to myself that some people suck. You can chalk a lot of things up to a miscommunication, but some people are just liars. You can consider yourself oversensitive until you start to seek counseling for it, but some people are just mean. You can assume people have grown out of their terrible traits and habits, but every now and then, they'll prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are still the type of people that should end up in Hell just so nobody who doesn't deserve Hell has to ever talk to them again.
Maybe you're sure that all ill in the world is either misunderstandings or mental illness. People can't be evil, can they? I know firsthand that they can. Some people simply perpetuate evil. Haven't any of you done something just mean? If you say you haven't, you're deluding yourself.
And others are capable of doing evil things as well. Just for the sake of being mean. And you can't call it a misunderstanding or miscommunication, because it wasn't. That doesn't mean you shouldn't forgive the person, but I think we'd all be healthier if we didn't make excuses for everyone, just like we shouldn't make excuses for ourselves.
The thing that will really shock you is that normal people sometimes do evil things intentionally. It would be nice to assume that everyone is generally good, and when they do bad, it's because they were confused, they had an accident, or they made a mistake. But you know what? Sometimes that's total bull. There are real life people who just enjoy making life miserable for other people.
I'm not just talking about Saddam Hussein, either. I knew a girl in high school who would lie to people repeatedly to try and get them out of relationships. She would actually go back and forth between couples or friends telling them lies to the tune of "so and so said such and such about you." If you think that kind of thing doesn't happen outside of high school, you must still be in high school.
Or I had a boyfriend who was a manipulative liar. When I ran into him years later, I assumed he'd grown up, but it turns out he was an abusive a-hole worse than I'd known when we were young.
It's easy to look at these situations in the aftermath and admit to yourself that, hey, that person is just a bad dude. But when you're in that type of situation, it's hard to recognize whether you're being emotional and oversensitive or judgemental (take that "e" and suck it). Sometimes, you'll have to say, "Yes, I'm acting like a judgemental psycho, and I need to get over it." But other times, I would like you to take a deep breath and remember this mantra:
"Some people suck."
Monday, July 13, 2009
And Then There Were Fourteen or So
So my "wait a few days and see what happens" follow-up didn't go exactly as planned. Me, Tim, and Doc met Saturday morning at his office for an ultrasound and little conversation. During the ultrasound there weren't so many shocked comments, but when he came back (after I had replaced my clothing, because this was a very pants-on conversation), his eyebrows had nearly hit the ceiling. The first words he could get out?
"Well, you could be on the news!"
He had actually removed his little tie-on doctor's hat, which was a nice treat for me since I'd just been wondering the day before if he were hiding a bald spot. But nope, full head of hair with just the slightest tinge of blond left over from his youth. The shocked expression was a little bit of an instant face-lift, making Doc look almost as young and confused as I was.
So where I was hoping for a number less than seven to describe my mature egg products, I got fourteen. Which could very easily come out to quintuplets or some other litter of what Doc calls "high order multiples." High order multiples, by the way, result in multi-million-dollar NICU bills if not a whole load of deaths. At some number they just have to abort the pregnancy because nobody can survive it.
Anyway, Doc says he needs to give me a shot to stop these eggies from popping and send me to Boise to see Doc Slater or Doc Foulk and either suck out some of the eggs so they don't turn into babies, or suck them all out, make embryos, and do IVF at like 1/3 of the normal price. Sounds good, right? We figured he'd give me the shot, send me to Boise, and we'd see the Docs up there on Monday or Tuesday.
No such luck. Doc calls the clinic up there and they agree to stay open until we get there and see us that very day. Even better luck!
So we head up to the Idaho Center for Reproductive Medicine. (This place is one of the top repro places in the nation. If you're infertile and want to have a baby, GO THERE.) We didn't want to make them wait, so we threw everything we could into the car and high-tailed it up to Boise.
And got a speeding ticket.
Which was a surprisingly comfortable experience for me because the cop smelled like my dad when he's in uniform. Also, I wasn't the one driving.
When we finally made it up there, Doc Foulk had waited as long as he possibly could just so he could talk to us before he hopped on his flight. Pretty cool that he did that just to greet and talk to us.
We got pretty excited about the idea of converting to IVF, which means a really likely pregnancy really soon for way less than usual. But when we did another ultrasound, the follicles were too big. Bummer. How big? over 2 cm for 10 of them. Three more were over 1.5 cm. My ovaries were each six times the normal size. It was getting painful to walk, bend, etc.
First, we thought it would be best to cancel the cycle, do what's basically Plan B, or the morning-after pill. It was a really crappy and tearful decision to make, but the other option was to have some eggs removed, which sounded VERY painful and didn't give us much of a chance at pregnancy. So I allowed myself about ten minutes of crying and went home with the birth control.
But when we were about twenty minutes away from the clinic, Doc Foulk calls us. Now, doctors never call their patients. The nurse calls, the answering service calls, the receptionist calls, but the doctor never calls. But he did. The nurse talked to him just after the ultrasound, and then he called when his plane landed to check in. He then made it a point to call us and strongly advise that we turn around, go back to the clinic, and have the "follicle reduction" (egg removal).
I can't tell you how impressed I was with Doc Foulk for caring enough to call. This guy takes the Hippocratic Oath seriously. He said he just wasn't comfortable with the possibility that still remained that I'd get pregnant with high order multiples, which inevitably mean big trouble. Now that's a clinic that cares.
So everyone who needed to came back in and got me all drugged up for the procedure. If you've ever had the kind of ultrasound you get when you're not pregnant, it's like that, but with a massive needle. I wasn't drugged up enough to be asleep—just a little too giggly—so when the poking started I was still in a bit of pain. Like, the second worst pain ever. But I've never broken a bone or given birth, so my scale is a little off. And really, Doc Slater, who came in on her Saturday night to do the procedure, made it as easy as possible. It was painful, as having a needle stabbed into a very tender area through a very sensitive one always is, but is was fast, and once all the equipment was out, I felt mostly better. I've just been a bit sore, and it's been way better than it was when I was stuffed full of eggs. They removed at least 8 oz of stuff from my abdomen.
All in all, I can't speak highly enough of the staff at the ICRM. They were without fail kind, gentle, sensitive, caring, and excellent at what they do.
So where does all of this leave me?
In eleven days, I will take a blood hCG test. There's a 20% chance it will be positive. Six of those percentage points are twins. The other eighty send me to another round of blood tests and IVF later this year. Turns out, no doctor is likely to give me Clomid ever again, since I clearly overreact and sane doctors (and by that I mean not Octomom's doctor) do not want their patients to have litters.
Things are simpler now that I have two options: be pregnant now, or do IVF. And for having kids entirely, the option to adopt. We know what we want. We'll pray for it. I hope with everything I have that the two swollen follicles they left turn into one or two screaming, stinky, hungry, adorable, infinitely lovable little babies.
But as I am continually reminded, God is still God and I am still not. He's got a plan. Right now it seems a little convoluted, but I'm sure things will work out the right way at the right time. Fat'n'Happy or not.
"Well, you could be on the news!"
He had actually removed his little tie-on doctor's hat, which was a nice treat for me since I'd just been wondering the day before if he were hiding a bald spot. But nope, full head of hair with just the slightest tinge of blond left over from his youth. The shocked expression was a little bit of an instant face-lift, making Doc look almost as young and confused as I was.
So where I was hoping for a number less than seven to describe my mature egg products, I got fourteen. Which could very easily come out to quintuplets or some other litter of what Doc calls "high order multiples." High order multiples, by the way, result in multi-million-dollar NICU bills if not a whole load of deaths. At some number they just have to abort the pregnancy because nobody can survive it.
Anyway, Doc says he needs to give me a shot to stop these eggies from popping and send me to Boise to see Doc Slater or Doc Foulk and either suck out some of the eggs so they don't turn into babies, or suck them all out, make embryos, and do IVF at like 1/3 of the normal price. Sounds good, right? We figured he'd give me the shot, send me to Boise, and we'd see the Docs up there on Monday or Tuesday.
No such luck. Doc calls the clinic up there and they agree to stay open until we get there and see us that very day. Even better luck!
So we head up to the Idaho Center for Reproductive Medicine. (This place is one of the top repro places in the nation. If you're infertile and want to have a baby, GO THERE.) We didn't want to make them wait, so we threw everything we could into the car and high-tailed it up to Boise.
And got a speeding ticket.
Which was a surprisingly comfortable experience for me because the cop smelled like my dad when he's in uniform. Also, I wasn't the one driving.
When we finally made it up there, Doc Foulk had waited as long as he possibly could just so he could talk to us before he hopped on his flight. Pretty cool that he did that just to greet and talk to us.
We got pretty excited about the idea of converting to IVF, which means a really likely pregnancy really soon for way less than usual. But when we did another ultrasound, the follicles were too big. Bummer. How big? over 2 cm for 10 of them. Three more were over 1.5 cm. My ovaries were each six times the normal size. It was getting painful to walk, bend, etc.
First, we thought it would be best to cancel the cycle, do what's basically Plan B, or the morning-after pill. It was a really crappy and tearful decision to make, but the other option was to have some eggs removed, which sounded VERY painful and didn't give us much of a chance at pregnancy. So I allowed myself about ten minutes of crying and went home with the birth control.
But when we were about twenty minutes away from the clinic, Doc Foulk calls us. Now, doctors never call their patients. The nurse calls, the answering service calls, the receptionist calls, but the doctor never calls. But he did. The nurse talked to him just after the ultrasound, and then he called when his plane landed to check in. He then made it a point to call us and strongly advise that we turn around, go back to the clinic, and have the "follicle reduction" (egg removal).
I can't tell you how impressed I was with Doc Foulk for caring enough to call. This guy takes the Hippocratic Oath seriously. He said he just wasn't comfortable with the possibility that still remained that I'd get pregnant with high order multiples, which inevitably mean big trouble. Now that's a clinic that cares.
So everyone who needed to came back in and got me all drugged up for the procedure. If you've ever had the kind of ultrasound you get when you're not pregnant, it's like that, but with a massive needle. I wasn't drugged up enough to be asleep—just a little too giggly—so when the poking started I was still in a bit of pain. Like, the second worst pain ever. But I've never broken a bone or given birth, so my scale is a little off. And really, Doc Slater, who came in on her Saturday night to do the procedure, made it as easy as possible. It was painful, as having a needle stabbed into a very tender area through a very sensitive one always is, but is was fast, and once all the equipment was out, I felt mostly better. I've just been a bit sore, and it's been way better than it was when I was stuffed full of eggs. They removed at least 8 oz of stuff from my abdomen.
All in all, I can't speak highly enough of the staff at the ICRM. They were without fail kind, gentle, sensitive, caring, and excellent at what they do.
So where does all of this leave me?
In eleven days, I will take a blood hCG test. There's a 20% chance it will be positive. Six of those percentage points are twins. The other eighty send me to another round of blood tests and IVF later this year. Turns out, no doctor is likely to give me Clomid ever again, since I clearly overreact and sane doctors (and by that I mean not Octomom's doctor) do not want their patients to have litters.
Things are simpler now that I have two options: be pregnant now, or do IVF. And for having kids entirely, the option to adopt. We know what we want. We'll pray for it. I hope with everything I have that the two swollen follicles they left turn into one or two screaming, stinky, hungry, adorable, infinitely lovable little babies.
But as I am continually reminded, God is still God and I am still not. He's got a plan. Right now it seems a little convoluted, but I'm sure things will work out the right way at the right time. Fat'n'Happy or not.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
XXXXXXX
They say you shouldn't count your eggs before they've hatched, but today, I did. I do realize it's supposed to be chickens, but I'm not talking about chickens. Today is cycle day 12, the day of my first clomiphene cycle checkup ultrasound.
So around lunchtime Tim and I sat in a the teeniest possible ultrasound room waiting for Doc to give the prognosis. Doc and Nurse came in complaining of the heat in the microscopic room. I said I hadn't noticed, since I wasn't wearing pants. Nobody laughed. With four of us in the room, plus ultrasound equipment, a computer, three chairs, and the exam chaise-lounge (sounds so much better than table), I still didn't feel the mugginess. Ah, those sweet pantsless moments pass too quickly.
Except when you realize you definitely used the word "pantsless" in your last entry, and you're wondering if pantslessness is becoming a theme not only in your blog, but in your life.
Anyway, Doc takes what my mom so aptly named the "magic wand" apparatus from the ultrasound machine and does his thing. On the big telly they keep facing the exam chaise-lounge, I see a massive white blur that eventually resolves into my uterus—supersized. Boring. Then he starts poking toward my right ovary, and here come about one million huge black blobs. After measuring at least seven follicles, he switches to the other side and measures like ten more. I say, "Oh, so that's what's been hurting." He says, "Oh my . . . Geez . . . Wow . . ." and finishes with, "What to do . . . what to do . . ."
Apparently there weren't enough spots in the program to record the number of developing follicles that, as I type, continue to slowly expand into the places my intestines usually like to sit. Turns out my body reacted very strongly to the clomiphene—to the tune of approximately seven eggs that may be ready for release later this week. In case you missed basic reproductive biology, seven eggs releasing at once (with a little help from their male counterparts) have the potential to develop into seven babies. At the same time. Suddenly our chances of a pregnancy this month are much better. Suddenly our chances of having too many babies in nine months just got high enough to be somewhat sanity-threatening.
The natural solution is, of course, to wait three days, hope something good happens, and check again. So while we may want to wait on counting my eggs before they hatch, both you and I will be praying for one to three strong, healthy, gorgeous eggs to make their time. Because somebody has set up us the bomb.
So around lunchtime Tim and I sat in a the teeniest possible ultrasound room waiting for Doc to give the prognosis. Doc and Nurse came in complaining of the heat in the microscopic room. I said I hadn't noticed, since I wasn't wearing pants. Nobody laughed. With four of us in the room, plus ultrasound equipment, a computer, three chairs, and the exam chaise-lounge (sounds so much better than table), I still didn't feel the mugginess. Ah, those sweet pantsless moments pass too quickly.
Except when you realize you definitely used the word "pantsless" in your last entry, and you're wondering if pantslessness is becoming a theme not only in your blog, but in your life.
Anyway, Doc takes what my mom so aptly named the "magic wand" apparatus from the ultrasound machine and does his thing. On the big telly they keep facing the exam chaise-lounge, I see a massive white blur that eventually resolves into my uterus—supersized. Boring. Then he starts poking toward my right ovary, and here come about one million huge black blobs. After measuring at least seven follicles, he switches to the other side and measures like ten more. I say, "Oh, so that's what's been hurting." He says, "Oh my . . . Geez . . . Wow . . ." and finishes with, "What to do . . . what to do . . ."
Apparently there weren't enough spots in the program to record the number of developing follicles that, as I type, continue to slowly expand into the places my intestines usually like to sit. Turns out my body reacted very strongly to the clomiphene—to the tune of approximately seven eggs that may be ready for release later this week. In case you missed basic reproductive biology, seven eggs releasing at once (with a little help from their male counterparts) have the potential to develop into seven babies. At the same time. Suddenly our chances of a pregnancy this month are much better. Suddenly our chances of having too many babies in nine months just got high enough to be somewhat sanity-threatening.
The natural solution is, of course, to wait three days, hope something good happens, and check again. So while we may want to wait on counting my eggs before they hatch, both you and I will be praying for one to three strong, healthy, gorgeous eggs to make their time. Because somebody has set up us the bomb.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Homeless
The last two weeks have been a rather long string of what most would consider to be terrible events: fired, on fertility meds, pyrex explosion, canceled Netflix, can't pay bills, can't collect unemployment, must move out of apartment, had to pack up in a week (all the while dealing with icky meds), parents show up a day later than expected, and now, to top it all off, we're homeless. I suppose you can't be entirely homeless when you have a place to sleep that's indoors, but still, I think not having a residence and staying for a day or two at a time at a long list of family members' houses counts.
When Ma and Pa arrived on Friday to help us load up a moving van and scrub our very existence from the first apartment I ever enjoyed living in, I realized that I hadn't mentioned to my mom that we weren't just moving the furniture—I'd neglected the part where our landlords had found replacements that wanted to move in ASAP. So after Sunday, I told her, we were homeless.
Mom, laughing it off, kindly reminded me that I've been homeless before. Like the time my apartment contract ended before I'd finished my finals for the semester (so I couldn't go home), and I had to move all my stuff onto the sidewalk and wait for my folks to show up and move it.
I had to spend the next few nights at my then-fiancé's friend's apartment. It had about fifteen creepy windows visible from the couch I slept on, a very creepy door to a communal basement, and a bunch of people I didn't know (also creepy). Well, they weren't really creepy until everyone who actually lived there had to go out of town, leaving me completely alone in a strange apartment for the next night. That's a little creepy, but not all bad.
The really terrible part is that they left no toilet paper anywhere in the apartment. Not a square. Of course, I'd idiotically assumed the presence of toilet paper (or ANY paper product) when I'd sat down to have a little poo. But upon finding the immediate vicinity toiletpaperless, and subsequently the entire area I could reasonably explore pantsless also toiletpaperless, I decided that my best option would be to call the fiancé. Guys like to be heroes, right? And I definitely had the (somewhat soiled) damsel in distress thing going on. SO I call him up, tell him my awful predicament, and he does what any horrible, terrible, completely dump-worthy fiancé would do and says that he doesn't really want to bring me toilet paper. Really, how could I ever have been engaged to a guy who won't put down the NES controller and drive .2 miles to save his (very good looking) girl from such an immense personal emergency?
I don't want to even tell you how I solved my problem, but it didn't involve any kind of reasonable man rushing in with a roll of Cottonelle to save the day.
And I have to say, that whole homeless thing is way worse than having about five families offering to put us up until we get the okay from doc to go to California. And I love these people. And they would never leave me without toilet paper. And even if they did, now I have the kind of man who would, even if he were across the world in the middle of a hotdog eating contest, rush to me with arms full of Quilted Northern. Ah, my Prince Charmin.
Anyway, if anyone ever calls you to ask for toilet paper, and you say, "no," I want you to know that there is a special place set aside for you in Hell. Yes, you.
When Ma and Pa arrived on Friday to help us load up a moving van and scrub our very existence from the first apartment I ever enjoyed living in, I realized that I hadn't mentioned to my mom that we weren't just moving the furniture—I'd neglected the part where our landlords had found replacements that wanted to move in ASAP. So after Sunday, I told her, we were homeless.
Mom, laughing it off, kindly reminded me that I've been homeless before. Like the time my apartment contract ended before I'd finished my finals for the semester (so I couldn't go home), and I had to move all my stuff onto the sidewalk and wait for my folks to show up and move it.
I had to spend the next few nights at my then-fiancé's friend's apartment. It had about fifteen creepy windows visible from the couch I slept on, a very creepy door to a communal basement, and a bunch of people I didn't know (also creepy). Well, they weren't really creepy until everyone who actually lived there had to go out of town, leaving me completely alone in a strange apartment for the next night. That's a little creepy, but not all bad.
The really terrible part is that they left no toilet paper anywhere in the apartment. Not a square. Of course, I'd idiotically assumed the presence of toilet paper (or ANY paper product) when I'd sat down to have a little poo. But upon finding the immediate vicinity toiletpaperless, and subsequently the entire area I could reasonably explore pantsless also toiletpaperless, I decided that my best option would be to call the fiancé. Guys like to be heroes, right? And I definitely had the (somewhat soiled) damsel in distress thing going on. SO I call him up, tell him my awful predicament, and he does what any horrible, terrible, completely dump-worthy fiancé would do and says that he doesn't really want to bring me toilet paper. Really, how could I ever have been engaged to a guy who won't put down the NES controller and drive .2 miles to save his (very good looking) girl from such an immense personal emergency?
I don't want to even tell you how I solved my problem, but it didn't involve any kind of reasonable man rushing in with a roll of Cottonelle to save the day.
And I have to say, that whole homeless thing is way worse than having about five families offering to put us up until we get the okay from doc to go to California. And I love these people. And they would never leave me without toilet paper. And even if they did, now I have the kind of man who would, even if he were across the world in the middle of a hotdog eating contest, rush to me with arms full of Quilted Northern. Ah, my Prince Charmin.
Anyway, if anyone ever calls you to ask for toilet paper, and you say, "no," I want you to know that there is a special place set aside for you in Hell. Yes, you.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Evitable
So I did all of that complaining stuff, and I feel like it's time to stop whining. It may be all of you yelling at me through your computer screen, but who knows. So it's time to say thank you. Seriously, I've got some fabulous friends and family. Heaven knows I'm the last person to deserve them!
First, Tim. He never said a word to blame me for getting fired. He's been as patient, kind, hard working, and flexible as ever (which is VERY) and then some. On top of all of the stress I've piled on him what with losing my income and fertility treatments and suddenly having to move, he took a CPA exam today and is taking another in a couple weeks! Talk about a total champ!
Then, to the very awesome people who made our anniversary spectacular even though we'd just hit a family crisis. Tim's friend Ron set us up with a room where he works in Colorado a few weeks ago, and we couldn't have been more grateful for the free lodging when the time came. Then Ashley (and Clif) totally made our day special with dinner. I can't thank them enough for their amazing generosity. We needed that. And I'm quite humbled by the help.
And of course, my parents. When I called them panicking about everything last week, they invited us to move in and offered all kinds of help without hesitation. I'm blessed enough to have the kind of parents who are there when you need them but don't smother us with parental care. My in-laws are that way, too.
Then, just because they knew I needed it, my two favorite stalkers came by with boxes and chocolate to comfort me after all of my disasters. They heard that a pyrex had exploded in my kitchen and decided that my day needed saving. Thanks Andee and Noel!
Eileen! She came over and just sat and talked with me last week because I needed someone to sit and talk with. She even put up with my Metformin-induced lethargy. Then she came back today with boxes and spent the whole afternoon (and into the evening) helping me pack up my life. Since sixth grade she has been one of the kindest, friendliest, and most generous people in my acquaintance, and she's been there for me to pick up after all of the biggest life-plosions and to celebrate the best days of my life.
And then there's a neverending list of people who have called or emailed or messaged me with words of encouragement. That list, naturally, overlaps significantly with the neverending list of people who have sat and listened to (or read) my tirades over the injustice of it all. I mean you guys. I save up all of the nice things you say to me (so sorry if I didn't reply) and think about them when I'm tired of packing. It makes a difference.
So out of all of the undeserving people whose friends you could be, thanks for being mine.
First, Tim. He never said a word to blame me for getting fired. He's been as patient, kind, hard working, and flexible as ever (which is VERY) and then some. On top of all of the stress I've piled on him what with losing my income and fertility treatments and suddenly having to move, he took a CPA exam today and is taking another in a couple weeks! Talk about a total champ!
Then, to the very awesome people who made our anniversary spectacular even though we'd just hit a family crisis. Tim's friend Ron set us up with a room where he works in Colorado a few weeks ago, and we couldn't have been more grateful for the free lodging when the time came. Then Ashley (and Clif) totally made our day special with dinner. I can't thank them enough for their amazing generosity. We needed that. And I'm quite humbled by the help.
And of course, my parents. When I called them panicking about everything last week, they invited us to move in and offered all kinds of help without hesitation. I'm blessed enough to have the kind of parents who are there when you need them but don't smother us with parental care. My in-laws are that way, too.
Then, just because they knew I needed it, my two favorite stalkers came by with boxes and chocolate to comfort me after all of my disasters. They heard that a pyrex had exploded in my kitchen and decided that my day needed saving. Thanks Andee and Noel!
Eileen! She came over and just sat and talked with me last week because I needed someone to sit and talk with. She even put up with my Metformin-induced lethargy. Then she came back today with boxes and spent the whole afternoon (and into the evening) helping me pack up my life. Since sixth grade she has been one of the kindest, friendliest, and most generous people in my acquaintance, and she's been there for me to pick up after all of the biggest life-plosions and to celebrate the best days of my life.
And then there's a neverending list of people who have called or emailed or messaged me with words of encouragement. That list, naturally, overlaps significantly with the neverending list of people who have sat and listened to (or read) my tirades over the injustice of it all. I mean you guys. I save up all of the nice things you say to me (so sorry if I didn't reply) and think about them when I'm tired of packing. It makes a difference.
So out of all of the undeserving people whose friends you could be, thanks for being mine.
Inevitable
You all knew the day would come when I'd write another rather disturbingly personal rant about my lady parts, and, well, today I just feel inspired. I'm not the only one with an unruly uterus, either. Jen of Cake Wrecks shared a special gem today that just reminded me what fabulous company I'm in. We should all be in a club or something: "Lady Bloggers and their Lady Organs." You may leave your suggestions for our club name in the comments. So Jen, this one's for you and your upcoming cauterization.
My uterus has been relatively submissive lately, having been beaten down by regular doses of hormones. They make me totally insane, but they sure do keep my uterus in check. But now that my employment has abruptly ended, my ovaries have decided that they can finally, without consequence, completely take over my life. Of course, they're taking full advantage of my inexplicable and totally insane desire to have children.
So now my schedule, my doctor's schedule, my parents' schedule, and even my stomach's schedule are ruled entirely by two puffy, cyst-covered, self-important masses in my lower abdomen.
Of course, I'm leaving out my diet. How could I forget? In order to please the new gods of my existence, I'm back on the Metformin. It hasn't been too bad—just your average nausea and fatigue routine—except that if I consume anything from the very top or the very bottom of the food pyramid, my body goes into emergency evacuation mode (is that not a fabulous place to use that phrase?), and whatever carbohydrates I've consumed make a rapid and violent exit. Eating may have lost a bit of pleasure, but I've come to appreciate quality toilet paper so much more.
And while I'm talking about pills, I might as well mention that I'm on my first round of Clomiphene. I'm one pill down, and so far I haven't developed the kind of mood swings, super-human screaming skills, or canine lengthening that would indicate a state of hormonal critical mass. Four to go. And when I take these pills, I can't help but think to myself, "May cause multiple births. Am I trying to get myself killed?"
Here's where we get to the really fun part. Once I finish my "days 5–8" pills, I go in for a "day 12" ultrasound. This is where my ovaries get to choose my fate. They can either go for broke and pop out an egg, in which case I can keep doing what I'm doing and move it on out to California with Mom and Dad the next Monday, or, they can hold out against all of my crazy pills and keep all of their eggs in painful little fluid-filled sacs in my abdominal cavity.
Contingency plan for ovarian misbehavior? Another round of even crazier pills and back on the table for another ultrasound after a week. This could go on all month. Once my ovaries start to work (which they will hopefully do with the minimally crazy pills), we move out to California to stay with my folks.
So if you ask me when I'm moving, and I tell you I have no idea, it's because my ovaries have made it quite clear that we're all on their schedule now. They will decide when my doctor has to see me, when I have to move, how Tim will schedule his CPA exams, When my parents will have a surly daughter and patient son-in-law moving in, and most of all, when and if I'll start puking my guts out because of a miraculous little parasite of my own.
My uterus has been relatively submissive lately, having been beaten down by regular doses of hormones. They make me totally insane, but they sure do keep my uterus in check. But now that my employment has abruptly ended, my ovaries have decided that they can finally, without consequence, completely take over my life. Of course, they're taking full advantage of my inexplicable and totally insane desire to have children.
So now my schedule, my doctor's schedule, my parents' schedule, and even my stomach's schedule are ruled entirely by two puffy, cyst-covered, self-important masses in my lower abdomen.
Of course, I'm leaving out my diet. How could I forget? In order to please the new gods of my existence, I'm back on the Metformin. It hasn't been too bad—just your average nausea and fatigue routine—except that if I consume anything from the very top or the very bottom of the food pyramid, my body goes into emergency evacuation mode (is that not a fabulous place to use that phrase?), and whatever carbohydrates I've consumed make a rapid and violent exit. Eating may have lost a bit of pleasure, but I've come to appreciate quality toilet paper so much more.
And while I'm talking about pills, I might as well mention that I'm on my first round of Clomiphene. I'm one pill down, and so far I haven't developed the kind of mood swings, super-human screaming skills, or canine lengthening that would indicate a state of hormonal critical mass. Four to go. And when I take these pills, I can't help but think to myself, "May cause multiple births. Am I trying to get myself killed?"
Here's where we get to the really fun part. Once I finish my "days 5–8" pills, I go in for a "day 12" ultrasound. This is where my ovaries get to choose my fate. They can either go for broke and pop out an egg, in which case I can keep doing what I'm doing and move it on out to California with Mom and Dad the next Monday, or, they can hold out against all of my crazy pills and keep all of their eggs in painful little fluid-filled sacs in my abdominal cavity.
Contingency plan for ovarian misbehavior? Another round of even crazier pills and back on the table for another ultrasound after a week. This could go on all month. Once my ovaries start to work (which they will hopefully do with the minimally crazy pills), we move out to California to stay with my folks.
So if you ask me when I'm moving, and I tell you I have no idea, it's because my ovaries have made it quite clear that we're all on their schedule now. They will decide when my doctor has to see me, when I have to move, how Tim will schedule his CPA exams, When my parents will have a surly daughter and patient son-in-law moving in, and most of all, when and if I'll start puking my guts out because of a miraculous little parasite of my own.
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