herveryown

Lot's Sister In Law

I hate this stage.  I am loathe to type a single word when I know we'll be cycling so soon because I suspect that in six weeks I'll just be one more example of why you should never read infertility blogs backwards.  It's too depressing to read about stale hope and old loss when you know how things come out in the end.  Sometimes I go back and read old entries and am struck by the urge to yell "Look out!" at the screen, as if I'm watching a horror movie late at night.  Reading backwards means that you know where the villain is lurking, you know which door the sorority girl shouldn't open, but you can't keep anybody's hand off the doorknob.

I feel a little rudderless going into this cycle.  I no longer know if we're persevering or just being damned fools.  If it works, people will say we were brave, but if it doesn't, I'll be the proud owner of another collection of blog entries I can't bear to read.

Sam and I have resumed the discussion with a vengeance, or rather I have resumed it, and Sam has continued to nod and say "Whatever you think is best, sweetie.  Incidentally, I don't want twins." 

I tried to remember the statistics so that we could make a reasonably informed decision, tried to work everything out numerically and logically, and then it hit me: The statistics are meaningless now.  They only measure pregnancy, and frankly, getting pregnant (through IVF) hasn't really been the problem.  It's that pesky little technicality, the live baby, that is the sticking point these days.  I'm sure a statistician could neatly weave my age group's projected pregnancy rate into an equation with my projected miscarriage rate and produce a number (probably an impressive looking one with lots of digits after the decimal point).  The problem is that the number wouldn't actually mean anything. 

Two numbers with too much meaning keep circling in the back of my mind, and those are three and zero, my Gravida and Para numbers, respectively.

I don't know what we should do anymore, which is pretty goddamned funny, considering that I already know what we're going to do.  I no longer believe that there is a right decision to be made, or even one that we can make with any promise of immunity from regret.

Man, Did That Suck Or What?

"Well, Akeeyu, I'm glad you at least still have your sense of humor," Dr. BrightEyes said after hearing my first question.  "Everyone has different coping strategies, and I think that's a pretty good one."

"Yeah, you should see me when I'm really depressed," I said.  "I'm freaking hilarious."

"What is your mindset right now?"

"Well, I'm not as upset about losing this particular embryo as I am about bringing our total to three miscarriages.  I'm mostly worried about the future and about what this means for later."

I was somewhat cheered when he said that the third loss brought my future odds of miscarriage to 30% instead of the 40% sometimes quoted online.  I have no idea where he got this number, but since I like 30% a whole lot better than I like 40%, right now I just don't give a damn.

Speaking of giving a damn, suddenly Evil Insurance Company, Inc. does, in a limited fashion.  On a whim, I decided to ping Dr. DoesNotSuck and ask her if being diagnosed as a Habitual Aborter meant anything to Evil Insurance Company, Inc. regarding coverage.  Surprisingly, it does.  She said they will cover "most of the testing."

This is a little bit funny, since we did (and paid out of pocket for) most of that testing before transferring Better Embryo, but maybe we can get them to cough up a couple of bucks and recheck my borderline ACA in a bit.  I doubt that they'll spring for individual karyotyping, which Dr. BrightEyes and I both feel is a logical next step, but we can always try.

I feel like I should be grateful that they're willing to pay for any of this, but mostly it just pisses me off.  I know I shouldn't bite the hand that gives me a free pelvic, and I still love Dr. DoesNotSuck to bits, but isn't it just a little bit insulting that when I couldn't get pregnant, Evil Insurance Company, Inc.'s reaction was to tell me to relax and insist that there was nothing that could be done, but as long as I can conceive embryos, however ill-fated (and lose the prerequisite number of them) suddenly I'm worth giving a crap about?  "Wait a minute, there might be something to this Infertility thing.  Apparently it's not all in her head." 

Fuckers.

But back to Dr. BrightEyes.  He has agreed to do another Hysteroscopy before our next cycle, as I am almost due anyway (apparently my perceived uterine freshness expires once a year).  He said a Laparoscopy wouldn't necessarily help me become pregnant through IVF or retain a future pregnancy, but that if I was having other symptoms ("It hurts to have sex," I piped up helpfully.  "Every single time."), it might not be a bad idea.  "What about, say, a three month course of Lupron afterwards?  I've heard that helps."  "Actually, in the time since that study was published, they pretty much disproved it, but that didn't get as much press since it wasn't as interesting."  "Oh," I said.  "Fantastic.  I hated being on Lupron long term, anyway.  Last time I was on it, they had to put me on heavy psychiatric medications because, um, I almost punched some guy.  So that's good to hear." 

Dr. BrightEyes, to his credit, did not give me a funny look (or at least no funnier than usual) or edge slowly towards the door to get away from The Unmedicated Crazy Person.

My favorite question was "Since both Endometriosis and PCOS carry 'unexplained' higher miscarriage rates, are we looking for answers that we're just not going to get?"  The answer was "Yes."  Dr. BrightEyes said that so far, we're coming up blank.  The karyotyping may not show anything, either.  He said that there are other things that could be tested for, and other treatments available (IVIG, for example), but while he doesn't discourage them, he doesn't recommend them either because they haven't been shown to have consistant results in either direction.

He still strongly recommends transferring two.  When I asked him if my finicky uterus would offload everything at once or pick them off one by one, he said it would probably do the latter.  I still don't fully understand the logic, unless it's something along the lines of Spies Like Us ("We're the decoys?"), but hey, that was a really really good movie, so let's go with that.

"PGD might be a logical next step," he said "although it would mean going to day five and losing half your embryos."  This did not exactly make me sit up and wave my hands in the air with glee, but we're keeping it in mind. 

"Now, on your next fresh cycle, I'd probably drop your meds to some ridiculously tiny dose like...hmm."  He frowned after poking through my records on his computer.  "You were already on a ridiculously tiny dose and you just kind of..."  "Blew up like a balloon?  Yeah, I know.  But I have plenty of sick time, and we're kind of assuming I'll get OHSS again, so let's go for it."  He frowned again and made some notes about days and doses and muttered something about "going into this aware of the possibility of OHSS," which later made Sam snort with amusement.  "The possibility?  How about the full on certainty?"

Having had severe OHSS, I can honestly say that I didn't enjoy it and I don't take it lightly, but you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, and in my case, I probably can't do IVF without retaining more water than the Titanic's breached hull.  For those of you coming to the party late, my lowest recorded antral follicle count was thirtyfour, and my highest was sixtyfive.

Dr. BrightEyes doesn't recommend steroids, although he would not be averse to adding Heparin to the folic acid and baby aspirin if my ACA is persistantly elevated.  "It has risks," he said, "like bone loss and low white count and bleeding, but...I have a feeling you wouldn't have a problem with that, would you?"

"Nope," I said cheerfully.  Let's face it, if the man recommended snake oil and said I had to personally catch and grind up the snakes to make my own oil, my only questions would be "What kind of snakes, exactly?" and "Can you write me a script for anti-venom?"

Vivelle-vis Has Left The Building

This morning's beta was a whopping sixteen.  Now, if anyone wants to regale me with tales of how they transfered a single frozen embryo and their hcg started at twentyfive, flatlined for five days, dropped to the mid teens, and then skyrocketed to whatever and then it turned out to be boy/girl twins...?

What, no takers?

Oh, it is to laugh.

I have an appointment with Dr. BrightEyes this week, at which point I will tell him that OHSS was just so much fun that we decided to do it again.  I have a feeling it's going to be difficult to say "We want to do IVF again" with any degree of enthusiasm or sincerity, but I'll give it a shot.

In the meantime, Sam and I no longer have to paste on those stupid Vivelle Dots, and the next time Sam touches my butt, it will be out of affection and not because he's trying to inject 2ml of progesterone in oil into my ass.

I think that if I ever get pregnant again, I'll just save time and put "I'm pregnant!  And having a miscarriage!" in the same post.  I'm nothing if not efficient.  Look how quickly my body was able to offload Better Embryo, after all.  Why, I bet next time around I'll somehow manage to miscarry the week before the actual transfer.

I wouldn't put much past Ye Olde Fucked Up Snatch.  Well, I mean except for carrying a live baby to term.  That is apparently way beyond the capacities of my Uterus of Doom.

Pardon Me While I Trip Over This Ottoman

Dear Universe,

My goodness, aren't we feeling funny these days?  I mean funny ha ha, not funny strange.

First of all, that whole positive-and-then-not-so-much thing?  That was a fucking laff riot.  Don't ever let anyone tell you that chemical pregnancy isn't hilarious, because hooboy, I just could not stop laughing.  Or crying hysterically.  One of the two.  They sound about the same, so I can't be sure.

Second, I have to say that your use of props in comedy is inspired.  Having that hugely pregnant woman waddle over and sit at the table directly across from me, so close that I could almost reach over and rub her belly while Nurse Sweetie called and gave me the shit news?  Pure genius.

Third, your comic timing is exquisite.  Most people would have let the whole Better Embryo joke stand on its own, but you, Universe, you went all out and made my car break down immediately afterwards.  I stand in awe of your wit.

Also, hey, fuck you.

Sincerely,
Akeeyu Buttmansion

Tiger, Tiger

The joke goes something like this: A street vendor holding a suitcase full of intricately carved bottles catches the eye of a passerby and goes into his pitch.  "Tiger Repellant for sale," he calls.  "All Natural Organic Tiger Repellant, 100% guaranteed or your money back!"  "That's ridiculous," mutters the passerby.  "There aren't any tigers in Seattle!"  "Ah ha!" crows the vendor.  "So you see how well it works!"

I've done a lot of things in the name of Tiger Repellant.  I chug down insane doses of folic acid that might prevent me from passing on Spina Bifida, but it might not, and it might give me a serious Vitamin B deficiency along the way (oops).  I take Metformin because it might decrease my risk of miscarriage, but it might not.  I pop a Baby Aspirin every day in the hopes that it might help fend of my marginally elevated ACA, but it might not make a difference. 

I have been counting days on my fingers, listening for the phone, holding my breath (but not too long, lest blood flow to the all-important Fucked Up Snatch is compromised), peeing on little white sticks with such fervent dedication that Sam was afraid to leave so much as a Sharpie pen out anywhere, lest I dip it in a cup and start checking it for lines.

Unfortunately, it didn't help.  None of it did.

The Tiger got me, or rather, got Better Embryo.

The beta was 26.5, or in medical terms, "Ha Ha, You're Fucked!"

Lest anyone feel all optimistic and babydusty and want to say "Maybe it's just slow rising bla bla bla," please, for the love of cheese, save it.  My home tests read at 25iu and popped positive on Monday.  This means that in 5 days...well, you do the math. 

It's chemical.

Pulling A (Dead) Rabbit Out Of A Hat

All week I've been saying "I might be pregnant," and then it hit me.  I am pregnant.  Whether or not Better Embryo is viable or will go to term, well, that's anybody's guess, but technically, I am pregnant.

Holy shit.

According to this website, I am exactly four weeks pregnant today, which is pretty funny since Better Embryo has only been in there for a whopping eleven days, and I've been peeing on positive sticks for three.

That was especially fun to explain to Evil Insurance Company, Inc.  I emailed them to request a prenatal appointment since it typically takes six weeks to get in to see Dr. DoesNotSuck.  With good old Good Embryo, my first pre-natal appointment didn't take place until a couple of weeks after the miscarriage (which was, to say the very least, kind of a fucking bummer) so I'm a big fan of getting into the system early.

There was, however, a slight hitch.

"Have you had this pregnancy officially confirmed with Evil Insurance Company, Inc.?"

I didn't feel like arguing with them today, so I obediently trotted my ass down to the lab and peed on one of their sticks.  "How sensitive are these things?"  "Oh, they're VERY sensitive," the lab tech told me.  "They test as soon as twenty days after conception."  I looked at my watch and counted on my fingers.  Crap.  Imagine my complete and total lack of surprise when they told me that it was negative.  Of course it was.  Very sensitive, my ass.  They might as well still be killing bunnies.

Anyhoo, to make a long story short (too late!) I called my OB/GYN's office, and despite the glaringly negative test in my chart, argued my way into a pre-pre-natal screening with a nurse next week and a pre-natal appointment in September through sheer force of will. 

"Look, I know the test today said negative, but we did IVF and our frozen embryo transfer was the fifteenth and I've peed on six positive tests so far since Monday, so...please just take my word for it.  I'm about as pregnant as I'm gonna get at this point."

The receptionist was so decent about the whole thing that I didn't even laugh when she said "Do you know approximately how far along you are?"

Lady, if I wanted to, I could tell you down to the hour.

Again, With Less Feeling

Even Sam could see the line this morning, although he only admitted it grudgingly.  "I kind of see a line," he said, "but it's very faint.  It's the faint ghost of a line."  So I kicked him in the butt.  "Hey!" he yelled.  "Hmm?  Wasn't me.  Must have been the faint ghost of an asskicking."

It's really obvious.  It's positive.

My parents are very excited, and yes, I called them before the pee was dry on the first stick.  They read the blog, after all, and I couldn't let them find out about this sort of thing on the Internet. 

Ever the eternal optimist, I cheerfully said "Well, you know, a positive test doesn't really mean anything.  We'll know more on Friday.  No, Sunday.  Well, even a doubling beta isn't a guarantee.  I guess I'd feel better eventually if we saw something on ultrasound, except even that wouldn't help because we lost Good Embryo after seeing a heartbeat, so I guess this is just...well, it's a first step  That's it.  It's just a nice first step."

They never show that on the pee stick commercials, do they?  "It's how I knew Benjamin was coming.  Well, it was either that, or I'd be getting another D&C."

Sam said "That's a horrible post, honey.  You should post something more cheerful."  Look, I want to be cheerful.  I want to be oblivious and jump up and down and yell "Squeee, I'm pregnant!" and mark my due date on calendars and actually believe that pregnancy equals baby, but I can't just yet, so please bear with me.

I'm my own version of thrilled over here.  I'm a little totally fucking shocked that we may have beat the shit odds (15%) for a single embryo FET twice in a row, but I'm still feeling rather cautious and skeptical.  Sometimes I get out that picture of Better Embryo and think "Please stay," even while part of me is hunkering down and thinking "Oh, fuck, here we go again."

(Please stay.)

Hmm

This Morning's Stick: Inconclusive

I told Sam that I saw a faint line, Sam said he didn't see anything and I needed to get my eyes checked, and T'lgo said "Look, I don't want to be rude, here, but if you can't stop peeing outside of your box, I think I'm going to have to start rubbing your nose in it or something."

I'll see you in the morning.

Circ Du SoThere

This Morning's Stick: Negative. 

Could still be too early, could be accurate, although I do believe we're approaching/in the time frame when things starting showing up positive for Good Embryo, so draw your own conclusions.  Or none at all, because it could still be too early. 

My current theory is that I sweated Better Embryo out over the weekend.  I don't know if it's global warming or just that Mother Nature finally concurred with my opinion that the Pacific Northwest is hell on earth and is turning up the thermostat for consistency's sake, but either way, it is hotter than a Prairie Dog's nutsack up here.

I grew up in the desert and used to walk home from school barefoot on hot blacktop in 100+ degree weather, so I'm used to heat, but the humidity up here is dreadful.  Like breathing through a sweat sock.  In certain choice areas, make that a dirty sweat sock.

Speaking of socks, last night Sam and I were setting up for the morning's PIO injection and laying out the little pillow and knotted sock full of rice that we use to pre-heat my butt, and got into a wee disagreement.  He wanted to put them hither, I wanted to put them yon, and instead of discussing it like rational people, we started throwing them back and forth across the room.  Grab, toss, catch, repeat.  "Quit it," I said.  "We look like insane circus jugglers."  "Huzzah!" Sam hollered cheerfully.  "Angry Spouse Juggling!" 

Did I mention that the heat is making me cranky, or is it obvious?

This is the sort of thing I'm usually reluctant to post, because I'm just waiting for some fluffy babyduster to say "OMGBBQ!  Like, why are you even doing IVF if you two fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!?!  Won't someone think of the chiiiiiiiiildren!?!"

Yes, well.  Along those lines, Sam and I would like to propose that all children conceived via Angry Sex immediately become wards of the state at birth.  Because, you know, fertiles never argue while getting knocked up.  Or while pregnant.  Or after having children.  Ever.

I can pretty much assure you that they never get into rice-sock fights or end up yelling "Samuel J. Buttmansion!  Just stick the fucking estrogen patches on my fucking ass and we can argue later, okay?  No, I can't do it myself.  Because I can't fucking reach and look at the same time and then they're all crooked and stuff.  Yeah, yeah, bite me.  Just do it, okay?" (which Sam says is our version of Angry Sex) but other than that, I'm fairly confident that they fight, too.

T'lgo: Furry Shirker

T'lgo was hiding under the bed when I peed on the stick, but I hardly needed a second opinion.  Two things are very obvious.

• It was negative
• It's still too early to be conclusive

See you tomorrow morning.