herveryown

Dr. LovelySurprise

Dear Dr. LovelySurprise,

Thank you for not being a tool.  With the caliber of doctors I've seen lately, you were quite a breath of fresh air, and cute as a bug, besides.  I wish I could have bronzed the look on your face when you pulled my labs up on your computer and murmured "A hematocrit of twentyfive is NOT NORMAL."

Thank you for not asking if the conception was 'natural,' instead opting to ask if the multiples were 'spontaneous.'  In that we hadn't really decided how many to put back until the morning of the transfer, I guess it was kind of spontaneous, but not in the way you meant, so I said no.

Thank you for agreeing that my crit and iron levels are alarming.  Thank you for being alarmed.

Thank you for agreeing to rerun my TSH and crit and iron.  I know it's only been a week since my last CBC and iron panel, but thank you for listening to me when I pointed out that my crit dropped five points in three weeks before.  Thank you for throwing a retic count in for good measure.  At least now we know that I am, in fact, currently capable of generating new red blood cells.  With so little iron present, I have no idea what my body is making these cells out of (I suspect papier mache and very tiny chicken wire is involved), but I suppose we can at least award it an E for Effort.

Thank you for not doing a pelvic.  I realize that pelvics are the french fries of the OB/GYN world, and after IVF and OHSS, it's not like my Vicuna has any lingering shreds of dignity, but I'm still not a fan of having my cervix poked by a stranger, and I do appreciate keeping my pants on whenever possible.

Thank you for making a plan (involving needles and iron) in case my crit and/or iron levels drop any further.  It's not that I think your plan sounds like a ton of fun, but I like that you have a plan.

Thank you for knowing what OHSS is, and not acting weird when I mentioned that I am still under an RE's care.

Thank you for not making me beg or argue or yell in order to get good medical care.

Thank you for making me feel like I'm in good hands.

Sincerely,
Akeeyu

Ruby

Everybody needs a friend like Ruby. 

She's the one who, when you say "Boy, getting pregnant and having that miscarriage totally destroyed my boobs," will say "Yeah, I noticed that," instead of feigning ignorance.

She's the one who will pour you limedrops and play cards with you all night when your father is dying, then make a bed and tuck pour you into it when you can't stay awake one more minute.

She's the one who will find the perfect comforting thing to say after a car accident.  There's something about being an a multicar collision that makes you just a mite jumpy when people start to do vehicularly stupid things in your presence, and since I am in the greater Seattle area, that happens a lot.  "I feel like a pussy," I said to Ruby.  "I know it's not PTSD or anything; I wouldn't even trivialize PTSD by saying it's similar, but lately every time I'm in a traffic slowdown and somebody's coming up behind me too fast, I can taste vomit and I get all nervous, and then all the sounds of the accident replay in my head.  It's creeping me out."  Ruby said "See, the thing is, instead of calling yourself a pussy, you just have to say (insert squeaky Ruby voice here) 'It's okay that I'm scared.  Something frightening happend to me, and this is a normal reaction,' and keep saying it, because really, it's okay."

The next time I encountered lifethreatening idiocy on the freeway (shya, like that was a long wait) I took Ruby's advice and it totally worked.  I felt better.  Okay, the first time it worked.  The second time, some moron in front of me slammed on his brakes for no reason whatsoever and before I could insert my comforting mantra, I found myself screaming "Motherfucker!  Washington drivers!  None of you can fucking drive!  I swear to God, the next idiot who makes me activate my antilock brakes without even a squirrel to show for it is going to find themselves the unwilling recipient of some free dominatrix sessions, and when I ask you if you will ever pull that shit again, the correct answer is 'no, Mistress!' and yes, I'm talking to you, you asshole!  Learn to drive!" and then I felt better.

Um, that's a normal reaction, right, Ruby?

Right?

One Gestatertot Short of a Combo

Well, suck. 

One of the women at work, someone I happen to care about very much, miscarried last week.  I was completely taken off guard, and for a long moment I found myself scrambling for an appropriate response.  Finally, it came to me: Just Don't Be The Asshole.

No, seriously.  People spew so much assvice after a miscarriage, my main goal was to not be The Asshole.  Actually, my main goal was to be as supportive as possible, but I realized that sometimes supportive is as much about what you don't say as what you do say.

When she came back to work, I recognized that terrible shellshocked look.  I wanted to take it away.  I wanted to drag her off and hold her hand and feed her ice cream and rice krispie treats, but didn't.  I scratched her back sometimes.  I waited. 

After a couple of days, she started talking.  "You know what the worst part is?  I mean, other than the obvious?  Using these fucking pads."  "Some brands aren't so bad.  Always is okay."  "Yeah, but have you read the little strips?"  "What little strips?"  "The strips holding the wings up.  I peeled one off and read it, and it says 'Have a happy period'.  A happy period?  Fuck you!"  "OH MY GOD.  It does not!"  "It does.  Fuckers.  Don't they know what people use these for?" 

A little later she was sitting down, hunched over a bit.  "I think we need to give you a new name, hon.  Cramping Beaver."  She cracked a smile.  "You know, Hidden Miscarriage, Cramping Beaver?"  "No, no," she corrected. "It sounds like a Pokemon name.  Cramping Beaver!  Gotta catch 'em all!"  "Gotta catch 'em all?  Incomplete D&C!  Vanishing Heartbeat!  Cramping Beaver!  Maybe...Gotta NOT catch 'em all?" 

She laughed until she cried, but in the good way.

I laughed, too. 

I was (and am) still heartbroken for her.  Oops or not, she wanted her pregnancy very much.  She loved the baby it would have become.

I am grateful that I could make her laugh, relieved that I was not The Asshole.  I am glad that the shitty experience I gained through losing GE and BE gave somebody comfort, even if it was of the Inappropriate Humor variety.

I love you, Cramping Beaver.

If Loving You Is Wrong...

I think I love Gregory Gadow just a little bit, even though he wants to break up my marriage with Sam.

What the hell, I know it's for a good cause.  He just wants Sam back on the market.  Can you blame him?  Clearly there's a dire shortage of Pleasantly Obese computer geeks in the greater Seattle area.

It's A Group Effort

A while ago, I was thinking about the things that you lose with ART.  Privacy, intimacy, the sense of wonder and faith in the concept of reproduction.  That moment by the fire or on the beach or on the kitchen counter (or whatever does it for you) when you and your husband make a baby out of nothing but eachother.

Those are all nifty things, but as it turns out, I don't really miss them.

I have come to peace with what we are doing.  I don't feel a loss of what we should have had, how easy it should have been, because there's something beautiful in the way it is happening.

In case you can't tell, yeah, I'm on Percocet right now, hence the uncharacteristically mushy attitude.

Yesterday, I called and emailed my parents several times and found great comfort, both physical and emotional, from the gifts that they have given me throughout my life.  I would not be able to do any of this without them.

I went to see T'loo's veterinarian to discuss the plans for the end of her life.  They don't make housecalls, she explained, but for us, for T'loo, she will make an exception.  When the time comes, T'loo can leave peacefully at home, instead of in a harsh, frightening office.  I am so grateful for this kindness.  When I got home, T'loo climbed up on my chest and licked my face very gently with her wounded tongue.  She is still very happy with us.  It's not time yet.

Today Nurse Sweetie gave me an official blessing to take Percocet for the pain due to the Endometriosis.  As my estrogen levels continue to rise, the Endo will flare up.  It's normal, just annoying.  She confirmed this after I left a semi-coherent message on her voicemail.  She called me back quickly and was comforting, and I was touched by this, the concern shown by a relative stranger.

My MIL stopped by this morning with a gift, a lucky token for tomorrow's check up, something she had rushed out to purchase for me yesterday, and I almost cried.  I showed her my ridiculously bloated belly, and she said "Well, you'll have to get used to it, honey."  "I hope so," I said, and thanked her, so grateful for this new relationship that we have forged.

I used to play games and read the news on the Internet, or endlessly Google "Endometriosis," searching for a miracle.  There is no cure to be had, but instead, there is something better.  My friends online who support me, who talk me down from the nightmares, lend comfort in person, leave the sweetest comments at the best times.  Thank you.

Sam is sick with the flu, and in between coughs and sneezes, he cares for me.  In between winces and grimaces, I care for him.

This is not what I planned, but I'm grateful for what I have.

My Knight In Shining Napkins

Sometimes when we're shopping, Sam and I dance to the music on the PA system.  Neither of us can actually dance and we probably look like jackasses, but we do it anyway.

Sometimes when I'm sad, I just sit in Sam's lap for a long time.  We don't talk, I just put my head on his shoulder and he pats my back, as if I'm the collicky baby that we don't have.

Sometimes when we're both working late, Sam stops by my work on his way home.  He comes in, brings me a jacket and walks me out to my car, because he knows I'm afraid of the dark.

The other night, after such a walk, I got a bloody nose on the drive home.  I should probably capitalize that.  I got a Bloody Nose on the drive home.  Like all of my medical problems, it was a little outside the norm.

I didn't have any kleenex or napkins in my car, but I knew that Sam, several blocks back, did.  I called him on my cell phone, trying to avoid dripping blood on his jacket, my shirt, my pants, my car, or down the back of my throat.  I failed on all counts. 

He caught up to me in the parking lot of the Quickie Mart, standing next to my car in a spreading pool of my own blood.  "Don't step in it," I said, and accepted napkin after napkin after napkin from him. 

"You look terrible," he said.  "It's all down your face."

I nodded.  I knew.  I could feel it on both cheeks, from my nose to my chin and running down my neck, oozing between my fingers and dripping down my wrists.  I pinched and dabbed, applied pressure and soaked up the blood while Sam carefully cleaned my face and hands with napkins and wet wipes. 

"This looks awful," he said. 

I nodded.  I knew.  A man and a woman standing in a parking lot, the man twice her size, the woman bleeding profusely?  It's not exactly a Kodak moment.  When the bleeding continued, Sam asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital.  I told him I've had worse bloody noses that this, and declined.  Repeatedly.

"Just don't disappear mysteriously tonight on the way home," Sam said.   "What with all the blood everywhere, I'd get the chair for sure."

"No kidding," I agreed. 

Eventually, the bleeding slowed down enough to drive the rest of the way home.  Sam gathered up the pile of soiled napkins, marvelling at the sheer quantity of blood lost, and said "Well, at least we don't have to worry about you having a rare clotting disorder."

I laughed.  Even standing by the side of the road in the cold and the dark, even in the middle of a completely unrelated miniature disaster, the infertility, and the possibility of a fresh reproductive nightmare, is always on our minds.

"Don't ever leave, Sam," I said.  "I would never want to go through this shit with anyone but you. I'd never make it without you."

My Mother In Law Hearts Me

Remember when I talked about who knew we were doing IVF and who didn't?  Well, the loop has been redrawn, and one more person has been added to the in-the-know group: my Mother In Law, Emily.  Surprised?  So was I.

I told her very slowly and carefully.  It took about an hour.  I talked about how much we both wanted to have children, and explained the problems caused by Endometriosis and PCOS.  She asked questions, and I went into more detail.  I explained that I'd been having some invasive tests run, and that we were considering aggressive treatment.  She seemed okay with it, and continued to ask gentle, non-assvice-y questions. 

Finally, I admitted that we were doing IVF, and explained the process and the timeline.  She continued to ask gentle questions and listen quietly.  It was so soothing, as if her words were stroking my soul, smoothing down the rough patches and working out the knots.  It was more than I ever expected, and it was wonderful.

Everything I needed to know about Infertility, I learned from my MIL.

You Should Probably Have Your Husband Tested

After I explained that I'd been having tests done, she said "Well, have you had Sam tested, too?"  I can't tell you what a kick I got out of listening to a mother suggest that her very own son might be the problem.  I have always secretly feared that when they found out we did IVF, they would view me as defective, since obviously it was all my fault that we had to do it.  When she asked about Sam, I felt that imaginary blame start to evaporate.

People Should Mind Their Own Business

After a little while, I explained that one of the reasons we'd been playing it so close to the vest was because sometimes people got pretty judgemental about IVF.  She said "Well, people should butt out.  It's not any of their business how you have children, or how many, or if you have children at all.  That's between you and your husband, and nobody else."

Infertility Is Not God's Will

When I mentioned getting static from religious people, Emily said "Well, that's just silly.  If God didn't want you using the technology, he wouldn't have allowed it to be invented.  It's there, so use it."

People Say Hurtful Things, Even When They Don't Mean To

We were laughing about how many things are going simultaneously on at the Buttmansion house, and how the IVF seemed to be the extra dollop of icing on the stress cake, and I said "Yeah, that's why I've been a little moody lately.  I mean, if you saw me clenching my teeth...well, like when Loved One was complaining about being pregnant and telling me that I was lucky not to be pregnant because it causes so many physical problems, and meanwhile, I had all those physical problems and I didn't have a baby.  I just went home and cried after that."  She said "Oh, honey, that's awful.  I know she was trying to say something nice, but somehow that was just the last thing you needed to hear, wasn't it?"

What Seems Impossible Isn't Always

I've been fearing Emily's reaction for months.  I was sure she would be cool, distant, and perhaps a bit reproachful.  Instead, she hugged me and said "Honey, if you ever need anything, come lean on us.  If you ever need to talk about it, I'm a good listener."

Thank you, Emily.  Your love has been a wonderful gift.

I Heart My Mother In Law

I'm not sure how to explain it.

I've spent years avoiding my mother in law, Emily, insulating myself, trying to protect myself from careless unkindnesses, but doggedly going back, keeping the lines of communication open, accepting all invitations and trying to cultivate a good relationship with her for the sake of my theoretical children.

I'm not sure how or why, but it's working.

She hugs me with genuine enthusiasm now, and I do the same.  She asks after my health out of concern, not politeness.  We spend time together, even without Sam.  I no longer avoid contact with her, but deliberately seek out more.   

I didn't think this was possible before.  I didn't think it would happen, but I'm so grateful that it did.

She doesn't know we're doing IVF, but she knew we were "seeing a new doctor" regarding my Endometriosis.  The other day, she asked how the appointment had gone.  I told her they'd found another impediment to my fertility.  I explained about the PCOS, and how the treatment for PCOS worked at cross purposes to the treatment for Endometriosis.  I told her we weren't quite sure what was going to happen.

I paused and mentally braced myself for the impending onslaught assvice.  Adoption, relaxation, whatever she had to say.  I was determined to take it graciously.

"Well, Akeeyu, we sure love you," she said.

"I love you, too," I said, and I meant it.

Thank you, Emily.

Why You Should Love My Husband, Part II

Well, it's been quite a day. 

I saw a new doctor today, an OB/GYN called Dr. DebateTeam.  She was...well, in twenty minutes she gave me enough material for about four expletive-laced posts, and that's just never good.  More on her later.

We also went to see Dr. BrightEyes, who appears to be aging in reverse and currently bears more than a passing resemblance to a fourteen year old boy.  I kind of felt like we should card him before he whips out Ye Olde Wande again, lest we go to jail for corrupting a minor.

Today was Informed Consent Day, which means we sat around signing pounds and pounds of paperwork and making big plans for our imaginary embryos.

We also got the results of Sam's followup semen analysis.

Are you sitting down?

They were great.  His motility went from 40% to 67%.  For those of you playing along on the home game (who aren't completely obsessed with reproductive statistics), 50% is considered 'good'.  All of his other numbers improved, as well.  We're still waiting for morphology, but he had good morphology before, so this is just extra credit.

So.  Why aren't I using all kinds of exclamation points?

Because I'm an asshole.

Because as soon as we left Dr. BrightEyes' office, I said "Well, honey, now we have official medical documentation.  It's all me.  I'm the problem."

Because now I know that when we tell his family that I'm pregnant and tell them that we did IVF, we'll have to tell them that I am the problem.  It's all me.  If he had married someone less fucked up, we wouldn't be throwing away tens of thousands of dollars on something most people get for free.  I might as well write "It's all my fault" across my forehead in lipstick, or sew a big 'IF' on my chest.

I moped around for a few hours, saying "Yeah, honey.  Numbers look great," halfheartedly, and finally told Sam why it was bothering me.

Sam said "Honey, we can still tell my family that I have motility problems if it will make you feel better."

Yes, that's right.  He's willing to lie to his own family about a delicate, potentially male ego bruising subject just to preserve my feelings.

Goddamn, I love him.

Why You Should Love My Husband

As the IVF approaches, Sam and I are turning into different people.

We're telling people.  Not Sam's family, but coworkers and bosses.  How else can we explain the multiple medical appointments that we keep switching shifts for?

My boss, who tacitly accepted my lame "I have an appointment" explanations for weeks, grinned and hugged me when I said we were doing IVF.  "My friend did that!  It took eight tries!  Oh, honey, I hope it works for you right away."

Sam's boss, before he explained the situation, was concerned that Sam was seriously ill, but was too polite (and professional) to ask what was wrong.  Now, she wishes us luck.

One of Sam's buddies recently asked how things were going.  That conversation went a little like this:

Buddy: "Hey, Sam, how's married life?"
Sam: "Well, we're trying to have a baby."
Buddy: (Insert typical male winkwink nudgenudge 'Know what I mean?' remarks and general shoulder slappery)
Sam: "Actually, no.  We're doing IVF."
Buddy: "Um.  Why?"  (translation: "So, which one of you is the problem?")
Sam: (completely skipping over me to blame the Endo directly) "Well, there's this disease called Endometriosis..."
Buddy: "Um.  What?"
Sam: "Well, every month, when a woman gets her period-"
Buddy: (screams and puts hands over ears)
Sam: "-she sheds the lining of her uterus, the endometrium-"
Buddy: (having temporarily removed hands from ears, screams and covers ears again upon hearing the word 'uterus')  "Dude, no!  I don't want to hear about...dude!"
Sam: "-and in some women, the endometrium grows elsewhere and causes internal damage, and that's Endometriosis."
Buddy: (cautiously removes hands from ears, glares at Sam for exposing him to such linguistic trauma) "So, like, what do they do for that?"
Sam: "Well, there are four options.  You can do nothing, and it just gets worse, you can take a bunch of drugs to try to treat it, and those don't really work, you can have a hysterectomy, which also doesn't work, or you can have a baby, which hopefully puts it into remission for nine months.  And we want to have a baby, but the Endometriosis makes it harder to get pregnant."
Buddy: "Duuuude.  That's...weird."
Sam: "Yeah, well, about 15% of women have Endometriosis."

Yes, that's my husband: Endometriosis Educator to the masses.

I would love him to death if that was the only time he's done that, but he has been reciting variations of that same speech for years now.  At first he asked me if I minded and spoke quietly out of respect for the privacy of my dainty bits, but now he can discuss these things in his volume-of-a-jet-engine hearty voice, in public.

Women are frequently amazed and horrified by the very idea of Endometriosis, never having heard of it until the word came booming out of Sam's mouth.  He shrugs.  "It's common," he tells them.  "It's much more common than people think.  People should know about it."

I knew Sam was a good guy before I married him.  I knew he was smart and funny and stubborn.  I knew he would always look out for me. 

I just didn't know he would become my advocate.