Puzzling
Gee, my first IVF cycle is already over, and I'm not pregnant.
Maybe I'm not snorting enough babydust.
Gee, my first IVF cycle is already over, and I'm not pregnant.
Maybe I'm not snorting enough babydust.
I should have seen this coming. Just before Suppression Check, I got a bit of spam entitled "My Friend, You Are In Trouble."
This was hot on the heels of the one that asked "Why let people know about your intimate life?" For a minute there, I thought it was someone who had read all about my cervix bumps or The Worst Yeast Infection In The World and wanted to tell me to shut the hell up about my stupid flippyflaps, but no, it was just some tool trying to sell me ....er, you know. That stuff. Look, I'm not typing it out, because then I would show up on even weirder searches than I already do, and holy God, I'm not sure that's possible, but I'm not willing to take the chance.
So, anyway, here's the deal. I have cysts. Multiple. As soon as Dr. ReallyOldGuy stuffed the wand up my carnal treasure, I saw them, because yeah, they were that fucking obvious. We all froze and stared at the screen.
"Did you have cysts before?"
"Uh...no...I mean, I thought I, uh...but they said, I...um..." I was the picture of articulate composure.
"This one is 25mm...and on the other ovary we have...oh. Hmm. Here's one 18mm and a 15....no, 14mm. Have you had a Day One yet?"
"A Day One like a period, or a Day One like stims? Because I, um...uh..." Oh yeah. Total Mensa material. I think having a wand crammed up your business shaves off fifteen IQ points.
"I'll send your nurse in. You usually see Nurse Casper?"
"NO! Nurse Sweetie!"
"I'll have her talk to you."
Nurse Sweetie was wonderful. She was funny, comforting, and informative. She explained that they would take blood, and then we would find out if they were active cysts or not, and then depending on the bloodwork, we would either continue as planned on Friday or postpone for five to seven days, during which time I would keep up the Lupron shots, and by the way, how were those going? Was I doing okay?
Comforted and consoled, I went out into the world and cried for like, an hour.
Then I got online and consulted Dr. Google, who told me that 25mm works out to about an inch. Hmm. An inch. That doesn't sound so bad. I mean, it's not like those things you always read where they excise some mass the size of a grapefruit or some other citrus fruit. An inch. That's like a kumquat! That's okay, right?
Dr. Google then informed me that my entire ovary was only about the size of an almond, or 1.5 by .75 inches. Hmm.
I have a kumquat on my almond, and two malted milk balls on my other almond. I'm trail mix! See, that doesn't seem so okay. Also, my almonds kind of fucking hurt, which is making me feel a little nuts. Har!
On Friday, I called the office to get my results. Tragically, Nurse Sweetie was not in, and I got Nurse Casper, instead. I am seriously considering changing her name to another word starting with C. She is the least informative person on the planet. I get that there is some information that patients are supposed to get from doctors rather than nurses, but let us review the things she has refused to tell me prior to friday: my FSH, aftercare instructions for a hysteroscopy, and whether or not I could wear a tampon after a mock transfer. The woman is JUST NOT HELPFUL. I don't know why she is even employed.
So, of course Nurse Casper would not tell me whether the cysts were active or not. Big fucking help. I asked if the doctor had reviewed my bloodwork. She said yes. I asked what he'd said about it. She said "He wants you to come back in five to seven days." Okay. Now we're fucking getting somewhere. That means my top secret mystery bloodwork indicated that the cysts were active, which is bad, which means I keep injecting Lupron and getting into really stupid hormonally induced arguments with Sam over carrot cake and the size of my breasts for another week.
Here's what's pissing me off, other than the continued existence and/or employment of Nurse Casper:
I really thought I was stronger than this. I thought I would take this better. I've seen everything that y'all have gone through, and you've handled it with style and grace. So I failed Suppression! Who cares? ME!
I know that cysts are really no big deal in the grand scheme of things. Sam assures me that Drs. ReallyOldGuy and BrightEyes will put their heads together and figure it out and fix this right up, if for no other reason than they want their eight grand, and they don't get it until I pass Suppression, but suddenly I feel despondant. What if they can't? What if they're idiots? I mean, obviously, what they've done so far hasn't worked like they said it was going to. What if I picked the wrong doctors? What if it never works?
I failed Suppression. I failed. With terminology like that, it's hard not to take it personally.
Dear Mrs. Buttmansion,
We hope you have had an opportunity to look over your reproductive system's recent report card. Although we feel that it has promise, we feel that there is a great deal of room for improvement.
Because your reproductive system is in danger of failing one or more subjects and is clearly displaying oppositional and defiant behavior, we have no choice but to suspend it from IVF School for a period of five (5) days.
Previous testing indicates that your reproductive system has a great deal of potential, but it simply isn't applying itself. Perhaps it needs a little more supervision regarding its homework, or maybe a tutor would be helpful.
Please discuss the ovarian issue with your reproductive system and contact the office for a followup conference with the Wand Monkey.
Well, today is my Suppression Check. If I pass, I start stims on Friday. If I fail...I don't. If I fail twice, this whole rodeo is cancelled until next year.
I am more than a little worried about this. I've been dutifully jamming Lupron into my belly for nine days now, and have just discontinued birth control pills after five weeks, but what if it's not enough? This is a test I can't study for or cheat on. I can't do the extra credit, and it's not open book. It's not even graded on a curve.
This is simple, really. Pass/Fail.
I must confess, I am no longer fond of trees.
The first time I came to The Great Northwest, there was a rather nasty windstorm that resulted in a big old tree crashing right through somebody's roof and killing them while they slept. Twice.
Well. I had never heard of such a thing.
Where I'm from, trees don't kill people. Where I'm from, people kill trees, and then hippies start hugging them (the trees, not the people, which is probably good because trees don't have noses, and some of those hippies get pretty ripe after a couple of days of hugging trees) and then the trees are saved and that's, like, so wonderful because trees are important to make oxygen and prevent erosion and make shade and house the little fluffy squirrels and be pretty!
Right? Yeah. Well, then I moved up here, and the trees kept on falling over and killing people and I started getting a little testy.
I now regard trees with suspicion. That one over there, isn't it leaning just a little too close to the house? What about that nasty gang of evergreens lingering by the powerlines on the corner? And how about that Weeping Willow? Come on. You know she's faking it.
Last week, there was a fairly nasty windstorm while I was at work. You know, rain, clouds, wind whipping the trees back and forth. Yikes.
Full of concern, I called Sam.
"Honey? Is the power still on? Okay, great. Listen, if one of the trees up the street goes down and hits the lines, remember that the Gonal-F pens are in the fridge and they have to be kept cool. There are ice packs in the freezer and a digital thermometer with a probe so that you can keep them at the right temperature, whatever the hell that is. I don't know. It should be printed on the boxes. Yeah. Um. And by the way, how are you, honey?"
Now I remember why I hate Lupron so much.
This sucks.
The first time I went on Lupron (Episode One: A New Nightmare) was in 2002. I did Depo Lupron shots once a month for six months to go into pretend menopause following my laparoscopy. This was supposed to have some meaningful impact on the Endometriosis that had just been diagnosed. Whether or not it actually helped, well, I guess we'll never really know.
It did put me into the Emergency Room once with an absolutely blinding migraine, which was pretty funny in that the doctor on call told me that my migraine was caused by 'my menstrual cycle,' and after I repeatedly explained to him that I didn't currently have a 'menstrual cycle' because I was in 'chemically induced menopause,' he blew me off and shot me full of morphine. I think that the morphine was the high point of the treatment. The low point was when I started having ideopathic chest pains and my employer almost called 911.
Just for fun, let's compare the difference between using Lupron to treat Endometriosis and using Lupron to treat the infertility caused by Endometriosis, shall we?
Treating Endometriosis:
Treating infertility caused by Endometriosis:
When I say I have lost my fucking mind, I'm not using hyperbole or trying to be funny or cute.
As previously mentioned, I am Manic Depressive (or more specifically, BiPolar Type II) and I've gone into a hypomanic state, something I virtually never do unless I am being prompted by sleep deprivation, drug interactions, extreme stress, or, well, Lupron. I've been searching for some nifty explanation of hypomania online for your clicking pleasure, but unfortunately, none of them really apply to me. Most of them describe feelings of euphoria, high self esteem, and hypersexuality.
God, I fucking wish.
Here's what hypomanic episodes do to me: I have a hard time sleeping, and have a greatly reduced need for sleep. I can't concentrate. I can't focus. I can't relax. I worry constantly. I clench my teeth a lot, which hurts. I am extremely distractible. I am irritable to a truly alarming degree. I am agitated and restless. I talk very fast, and am constantly concerned about saying inappropriate things because my internal filter is pretty much gone. Conversely, I frequently get very quiet because I feel incredibly self conscious, especially around the people who know I'm Manic Depressive, because I feel like they're expecting me to do something entertaining or fun, like go on a shopping spree or dance around in my underwear or any of the stereotypical things that all us crazy people are supposed to do. I pick stupid arguments. I am frequently all but paralyzed by the anxiety level I am experiencing.
It's kind of like the way you feel when that semi almost sideswipes you on the freeway and you swerve out of harm's way at the last minute and spend the next ten minutes shaking and hyperventilating, except that it's multiplied by about twelve and it won't go away.
Have I mentioned how much this sucks?
I know that this feeling isn't real, that it is being caused by artificially manipulated hormones and faulty brain chemistry. I know that it is temporary. I know that I can get through this. The problem is that knowing all this doesn't actually make it any less unpleasant.
I find it extremely embarrassing to be posting about any of this. Being crazy is the social equivalent of farting in church: embarrassing, awkward, and nobody really knows what to say, but odds are, somebody will laugh.
Oh, well.
I'm sure I'll be depressed again in no time, which is much easier to deal with. In my world, this is what passes for optimism.
I've been on Lupron shots for two (2) days and I already made one of my co-workers cry. Yikes.
It doesn't seem plausible that I'm having hot flashes already, but I'm pretty sure that I am. I mean, I had that old familiar 'I am standing two inches from the sun," feeling, immediately followed by a cold sweat, so there you are.
I don't feel sick, but I am swallowing pills on a strict schedule and putting needles into my body, so I feel like I should feel sick. I must be sick. Why else would I be going through such a bizarrely elaborate course of treatment?
I am having vivid dreams, recurring nightmares and my very first night terror. My First Night Terror. That should come with pink bows and a little plastic brush, but instead it came with lingering paralysis and hysteria.
I guess if I'd expected this process to be at all fun, I'd be a little bummed out right now, but thanks to the Miracle of Pessimism, I fully expected the fuselage of a 747 to land on my head immediately after stabbing the first dose of Lupron into my belly, so anything short of that seems pretty okay.
This may seem out of character, as I am a perennially bitter, negative little person, but I have a huge soft spot for enthusiastic people in real life. If you cheerfully wave at strangers as a ship leaves port, I love you. If you splash your way through puddles and laugh for no reason, I love you. If you can do the same job day after day after day without making it look like routine drudgery, I love you.
I finally met Nurse Sweetie and Nurse Cheerleader. Love them.
Nurse Sweetie went over our protocol with us and didn't sound like a mindless drone going over the same information for the eighth time that week. She was friendly and personable and answered all of our questions without once resorting to the "Oh my God, I can't believe you asked such a dumbass question," eyeroll. When I described my confusion at opening the Gonal-F box for the first time, we both laughed and said "What the hell?" at the same time. I have such a friend crush.
She does have some steep competition, because Shot Class immediately followed Protocol Review, and I also adore Nurse Cheerleader. She bounced and smiled her way through subcutaneous injections, drug mixing, and intramuscular injections. She was giggly and perky and cute, all traits which usually annoy the living crap out of me, but in her case I made a special exception.
Nurse Cheerleader: "So, let's talk Lupron. This is going to be a subcutaneous injection, which means it's going to go into the fat on your abdomen. Like, right here." (grabs own cute poochy belly) "You just grab a handful, or an inch, or whatever."
Stick Thin Trophy Wife: "An inch? Oh...I don't think I have an inch to pinch."
STTW's Husband: "You sure don't, honey."
Although my Internal Dialogue immediately switched to a neon ticker flashing "bitch," in a way I kind of admired Stick Thin Trophy Wife's courage. It must take a lot of nerve to sit in a room full of hormonal chubby women and complain about the terrible burden of being too skinny. I was a little surprised that nobody 'accidentally' stabbed her in the head with a mixing needle.
Nurse Cheerleader: "Yeeah...you know we all hate you now, right? Ha ha ha. Just kidding! Don't worry, you'll have enough skin to pinch."
For the record, she wasn't kidding.
