…and we’re still holding out at least another day before triggering.
Dr. Bigshot was my doctor. Again. And he was 2 hours late. Again. Ask me how much I care about his presentation. Answer: Not even a little tiny bit.
He wouldn’t tell me how many follicles he was looking at, though there were certainly more visible than last time. By listening to his murmurred words to the nurse as he measured a few of them, I could hear that they weren’t growing quickly. The largest – I think – was right around 17mm, though there seem to be many more that were smaller. This doesn’t seem to bode well for my chances of a successful retrieval, and he – of course – couldn’t be bothered to tell me what his thoughts are. “Is fine, is fine.” Well, last time Dr. Bigshot assured me that “is fine,” my poor, failing-to-thrive embryo died in utero. A possibility that I might have been warned about – or at least prepared myself for, had I been given better info on size, heartbeat rate, etc. – beforehand. If I haven’t made myself clear yet, let me just say that I have no confidence in this doctor.
And, unforuntately, he seems to be my new doctor at this clinic.
(okay, deep breath.) What I do know is this: I’ll be triggering either Thursday night or Friday night, for a Saturday or Sunday retrieval. If I trigger tomorrow, I’ll be learning to give myself the IM shot on the fly. Damnit. Though at least the boy will be around this weekend to pick me up and to do his manly duty in providing a fresh specimin, so we won’t have to rely on the frozen swimmers still in storage. That’s a good thing.
I should count my blessings, but this delay is also causing major problems with my insurance coverage for meds. I will be out of Bravelle tomorrow morning, but my insurance only covers 3 “doses” of IVF meds and this is my second IVF. So, rather than order the 10 vials or so that would see me through the end of this cycle, I’ll be getting a special rush order of the full 100 or so. And if we go through a donor next time, I’ll just have to hope she’s prescribed Bravelle, or I’ll be paying for it out of pocket since my doctor didn’t prescribe anything as a backup, in case my low-responderness caused me to respond slowly. Which it did.
I am so frustrated, feeling so out of the loop of this whole reproduction thing. I work in a library. With children. And parents. And I get so bitter with all these women mindlessly reproducing, having more kids than they’re equipped for, more kids than they want. And all I want, everything I’m aiming for in my life isn’t enough to bring it about even with all the medical intervention in the world. I think I’ll always – even if this does, eventually, work – carry around a little seed of bitterness toward all those women who are able to conceive by simply, you know, fucking the man they love. I am tired of my whole life being contained in a several-inches-thick folder detailing exactly how physically unfit to be a mother I apparently am. I am tired of being “the lady with the veins” or “ah yes, you are a low responder” or – my favorite – “this is simply a case of prematurely aging ovaries.”
Why thank you, yes, that’s me. I am my disfunctional reproductive system.
And I’m tired of this clinic treating us all as if our time – all 15-odd women who were waiting for Dr. Bigshot this morning – was not nearly as valuable as his. I’m tired of explaining to blood-techs that even though the vein in my right elbow looks good, it’s actually scarred and mutilated from the last 6 months of blood draws and will hurt like hell if they insist – no really. Really! Ouch! Goddamnit that hurts! And it’s going to bruise like a son-of-a-bitch. Yes, next time I’ll tell you. Again. And you’ll ignore me. Again.
Tired of everything hurting and being so hard. Tired of all of this. Just tired.
Whiny, too. – in case you hadn’t noticed.