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Posts Tagged ‘Galapagos’

…after an uneventful, but deliciously fun trip. No spotting, no cramping, no nothing. In fact, as soon as I got home, I took a HPT, just to make sure I was still, you know, pregnant.

Yep.

And it was a rather baby-oriented trip, as well. Baby sea-lions, to be exact. Nursing “babies” almost as big as their poor, beleaguered mothers; tiny two-day-old pups squalling and whingeing like any newborn; we even got to see a pregnant sea lion near enough to giving birth that the movements of her unborn pup were clear even through her sea-lion blubber. Wow. Very cool stuff. Though it did make me rather nervous about what all the cruise-ship food was doing to my own blubber-stores. Best not to think about that too hard right now, I’m thinking. What’s cute on a sea-lion ought to be cute on me…

Here’s a mama & baby, our guide estimated that baby was only a couple of days old. Oh my.

The 28 hours of traveling to get home – not so cool, but it’s over now, and it’s so good to be home. Even home in New York. My RE’s office is closed (Saturday afternoon), so I’ll likely give a call first thing in the morning to find out when I can come in for an ultrasound & more bloodwork.

I’m looking forward to having my shots administered by a non-motion-sick lover.

I’m really looking forward to being able to spread my medications out in my medicine cabinet again, instead of cramming them all into a tote and worrying that I’m somehow forgetting to take one (or more) of them.

Hope I can get in for an ultrasound tomorrow. Might still be too early, and my doctor is probably not even in tomorrow, but hey – I can dream!

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& Im still pregnant. (Though this keyboard is missing the apostrophe sign, which is making me nuts. So quick post.)

All is well, pregnancy-wise, and all is beyond amazing in the Galapagos. Do whatever you have to – mortage your house, quit your job, but GET to the Galapagos before you die.

Im sleeping like a baby these days, despite the pregesterone hangovers, rocked to sleep by the water. Reminds me of my Sea Shepherd days. Im feeling less stressed than I have in months. This was the right thing to do. I found medevac insurance, so if something does happen, it wont beggar me, but Ive decided nothing will happen. Ill post more when I can.

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Actually, I’m not entirely sure I can adequately describe how upsetting today has been. Which I realize, as I write this, is a shitty way to begin a post on an infertility/ivf blog. So, before I go any further, let me assure you that I’m still pregnant. No miscarriage, no signs of impending miscarriage.

Except my RE called me up at 3 o’clock this afternoon to announce that if I got on the plane as scheduled tomorrow morning, I would be doing it against his professional wishes.

Um, what? Excuse me? Um, what’s going on? Happy doubling times on HCG, remember? I mean, the first doubling was closer to 72 hours than 48, but still, well within expected parameters, and today’s came in at 662 – almost perfectly doubled from 48 hours ago, and well within normal (almost damn near the perfect median as per the beta website I’ve been using – as well as every other website that Dr. Google’s directing me to. I’m not sure why the nurse even said it was a lower level than what they’d hoped to see – it’s pretty much exactly where I (& Dr. Google) expected to see it. I’m still not clear what’s up with that discrepancy. I’m afraid I was not entirely coherent during the entirety of this phone call.

But, when pressed, my RE gave me the standard disclaimer that while he couldn’t tell me what to do, going on a cruise ship far far away from good hospitals was not something he could recommend for me right now. Because I’m in early pregnancy, and because of my age and the IVF, at higher risk of an ectopic pregnancy. If one of my fallopian tubes were to rupture so far from medical help, it could be really, well, um, fatal.

Which sent me into a bit of a panic, actually. See, the thing is, one of my posse in high school got married right after graduation, had a couple of kids while the rest of us were away in college, and, about 7 weeks into her third pregnancy, at age 21, hemorrhaged to death on her own sofa. I know, I know, one in a million, but I knew that one. I knew her.

And on the other hand, realize that this is a trip that’s been planned for over a year. This is as close to a real vacation as the fiance and I have ever been able to take. And it’s to a place I’ve always wanted to visit, but even more important, it’s a chance to – I’ve been hoping – bond a bit with the step-daughters so that, perhaps, the arrival of their imminent youngest sibling won’t be so hard for them to stomach. Not to mention the fact that it’s, um, tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, to be exact.

(And, let me tell you, I’m wondering why my RE couldn’t have given me a bit more warning if he thought this was a possibility – I mean, I told him about these travel plans before we ever started this cycle. I insisted on an early beta because I wanted a few Hcg levels to compare before I left. Where has he been that this is news to him?)

So I spent the afternoon googling like the librarian that I am, pulling up research papers and statistics, and generally trying to figure out what the hell I should do.

The risk of my actions causing a miscarriage is low enough to be acceptable to me. Flying isn’t that big a deal, nor is the food safety an issue on cruise ships. A miscarriage itself, while horrible, is something I’ve endured before. It wouldn’t be fun, but neither would it – probably – be life-threatening. There’s not much I can do to avoid it, save to maintain the restrictions in place (Argh!), in hopes of avoiding any infection due to my artificially depressed immune system. (Damned prednisone.) Miscarriage isn’t really the issue. If it’s going to happen, it’s likely going to happen whether or not I stay or go. I’m very comfortable with that decision.

When I get right down to it, the only thing I actually have control over is where I will be, if my embryo has burrowed into the wrong bit of me, and there is going to be a problem. I can’t control the “if” on this one either – it’s where it should be or it’s not – but I can control the “where”.

My fiance would not be able to stay home with me – I’m not sure I would have let him anyway. But the thing is, I really don’t have anyone else here in the city. His whole extended family is going on this trip, and my family is on the other side of the country. I’ve not been here long enough to have made the kind of friends I’d need in a situation like this. So the choice that I boiled everything down to was: Worst case scenario, would I rather be far from medical help, yet surrounded by people who would make sure I got to help as quickly as possible, or would I rather be alone and risk bleeding to death on my own sofa unless I could stagger to a phone to dial 911?

Simplistic, I know, but that’s sort of what I had to bring it down to. There’s really not a good choice for me here.

There’s also a part of me – a superstitious part, I know – that says, “Live like you intend to go on living.” Meaning, don’t let fear rule your actions. And that same superstitious part says, “Expect things to go well and they will.” And the unspoken vice versa, of course.

So I’m going. To the Galapagos Islands. And I’m going to do my best not to let my fear rule me. Though I will continue to send little prayers to any deity listening that this won’t prove to be a tremendously stupid decision. Wouldn’t be my first, but it’d be a doozie.

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Nothing new here, save that when my boss (who’s also going through IVF) saw me looking green at the hotdog-odor wafting from the Friends of the Library benefit going on downstairs, she immediately said, “Maybe you’re, you know, pregnant” So I told her the news, and she was delighted for me. And started thinking of ways to make my job easier, less-stressful, more high-risk pregnancy-friendly.

Damn, am I ever lucky.

I’m having a rather strong sense of my own luckiness right about now, actually. I won’t be comfy until I’ve passed the 12-week mark. I know my statistics, and I know my track-record. But I’m feeling happy, and this is another damned hurdle, even if I trip over the next one, I’ve passed this one. I can get pregnant. Even with less-than-superstar embryos. So I’m trying to feel mellow and happy and ready for this to be the beginning of a happy ending. Or maybe, the beginning of a happy beginning, would be a more accurate way to phrase that. I’m special-ordering baby-name books, though, and setting up a baby registry on Amazon. Doing normal-pregnant-person stuff, if there is such a thing.

My only feelings of un-luck are centering around the boyfriend/fiance’s reactions to all this. Granted, he’s been through this before with his first wife, and he’s a boy, and his emotions are not the ones driving this need to procreate. He’s doing this for me, a fact of which I am properly appreciative. He’s even doing it with remarkable good grace, given the shock to his everyday life/existing family life that this is going to entail. But while I’m in whiny mode, I have to admit that it’s a bit harder than I’d expected, being the only one who’s truly and viscerally excited beyond words. I wish I could share that with my husband instead of my mother (who actually squealed when I told her. It was the cutest thing.) And, speaking of “husband,” I’m not looking forward to getting married either, which he wants to do once we know this baby is a keeper. Long story, so just suffice it to say that I wasn’t a great wife, the first time around, and I don’t have any burning desire to subject myself (or my family) to the horrifying spectacle of a second wedding. The fact that his three daughters openly regard me as an intruder, even just as the live-in girlfriend, doesn’t help either. Second-wife-with-baby is going to be harder for them to deal with, even I can understand that. But it makes it harder to balance my feelings of mellow joy-to-the-world, knowing I have to keep this a secret indefinitely.

We’re going to the Galapagos next week, and I’m even nervous about flying with my meds. What if they find out because they’re standing too close to me in customs and I have to explain to a doltish agent what all the medical paraphernalia is for?

I know. Here this was going to be a post about how lucky I am and I whine because my trip to the fucking goddamn Galapagos might be a little stressful. What a bitch I can be. I’m going to see marine iguanas and get to spend time on a boat, which I have missed with a passion usually reserved for one’s homeplace, (which, being from the desert, is inexplicable). And I’m going to a place I’ve always wanted to see, and I’m getting to do it with people I love, and people I like, and if I start to develop morning sickness, I can blame it on seasickness instead, which has a certain sneaky appeal to it. So fuck it – I’m giddy with joy and scarcely able to concentrate on anything other than the looming “I’m pregnant!” meme that pops up in my brain at oddly inappropriate moments.

The most bothersome symptom I’ve been having – namely the inability to sleep through the night without getting up to pee – seems to have abated for the time being. Maybe just because I’m not trying to hoard piss in order to test in the morning. Still bloated and feeling a bit too full at all times, but, hey, it’s making it easier not to give in to “I’m eating for two” fantasies at the ice-cream bar.

Speaking of… it’s time for a Star Trek DVD. Some handwork (baby-related, of course), and maybe a smidgeon of ice cream. I’m eating for me and an embryo the size of a poppy seed, after all. A very very hungry poppy seed.

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