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Posts Tagged ‘limbo’

So, um, yeah.

According to Dr. Google, a late period is a very common side effect of long Lupron treatment.  Like 2 or 3 weeks late.  Um, thanks, Clinic, for letting me know that.  Especially after I asked specifically if I should expect a normal or an abnormal period this month.  Sure do appreciate the heads up!

My scheduled days off are now officially a complete cock up.  Won’t do me any good, (other than the fact that days off are always good).  And at least I’ll be nice and more stress-free than is my usual wont.  But I’ll still have to take sick days off the next week for the actual transfer, and I won’t be able to lounge about in a non-adrenalin-rush producing environment during the estimated time of implantation, which was the whole fucking point of taking time off.  

Goddamnit.

Really glad now that I made sure they were checking hCG levels at my scan two weeks ago.  Otherwise I’d be terrified that I’d been poisoning a protosprog with Lupron all this time.  

Ok, you caught me.  I’m still sort of terrified about that, even though I don’t feel even a little teeny tiny bit pregnant.  Of course I don’t feel particularly premenstrual, for that matter.

I’m off to buy the boy a gift for his birthday.  Steak knives.  Sharp ones.  Probably not the best thing to be schlepping around Manhattan in my current state of mind, but there it is.

Goddamnit.

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zilch.

I got nothin’.  

My father, who’s being treated for prostate cancer, has just taken his massive dose of estrogen.  It essentially puts him into a menopause-like state for about six months where his body’s testosterone is overwhelmed (thereby starving the cancer cells).  Pretty nifty treatment, except that the main side effect is that he gets to deal with estrogen-related mood swings, lethargy, etc.  (note to male readers, get your PSA checked regularly.  I don’t care what that latest study posted in the NYT said, my dad’s massively aggressive cancer was detected during a routine PSA test, and he would have been dead these nine years since if not for that test.  *stepping off soapbox now*.)

Anyway, what I was getting at is that when I spoke with him last, he sounded ok, but glum – he hates these hormone treatments.  He said, “It could be worse, I suppose.  At least I don’t bleed.”

Well, yeah.  Me neither.  I’ve got the mood swings and the desire to sit in a dark corner spooning Ben & Jerry’s into my face.  But no bleeding.  

Damnit.

This cycle is already looking like a 32 days cycle.  Anyone want to take bets on a 33 day?  Maybe a 34 day?  Maybe we should just cancel this cycle and start me on BCP now to try to jump start my poor innards.  

Going to go sulk now, like a 15-year-old girl who wants to ‘be a woman just like her friends’, while trying to avoid the B&J freezer today.

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Middle school meeting today, followed by eating out with friends tonight, a concert tomorrow night, a late night on Thursday, and an early morning appointment followed by a meeting across town on Friday.  Blech.  I’m ready for another weekend, I think, and my day has barely begun.

I hate busy weeks, though at least it’s taking my mind off anxiously awaiting FET #1.  And I am looking forward to the appointment on Friday (out of all my engagements for the week, I’m looking forward to an internal wanding and a bruise the size of my hand in the crook of my elbow from the blood draw?  IVF causes brain damage – I just want that on the record…)

Though there is the usual anxiety that I should have made the appointment for earlier – or later.  At the moment, I’m a bit nervous that my cycle’s off this month – it’s day 16, and I think I’m only now ovulating, whereas I usually ovulate on about day 12.  So of course my brain is obsessing over what would happen if I get pregnant on my own this month and taking lupron this weekend causes problems?   I know, I know.  I’ll double check that my Friday bloodwork includes an HCG test – which it probably already does since my clinic tends not to prescribe BCPs before cycles, but still, I’ll doublecheck, because that’s what I do.  And you never know.  Better safe than sorry.  It’d be just my luck to damage a baby by taking fertility drugs.  Or from the glass of wine I had last night.

*snort*

I think my chances of a spontaneous pregnancy at this point are somewhat akin to winning the lottery.

(Which, I didn’t, by the way.  Despite obviously deserving it.  Stupid lottery.)

Seriously, though, I just want to get going on this last try, so we can try something new (plan D-is-for-donor-egg!) if need be.  At least there are lots of women selling their eggs these days, so I’m not likely to have to wait too long.  And I should have more options than if I’d tried this when the economy was good.  Silver lining!

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only 4 days to go

And I am officially anxious. If this FET doesn’t take, I’m going to have to really wonder if my uterus wasn’t damaged by the miscarriage & subsequent misdiagnosis by Dr. Bigshot that led to me carrying dead matter inside me for far too long. I know my doctor is worried about it, too, since my lining hasn’t been up to par since this summer’s excitement. There is a reason (besides his crappy German bedside manner) that I hate Dr. Bigshot, and a reason this clinic indulges me in that hatred & tries to keep us apart. God help me if it turns out that our ‘unexplained infertility, most likely male-factor’ has turned into ‘her uterus really is the womb of death’. What if I can’t carry a donor-egg-embryo, either? Oh god.

Ahem. Stepping away from panic stations now. I’m trying really hard to keep my emotions in slightly closer check than I have for the last year or so. It’s the main reason I want to be out of my stressful work environment for the week after transfer – I get all adrenalin-rushy when I’m angry, and I’m thinking that can’t make for a yummy hormonal soup for proto-sprog to decide to stick around for more of. I mean, if I were an embryo and I was suddenly bathed in fight-or-flight chemicals, I’d probably decide that this wasn’t the best place to hang out, and figure that maybe if I moved on down the road, there’d be a more hospitable place to stay. Surely?

So I’m trying to be calmer and a bit more willing to let stuff wash over me, instead of allowing it to get me all worked up. Easier said than done, but I am trying.

But it’s still scary. I worry sometimes that I have made the wanting of a child more important than the actual desire to raise a child.  That I have invested so much in this stage of my life that if when I do get a child of my own, it will be a let-down, anti-climatic.  “You mean this is what I was so keen to have for my own?  I don’t want it!  I take it back!”  I mean, what if I want this so much simply because I’ve been told that I cannot have it?  I can be contrary like that, I know.  

All of which is just my way of saying that I am trying not to overstress, to accept what I’m being handed, and to try to make the best of it.  

Hah.  That’s going about as well as you’d expect.  

But I am trying not to behave as if another failed IVF (or in this case, my first and only FET) will be the end of the world.  I am trying to decide, if we have to go with a donor egg cycle, whether it makes sense to stay where we are, or – since we’re paying cash anyway – to go to a top-tier clinic where I don’t loathe one of the doctors and love the other one.  I am trying to decide how much more patience my dear husband will have with this quest for sprog; it’s not as critical for him – he’s already a papa to three young women.  He has a family, he is doing this for me, and while I appreciate that, it worries me that I am asking too much of him, as this drags on and on.  I am trying not to worry about the fact that even if I conceive during this FET cycle, I’ll be 40 when the baby is born.  Hell, I remember clearly when my youngest aunt was 40, and boy, was she old.  Who the hell do I think I am, burdening a child with my old self as a parent?  I am trying not to worry about what I will do if it does not work.  If everything we try does not work.  If I am one of the unlucky few who simply cannot be assisted, reproductively, then what?  What if we never get to adopt a newborn?  Then what?  

I don’t have a plan B.  (Or, rather a plan F.  Plan B was 3 IVFs.  Plan C is the FET.  Plan D is donor egg.  Plan E is adoption.   Plan F is ???)  I don’t know where my life goes after that, and it’s worrisome.  Very worrisome.  

I have a saguaro cactus in a pot that I have raised from a seed and that was the only plant I carried cross-country when I left Utah.  It’s about 7 years old now, and nearly 4 inches tall.  That’s off the charts for a baby saguaro; because although they can grow to over 40 feet, it typically takes a hundred years for them to get there.  It hasn’t grown much in the three years I’ve lived in New York, but neither has it died.  It’s sort of in a holding pattern.  

As far as I can determine, it’s waiting to see if the sun will come out again, or if this is truly its life now, in which case it might never grow to be more than 6 or 7 inches.  It won’t give up and die, because even being a stunted, 5-inch-tall saguaro is better than not being a saguaro, but it is waiting to see if things will get better, if conditions will change that would allow it to reach its potential.  It’s waiting.

I know just how it feels.

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I got nothin’

Nothin’ to report on, nothin’ to obsess over. Only 5 days to go before I hop back on the Lupron-mobile of fun, but it’s hard to get too excited about that. I seem to be past the worst of the caffeine-withdrawal headaches, which makes me happy (and less inclined to go have an affair with a fella named Joe who comes in a cup. [damn, that sounds like the punchline of a really dirty joke. Or a joke about IVF, actually…])

Dogpark day today, and there will be much eating of posole, because I made a lot, and it’s wonderful. And I have to go to buy some kitchen stuff . And the boy has requested a cardigan for his birthday, though I have no idea where I’ll find a cardigan in March. It’s bikini season in the stores right now…

So a busy day, which is ok, since I don’t have to go to work tomorrow – woohoo! Of course, it is really starting to sound like there’s a good chance I’ll be laid off this spring, so I might be getting more time off than I really want, very very soon…

And sometime today, everyone should head over to say hi to Lisa at Sticks & Stims, and Mo & Will at Life & Love… and wish them a happy retrieval tomorrow. They’ve been through more than anyone I know on this stupid funhouse ride called infertility, and they deserve a break. Here’s hoping that this is The One for all of us!

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One week to go…

And this makes me happy.  This headache that won’t go away makes me less-happy. I’m sure it’s just my body punishing me for taking away coffee & zebra cakes on the same day, but a headache that lasts through a full night’s sleep is just wrong.

Nellie obviously agreed with me since she took me home after a mere two-block-walk.  Either that, or she wanted to make sure she wasn’t missing out on toast.  She has befriended all the construction workers who’ve been re-doing the house next door, so it could have been just that she wanted twice the attention.  Any time she can get 5 men at a time petting her and telling her what a wonderful dog she is, she’s a happy whippet.  Little flirt.  

In other news, I’m still “thick and unfit”, but the snow has melted so dog-jogging can commence tomorrow (late) morning.  A three day weekend coming up, for which I am appropriately grateful.  Now I just have to get through today.

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And I’m looking forward to the crazy, because crazy is a necessary component of baby-making.  Or so I’ve been told.  

I’ve decided to lose the caffeine early this time.  Like right now.  ARGH!  I’ve also decided to be more careful about rare meats, fish, cheese, etc., once we’ve done the transfer.  Simply because I should, not necessarily because I think anything I did had anything to do with anything that’s happened in the last year.

The last 5 pounds to get my back to my pre-IVF weight is proving harder to lose than the first 5.  Grrr.  Austerity measures begin today.  It’s yogurt for breakfast, yogurt for lunch and absolutely no LittleDebbie Zebra Cakes in the afternoon.  *sniff*  (Yes, I know they’re made of plastic.  I know that they’re like twinkies and will still be edible thirty-thousand years after a nuclear holocaust, and that therefore, they’re not really food.  I know it’s contradictory and weird that I buy organic veggies, hormone-free meat, and local-everything, and still give in to a zebra-cake craving most days at 3.  But I LIKE them.  They taste like childhood.  Um, well, that & sugar.  Lots of sugar.  Why any proto-sprog would want to live in a zebra-cake-free world is beyond me, but I will be strong.  No more zebra cakes which might contaminate the womb of death.  Sniff.)

I’m not giving up my daily cadbury egg, though.  I’m not!  

And on that note of self-indulgence, I’m off to work.  Where I promise to resist the lure of zebra cakes.  

Mmmmm.  Zebra cakes…

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