Posts Tagged ‘meds’

“Best embryos of the day,” according to my doctor.  

2 8-celled grade A’s and a lower grade 4-celled little fella.  I am the proud incubator of grade A embryos.  I am in shock.  

My embryos have never even been up to average, so having high grade 8-celled embryos makes me feel that at least the DHEA grief has been worth it.  Also, while he was tooling around with the ultrasound, he commented on the number of follicles still going in there.  I suspect if I wasn’t such a crappy responder, the DHEA might have boosted my numbers as well as the quality of the little guys.  For some reason, it’s quite reassuring to know that I’m not one of the unlucky ones this trial med. doesn’t work for.  It seems to work so far, at least.  

He also mentioned that my uterus was looking fabulous, given what it went through this summer.  (Actually, he said “beautiful”, but I – and I presume, my uterus – would much rather be fabulous than beautiful.  Wouldn’t you?)

And so we transferred the two grade A 8-celled proto-sprogs, as well as the poorer quality 4-celled little guy.  We wouldn’t have tried to transfer more even if we’d gotten a whole chicken-farm’s worth of eggs, so I’m feeling pleased, all in all.  

And I only have to shoot up with the Lovenox once a day, though my prednisone has been upped to 2ce a day.  Grrr.

And my Beta test is scheduled for December 3, though, if prior experience holds, I’ll know well (or at least really strongly suspect) before that.  

And it’s a day to make stew and lounge about the house, guilt-free.  TIme for some kitchen zen to work off some of this happy energy!

And I’m going to go make the most of that.


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No news

In this case, I am assuming it’s good news.  My doctor was going to call if anything changed today, so I’m going to assume that all 4 little proto-sprogs are still alive.

First PIO shot tonight, and I started the pessaries last night.  Blech.  However, today also began my “pineapple for breakfast” week, so that’s a good thing.  And this is my last day on the massive dose of prednisone.  Which is good.  I’m feeling bloated enough as it is.  Almost all the post-retrieval crampiness/kidney soreness is mostly gone, just a bit in the morning that goes away once I’m up and in the shower. 

And I took an HPT this morning so I can track the trigger shot leaving my system.  I did that last time so I could verify when I was back to zero according to the internet-cheap tests.  That way, I can start obsessively testing in another 10 days or so without worrying that I’m reading the trigger shot.  It’s still a faint positive, so I’ll test again in another 3 days or so just to make sure it’s gone before it – I hope – goes up again.

And thank you to everyone who’s been commenting.  It makes me feel not nearly so alone, and not nearly so hopeless. 

New mantra:

It only takes one.
It only takes one.
It only takes one.

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…though that’s not saying a whole lot.

Wow anesthesia knocks me for a loop!  Even when I get out from under it and I could swear that I’m functioning just fine, thank you very much, it’s pretty obvious, afterwards, that I was nowhere near “fine” for many many hours later.

Looped out of my gourd, more like.

Quite crampy tonight.  I napped most of the day, and the dog napped with (read: “on top of”) me.  Which could have something to do with the loginess.  Also could have something to do with the damned prednisone.  This shit kicks my ass.  

It looks like Wednesday will be my transfer day, and I’m planning on taking the day off work.  Tomorrow, which I also have off work, I should hear from the nurse regarding fertilization numbers, and I’m hoping that everything went ok.  Damn, this is all so nervewracking!  I keep telling myself that I’m not getting my hopes up, because this is probably a crap cycle and I’ve sort of suspected that from the beginning.  But then I remember that the last time I didn’t have my hopes up, & I was so wonderfully and totally surprised, and how nice that was, and how much I’d like it to happen again.

And then I try to shut it down and think of making a pie or something.  Something that I have some control over, anyway.

Not much else here.  I’ve started one of the pessaries (blech) that my doctor prescribes.  Ah well, it was a nice month of so of not leaking from any orifice.  The other prescription will start up after transfer.  PIO will begin on Tuesday, and Lovenox on Wednesday.  Tuesday will also see the last of the massive pred. doses, and Wednesday will be my last antibiotic.  I’m a walking cesspool of chemicals at the moment.

But I am 6 eggs lighter than I was 24 hours ago, so that’s got to be a good thing.

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Holy Bravelle, Batman

What a complete and utter clusterfuck.

Quick recap:  When I arrived this morning, I found no medicine waiting for me.  When I called to find out what had happened, I learned that either my clinic didn’t get the info to the mail order pharmacy, or the mail order pharmacy screwed up.

1:00pm:  I contacted my clinic, and the nurse promised to deal directly with the manager of the pharmacy to make it work. 

2:00pm:  I got a call from the pharmacy asking how many vials I needed before noon tomorrow (8). 

3:00pm:  A plan was made for the local pharmacy to send the Bravelle via courier to my work address.   Sounds good, right?  I thought so.  Yay for New York City! 


5:00pm:  I called and asked nicely, ‘so what’s up, where are my drugs?’ and learned that they wrote down the wrong address, and the operator was so pleased that I had called so that they could get my prescription right out to me. 

5:30pm: nothing.

6:00pm: nothing.

6:30pm: I called. 
“Where the hell are my drugs?”
“hmmm.  what is your phone number?”
I told her.
“No, that’s not the number I have.”
“You mean you wrote down both the wrong address and the wrong phone number? Do you know what drugs I need? Not feeling confident here.”
“We’ll have those to you within the hour.”

7:00pm:  Nothing.

7:30pm: A dazed-looking courier comes in carrying a big bag. “Is there a Sprogblogger here to sign for these?”

7:31pm: (*Sprogblogger’s head explodes*)

7:40pm: I have my drugs. I’m still shaking. I hate this.

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So I got to work and immediately started looking for my box of meds that should have been delivered this morning.


I ate lunch, and jumped every time the bell rang but it was never anyone except a bunch of people wanting to come into the library before we’re open.  So I called the pharmacy.  I was pleasant and professional.  I used my librarian voice.  “Just calling to confirm that my meds were shipped out overnight & should be arriving today!” 

Silence on the other end of the line.

Turns out they never received any Rx from my doctor yesterday.   So I called the clinic, insisted on speaking with the nurse right away.  Used the word “emergency”.  She, of course, insisted that she did call in the meds yesterday and said she was going to have a talk with the pharmacy.

Yeah, that’s fine, but meanwhile, I’m without my meds for tonight.  So I made arrangements to go into Manhattan to a fertility pharmacy this afternoon, in between shifts on the reference desk.  Today’s also miserably rainy, and the subways have been on the fritz.  Several co-workers were late, due to subway messes, so it wasn’t going to be a quick trip, regardless.  Sort of a three hour lunch, which I’ll pay for in my check.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the nurse apparently did make a pissed-off phone call to the pharmacy, because I got a call almost right away from them saying that they’d located the vials I needed for this evening and tomorrow morning in a Brooklyn pharmacy, and they’d have them delivered to my workplace in Queens this afternoon.  As well as the buttload of stuff that they’d deliver tomorrow for IVF #3.  For insurance reasons it made more sense to just order the shit and worry later if I don’t need to use it.


The above was a sigh of relief – it looks like the meds emergency really has been handled (three cheers for living in NYC where oddball pharmacies stock Bravelle, and where courier-delivery of prescription meds is sort of the norm) – as well as a sigh of sadness.  I would really really like for this to be the last time I have to deal with infertility medications.  It’s feeling less & less likely, but it’s a sincere wish.  I wish I could be thinking of how best to raffle off fertility meds in another 9 months, as I dandle Sprog on one knee and try to clear out my medicine chest for important things like diaper rash cream and bandaids decorated with superheroes.

But in the meantime, I’m going to just concentrate on being grateful that my clinic came through after their(?) screw-up.  I have an appointment in the morning, and I’m desperately hoping we’re a go for triggering tomorrow night.  I’m starting to get very physically uncomfortable.  Here’s hoping for a Sunday retrieval!

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Got a call from the clinic to give me my estradiol numbers – 932 – and to tell me not to bother to come in tomorrow morning, but wait til Friday morning.

Shit.  This is not looking good.

Didn’t hear from the stupid mail-order company today, so I don’t know if anything went through.  Don’t know if I’ll be begging to take more time off work to go try to scavenge another few doses of Bravelle.

Going to sleep now.  Very pissy.  Very frustrated.

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…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.

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