Several days after the IUI, my husband discovered that someone in billing from Doctor Superman's office left me a message on our home phone (the phone we never answer) regarding some pesky billing matter. After some delightful phone tag, "Venetia" left me a message that the procedure I had done was not "certified" and I needed "pre-certification" and my insurance company was unlikely to retroactively certify the procedure. She instructed me to call my insurance company to straighten things out or at least have the policy explained to me. Ever the dutiful patient, I called and was told that no, the procedure was not covered and that yes, I needed it to be pre-certified, and no, they wouldn't do it retroactively. My blood began to boil. "I AM NOT PAYING FOR THIS. YOU ARE", I screamed. The person on the phone quickly said, "I'm going to send you to super-special immediate assistance department." After that got me nowhere, they sent me to the fertility billing department to get me pre-certified for any other procedures "for the future." Apparently for the "fertility benefit" I have to have everything pre-certified. So the woman there asked, "What is your infertility diagnosis?" When I said that I didn't know what the hell she meant, because they don't know why I'm having problems, she said, "Well, what has your doctor diagnosed you with? They are supposed to give you a bunch of tests and determine the cause of your infertility." Oh, really? And what if they can't determine what it is? Like that's ever happened. I said, "it's idiopathic." Dead air. Then I said, "I'm a recurrent miscarrier." She was feverishly excited with that one, "I'm going to get the bonus of the year! Denied!" "The ability to achieve pregnancy, whether carried to term or not, is not defined as infertility. You are not eligible for the infertility benefit." So I said, just for the hell of it, "High FSH! Diminished ovarian reserve! Blocked tubes! Endometriosis! PCOS!" She ignored me. Then I said, "So, I've been trying to have a baby for THREE YEARS and I don't have one, NOT EVEN ONE but I'm not considered infertile because I've been able to achieve pregnancy in the past?" That's great, right? The REALLY FUNNY thing? It turns out that the IUI is covered under my general benefit and that the billing person mistakenly thought that I did an IVF cycle and apparently, that's what she tried to bill for. It wasn't an altogether fruitless call, I did learn that if I am ever recommended IVF it's likely going to have to be paid for out of pocket. And New York has mandatory IVF coverage. Wonderful.
Still spotting? Yes. Being driven mad? Quite. "P" word or not? I can't bare to face it.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Curses.
It's been one week since the IUI. And I'm bleeding. Ever so slightly. And crampy. Ever so slightly. I've heard of the mysterious "implantation bleeding" but thought it was the result of tall tales and wishful thinking. Or at the very least, in all of those four times I've held a positive pregnancy test in my hands, I never had implantation bleeding or any bleeding for that matter, beforehand. I am, however, on the heparin, so who knows? I read that cramping should not accompany implantation bleeding. So, this may not be looking good.
Curses. What now?
One more week.
Curses. What now?
One more week.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
On Pins and Needles
I went in to see Dr. Superman at 7:30 AM on Thursday. His kindly nurse scheduled me right before his day o'surgeries so that I could miss barely a minute (more like 45) of work. Follicles were at 15 mm, 18 mm and 20 mm. I had my HCG shot in my rear (thankful for once for my barely exercised booty as of late - did not hurt at all) and was scheduled for the IUI the following morning. I was more worried about the whole collection process for the husband than for the IUI. We got there at the crack of dawn and I started to follow him into the "collection room" - but was stopped because "that is not allowed." Feeling like I was trying to solicit a crack whore in a back alley, I made my way back to the waiting area. The husband emerged not fifteen minutes later ("Wow! That was fast!") and we were off to find some coffee to wait out the dish washing, the drip/dry, the holy water sprinkling of the sperm. When we returned, as I was tired and not following directions well, madam collector handed the husband the vial of pink solution (it's a preservative! We wondered at first if it was all girl sperm) and was told to hold it upright. And not to toot my husband's horn, so to speak, but the boys were apparently champion swimmers and were more amazing then any sperm they've ever seen - OK, that bit is made up. Although they did report excellent motility and extremely high numbers, etc., etc. The procedure itself was fairly fast, if not slightly uncomfortable and there was a lot of, "just relax, relax your buttocks" because I am not exactly known for my zen-like qualities, "I'm a cat! I'm a lazy cat laying around next to a fireplace. I'm, I'm - no, not working." The husband held my hand - which was nice and then I laid there for fifteen minutes - which was also nice and made me think of those napping houses in Japan and what a great idea that is. Afterwards, the Nurse Practitioner who performed the procedure, discussed the progesterone that I would need to start on Sunday. I mentioned the heparin. She looked at me like I had two heads but said she'd consult with Dr. Superman and call me later that day. She did, called it into the pharmacy and I was left with some on-line teaching tool to find out how the hell I was supposed to give myself a shot.
When I was five years old, I went in for my vaccinations. Shots were something that I hated. I loathed. I dreaded. I know, no one likes shots, but I brought it to new psychotic levels - when I was really little, they used to have to restrain me. My mother would bribe me with a McDonald's strawberry milkshake to get me to go. And sadly, apparently this worked.
On that particular day, the doctor told me that I didn't have to get another round of vaccinations until I was twelve. This was supposed to be some sort of saving grace. It wasn't.
Upon my twelfth birthday, my aunt asked me if I was excited about turning twelve. I looked her square in the eye and said, "No. I am not. I have to be vaccinated this year." My mother was of course, shocked. No one had mentioned the vaccinations in the last seven years, and of course, she herself had forgotten all about that conversation all those years ago. What she also didn't know was that upon each subsequent birthday from the ripe old age of five onward, I would let out a slow exhale of relief that this was not the year that I would have to get a new round of vaccinations.
So, it is not without some irony that I am begging to have a self-administered shot of a drug that burns, not once, but twice a day. A drug that may or may not do anything for me. A drug that I am administering prior to a positive pregnancy test.
The NP seemed fairly dubious about the whole operation and lectured me for quite sometime about the dangers of heparin. I thanked her kindly, watched the video, made my husband watch it, and then proceeded to have a freak out. The needle, however, was the size of an angel's wisp of hair and went in easily. I pushed the med in, withdrew the needle and put ice on it, immediately. And then it burned for several minutes. Since then, the burning is non-existent or only ever so slight. Last night I had to crawl over several people, including my unwitting friends, to administer the drug in a movie theater bathroom. I watched the rest of the flick with an ice pack stuck down my pants.
So, we'll see. And, here again, like a song that you can't get of your head, here begins the two week wait (you know what I mean, you used to like the song, but now it's annoying that it's stuck in your head like that and it won't leave you, even for a minute).
POSTSCRIPT:
In order to minimize the pain, ice may be recommended at the injection site before the heparin is administered. But I'm no medical expert, so take what I say with a grain of salt. Here are two interesting sites that I read (for entertainment purposes only): How to Administer Heparin Injections and Do's & Dont's.
When I was five years old, I went in for my vaccinations. Shots were something that I hated. I loathed. I dreaded. I know, no one likes shots, but I brought it to new psychotic levels - when I was really little, they used to have to restrain me. My mother would bribe me with a McDonald's strawberry milkshake to get me to go. And sadly, apparently this worked.
On that particular day, the doctor told me that I didn't have to get another round of vaccinations until I was twelve. This was supposed to be some sort of saving grace. It wasn't.
Upon my twelfth birthday, my aunt asked me if I was excited about turning twelve. I looked her square in the eye and said, "No. I am not. I have to be vaccinated this year." My mother was of course, shocked. No one had mentioned the vaccinations in the last seven years, and of course, she herself had forgotten all about that conversation all those years ago. What she also didn't know was that upon each subsequent birthday from the ripe old age of five onward, I would let out a slow exhale of relief that this was not the year that I would have to get a new round of vaccinations.
So, it is not without some irony that I am begging to have a self-administered shot of a drug that burns, not once, but twice a day. A drug that may or may not do anything for me. A drug that I am administering prior to a positive pregnancy test.
The NP seemed fairly dubious about the whole operation and lectured me for quite sometime about the dangers of heparin. I thanked her kindly, watched the video, made my husband watch it, and then proceeded to have a freak out. The needle, however, was the size of an angel's wisp of hair and went in easily. I pushed the med in, withdrew the needle and put ice on it, immediately. And then it burned for several minutes. Since then, the burning is non-existent or only ever so slight. Last night I had to crawl over several people, including my unwitting friends, to administer the drug in a movie theater bathroom. I watched the rest of the flick with an ice pack stuck down my pants.
So, we'll see. And, here again, like a song that you can't get of your head, here begins the two week wait (you know what I mean, you used to like the song, but now it's annoying that it's stuck in your head like that and it won't leave you, even for a minute).
POSTSCRIPT:
In order to minimize the pain, ice may be recommended at the injection site before the heparin is administered. But I'm no medical expert, so take what I say with a grain of salt. Here are two interesting sites that I read (for entertainment purposes only): How to Administer Heparin Injections and Do's & Dont's.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Magical Thinking
"Magical thinking can occur when one simply does not understand possible causes, as illustrated by Sir Arthur C. Clarke's suggestion that 'any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic' but can also occur in response to situations that are largely random or chaotic, such as a coin toss, as well as in situations that one has little or no control over, especially those one is emotionally invested in."
When I was, maybe nine or ten, my grandmother was dying. She wasn't really that old and it shook the entire family. As she lay in her hospital bed, I began wearing a macaroni necklace. I told myself, as long as I remembered to wear it, she wouldn't die. One day I forgot to slip it on. That day, she died.
Since miscarrying multiple times, I find myself doing similar things. I tell myself that if I don't start thinking more positively, I will, essentially, will the worst to happen. If I don't constantly visualize myself with a full, pregnant belly, I'll never have one. If I don't clean my house and go all feng shui on it, the universe won't hear my call. Frankly, it's exhausting. I don't exactly know how to get my head around it - that I really don't control whether or not this will all work out by my own thoughts, positive attitude or not, but I need to let go a little. The fact is, I don't really have control over whether or not I miscarry - much as I seem to believe otherwise.
I'm also keeping this whole IUI business on the down low. I can't really bear to hear my sister, mother, friends do the whole, "OH! I just know it's going to work out for you this time." I can't take it. I know that's odd, I suppose, but I just eye them and think, "You really don't know what the hell you are talking about." I can't handle the enthusiasm because I'm trying to keep myself from getting too carried away - because if I get carried away and it doesn't work out, it's all the more crushing. Then again, I find myself getting a little excited with each new cycle - because it really could all work out. Yep, I'm a flip flopper.
And now onto the minutia of my cycle Day 10 appointment: lining is at 7.5 mm, three follicles, 11 mm, 15mm and 16 mm. Last time I was on Clomid, I had one follicle and it was barely at 15 mm. Dr. Superman seemed pleased. We're marching onto "collection time"wherein the husband gets to get romantic with a cup. Splendid.
When I was, maybe nine or ten, my grandmother was dying. She wasn't really that old and it shook the entire family. As she lay in her hospital bed, I began wearing a macaroni necklace. I told myself, as long as I remembered to wear it, she wouldn't die. One day I forgot to slip it on. That day, she died.
Since miscarrying multiple times, I find myself doing similar things. I tell myself that if I don't start thinking more positively, I will, essentially, will the worst to happen. If I don't constantly visualize myself with a full, pregnant belly, I'll never have one. If I don't clean my house and go all feng shui on it, the universe won't hear my call. Frankly, it's exhausting. I don't exactly know how to get my head around it - that I really don't control whether or not this will all work out by my own thoughts, positive attitude or not, but I need to let go a little. The fact is, I don't really have control over whether or not I miscarry - much as I seem to believe otherwise.
I'm also keeping this whole IUI business on the down low. I can't really bear to hear my sister, mother, friends do the whole, "OH! I just know it's going to work out for you this time." I can't take it. I know that's odd, I suppose, but I just eye them and think, "You really don't know what the hell you are talking about." I can't handle the enthusiasm because I'm trying to keep myself from getting too carried away - because if I get carried away and it doesn't work out, it's all the more crushing. Then again, I find myself getting a little excited with each new cycle - because it really could all work out. Yep, I'm a flip flopper.
And now onto the minutia of my cycle Day 10 appointment: lining is at 7.5 mm, three follicles, 11 mm, 15mm and 16 mm. Last time I was on Clomid, I had one follicle and it was barely at 15 mm. Dr. Superman seemed pleased. We're marching onto "collection time"wherein the husband gets to get romantic with a cup. Splendid.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Polar Bears and Midnight Runs
I spent a lovely New Year's running through Central Park at midnight. There were a few teary moments as I thought about what a year it's been and contemplated where we might be at this time next year. Closer? There? In flying cars? You never know what the future may hold. It was a tad surreal to be running through the Park after midnight, thinking about such things as a Scarecrow and a tiny Dorothy are running next to you - and up ahead an M & M is having trouble with his shoe. Today the husband and I trekked out to Coney Island for the Polar Bear Club's Dip. I wasn't brave enough to do it - but the husband found it completely invigorating and it was fantastic to be a spectator. The boardwalk was filled with people, young, old, costumed, tiny skivvies and all. According to the founder, Bernarr Macfadden, "a dip in the ocean during the winter can be a boon to one's stamina, virility and immunity." HERE'S TO THAT! It was a great time. Hope you and yours had a lovely, lovely, fantastic celebration.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Happy New Year!
We had our appointment with our RE on Friday morning. In a nutshell, we’ll be doing the IUI this month (as in January) and I’ll be starting Clomid likely around the 4th. I can always tell when my period is nearing - I gain weight and am crabby and emotional. So, yep, it’s likely approaching. I’m not thrilled about the Clomid - I was miserably bloated the last time. Any known remedies for terrible Clomid bloat out there?
My father is visiting and he’s been sick. Having my sick father wedged into my tiny apartment hasn’t been easy. He’s kind of a loan wolf - it’s likely cramping his style. Also, I think as we approach the IUI I'm becoming more and more stressed out. It’s difficult to leap into the fire. I’m afraid that the IUI won’t work and I am afraid that it will work and then I'll miscarry yet again. I’m trying to rest on the idea that we are still looking into adoption, no matter what happens. AND I'm trying, desperately, trying to THINK POSITIVE. Ugh.
I couldn't resist reprinting some festive New Year's quotes:
"The proper behavior all through the holiday season is to be drunk. This drunkenness culminates on New Year's Eve, when you get so drunk you kiss the person you're married to."
- P.J. O'Rourke.
"The only way to spend New Year's Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel. Otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off, someone is bound to be left in tears."
--W.H. Auden
"New Year's eve is like every other night; there is no pause in the march of the universe, no breathless moment of silence among created things that the passage of another twelve months may be noted; and yet no man has quite the same thoughts this evening that come with the coming of darkness on other nights."
--Hamilton Wright Mabie
Have a wonderful New Year and may it be filled with happiness and light.
My father is visiting and he’s been sick. Having my sick father wedged into my tiny apartment hasn’t been easy. He’s kind of a loan wolf - it’s likely cramping his style. Also, I think as we approach the IUI I'm becoming more and more stressed out. It’s difficult to leap into the fire. I’m afraid that the IUI won’t work and I am afraid that it will work and then I'll miscarry yet again. I’m trying to rest on the idea that we are still looking into adoption, no matter what happens. AND I'm trying, desperately, trying to THINK POSITIVE. Ugh.
I couldn't resist reprinting some festive New Year's quotes:
"The proper behavior all through the holiday season is to be drunk. This drunkenness culminates on New Year's Eve, when you get so drunk you kiss the person you're married to."
- P.J. O'Rourke.
"The only way to spend New Year's Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel. Otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off, someone is bound to be left in tears."
--W.H. Auden
"New Year's eve is like every other night; there is no pause in the march of the universe, no breathless moment of silence among created things that the passage of another twelve months may be noted; and yet no man has quite the same thoughts this evening that come with the coming of darkness on other nights."
--Hamilton Wright Mabie
Have a wonderful New Year and may it be filled with happiness and light.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Egg Nog, Christmas Cookies and Injectible Anticoagulants!
As the time nears when we may start trying again (and if this is confusing to you : Adoption? Yes. Trying again? Yes. Just think of my husband), I’ve been obsessively searching for data on those who have the MTHFR A1298C gene mutation, used heparin and had a successful pregnancy. What I found, mostly, were people who will be using it the next time. Of special note, however, were several people who began heparin therapy at cycle day 6 or at ovulation. Last time I met with Doctor Superman, he checked the incision sites and we discussed IUI versus naturally trying to get pregnant. He mentioned using progesterone the minute I get a positive pregnancy test but didn't specifically mention heparin. So, I said, "And heparin? Right, you’ll be using heparin?" He said yes, I could start heparin at the time of a positive pregnancy test. It seemed as though he was advocating for us to try naturally at first - and the husband and I discussed this and it seemed like a fine plan.
However, as I continued to read the message boards where most if not all were starting heparin before a positive pregnancy test I began to panic. I told the husband about the whole "cycle day 6" business and he suggested that I call Doctor Superman. But I just couldn’t. There were so many times during discussions with Doctor Wonderful (previous RE) where he seemed to dismiss everything that I said, that I just couldn’t muster the energy to go there again. I feel like I’ve been screaming since day one, "Something is wrong with me! This is just going to keep happening until someone figures it out!" And it has always fallen on deaf ears. All I heard, time and time again, from my OB/GYN, RE and everyone else, were the statistics regarding miscarriage were in my favor, that it’s a common occurrence and most women go on to have a healthy, normal pregnancy the next time around. I was still, unbelievably, told this after the fourth miscarriage. Doctor Wonderful’s (that name was always used with a touch of irony, by the way) mantra seemed to be, "Keep trying, eventually it will work out." It’s difficult, as a four time loser to sit back and think "everything will work out." I don’t necessarily believe that heparin is the magic bullet either - but I’d like to try everything. I mean, what the hell do I have to lose?
In the end, my lovely husband took it upon himself to call Doctor Superman and Doctor Superman discussed the three different "points of entry" for the use of heparin during pregnancy: 1) from the beginning of your cycle, 2) at ovulation and 3) at a positive pregnancy test. Doctor Superman doesn’t really see the point of starting heparin at the first day of your cycle and he wasn’t really sure why anyone would do "cycle day 6" but he was willing to start heparin at ovulation. It’s incredible, in a way, to me, oh, girl-with-the-needle-phobia that I am pushing for the use of heparin - but again, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result seems akin to insanity. I suppose, however, if there were chromosomal problems in several of the pregnancies, and I was told there was only say, a 20% chance or even a 50% chance of the chromosomal problem occurring again, I may continue trying (that is, of course, until it continued to not work out (how many times? who knows) and then I would insist on IVF with PGD). But when virtually nothing has been found - it’s hard to just blindly fall of the cliff again and again. Heparin is my last ditch effort. So, I will be going on the lovely Clomid again (which I hated), and moving towards an IUI (do IUIs ever work?). One study, which I’ve mentioned previously, predicts that those with the A1298C gene mutation will respond poorly to the use of stimulating drugs, such as Clomid. And I didn’t exactly prove that theory wrong last time. I think the husband is somewhat dreading the whole escapade (who wants to do your business under the watchful eye of several dozen medical personnel - even if the bathrooms, and I’d imagine, "the Depositories" are beautiful and ready for a photo essay in a chi chi interior design magazine).
IUIs do make me nervous. It seems like a lot of effort when there's still a very real possibility that I won't even GET pregnant in the first place. Then I'll have given myself heparin shots for two weeks for nothing. I'm sure that this may be the doctor's thinking when they prescribe heparin at a positive pregnancy test versus earlier.
On a semi-related note, the husband and I put ourselves on a strict budget for Christmas shopping this year - we are trying to save as much as we can for Ze Adoption. Let me tell you, $100 sure doesn't go very far in this town.
'Tis the Season!
However, as I continued to read the message boards where most if not all were starting heparin before a positive pregnancy test I began to panic. I told the husband about the whole "cycle day 6" business and he suggested that I call Doctor Superman. But I just couldn’t. There were so many times during discussions with Doctor Wonderful (previous RE) where he seemed to dismiss everything that I said, that I just couldn’t muster the energy to go there again. I feel like I’ve been screaming since day one, "Something is wrong with me! This is just going to keep happening until someone figures it out!" And it has always fallen on deaf ears. All I heard, time and time again, from my OB/GYN, RE and everyone else, were the statistics regarding miscarriage were in my favor, that it’s a common occurrence and most women go on to have a healthy, normal pregnancy the next time around. I was still, unbelievably, told this after the fourth miscarriage. Doctor Wonderful’s (that name was always used with a touch of irony, by the way) mantra seemed to be, "Keep trying, eventually it will work out." It’s difficult, as a four time loser to sit back and think "everything will work out." I don’t necessarily believe that heparin is the magic bullet either - but I’d like to try everything. I mean, what the hell do I have to lose?
In the end, my lovely husband took it upon himself to call Doctor Superman and Doctor Superman discussed the three different "points of entry" for the use of heparin during pregnancy: 1) from the beginning of your cycle, 2) at ovulation and 3) at a positive pregnancy test. Doctor Superman doesn’t really see the point of starting heparin at the first day of your cycle and he wasn’t really sure why anyone would do "cycle day 6" but he was willing to start heparin at ovulation. It’s incredible, in a way, to me, oh, girl-with-the-needle-phobia that I am pushing for the use of heparin - but again, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result seems akin to insanity. I suppose, however, if there were chromosomal problems in several of the pregnancies, and I was told there was only say, a 20% chance or even a 50% chance of the chromosomal problem occurring again, I may continue trying (that is, of course, until it continued to not work out (how many times? who knows) and then I would insist on IVF with PGD). But when virtually nothing has been found - it’s hard to just blindly fall of the cliff again and again. Heparin is my last ditch effort. So, I will be going on the lovely Clomid again (which I hated), and moving towards an IUI (do IUIs ever work?). One study, which I’ve mentioned previously, predicts that those with the A1298C gene mutation will respond poorly to the use of stimulating drugs, such as Clomid. And I didn’t exactly prove that theory wrong last time. I think the husband is somewhat dreading the whole escapade (who wants to do your business under the watchful eye of several dozen medical personnel - even if the bathrooms, and I’d imagine, "the Depositories" are beautiful and ready for a photo essay in a chi chi interior design magazine).
IUIs do make me nervous. It seems like a lot of effort when there's still a very real possibility that I won't even GET pregnant in the first place. Then I'll have given myself heparin shots for two weeks for nothing. I'm sure that this may be the doctor's thinking when they prescribe heparin at a positive pregnancy test versus earlier.
On a semi-related note, the husband and I put ourselves on a strict budget for Christmas shopping this year - we are trying to save as much as we can for Ze Adoption. Let me tell you, $100 sure doesn't go very far in this town.
'Tis the Season!
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Baby W
While I was laid up post-surgery, my mother and I perused the mountain of adoption agency packets the husband and I gathered at the adoption conference in Jersey (in New Jersey! We drove to New Jersey - this is ridiculously perceived as a wild adventure for those who live in NYC and see no reason to go beyond its borders). One agency's packet contained a photo book of children waiting for adoption, many with special needs. One child, an infant, Baby W, was missing part of one ear. He had no other medical needs and his hearing seemed to be fine. My mother and I stared at this baby with the wild shock of black hair for a long time. Eventually, I e-mailed the agency and requested more information. This week, the coordinator e-mailed that I should be receiving his packet shortly. Today, however, I got another e-mail that he's been adopted.
I am thrilled for this family, of course. Mostly. There was a split moment, however, when I felt incredibly sad (and jealous). I'd already imagined meeting him for the first time. I'd thought about what milestones he may be missing if he's in an institution (which in this case, he may not be). I hoped he was getting as much one on one care as possible. I saw us going and getting him. I saw myself reviewing his packet of medical information with the famous Manhattan adoption doctor with the blue rimmed glasses. I imagined the husband videotaping our first meeting and he and I crying and Baby W just staring into our eyes, mostly confused. I saw his little hands. And I saw myself kissing his little face. I wondered how he would feel about being from a different race and culture than his adoptive parents. I'd thought about him searching for his birth parents when he was older. I'd thought about the two of us sitting down and writing letters together to send to his birth mother through his agency. And including his brilliant drawings.
I'd thought all of these things without even realizing it.
It should be noted that we have not applied with this agency - we have not applied with any agency. We're still in the very beginning stages of all of this - and I was getting completely, totally, utterly carried away, ridiculously, for just a few moments. And I recognize my ability to over-dramatize at these times - because, I suppose, everything is so rife with emotion when it comes to building your family in a non-traditional way (i.e., through infertility treatments or adoption or third party reproduction).
I'm beginning to get a small taste, however, that I may be leaving one area of uncertainty for another. Although thankfully, adoption, unlike infertility, guarantees you will be a parent in the end. But really, it's still going to be a damn roller coaster.
I am thrilled for this family, of course. Mostly. There was a split moment, however, when I felt incredibly sad (and jealous). I'd already imagined meeting him for the first time. I'd thought about what milestones he may be missing if he's in an institution (which in this case, he may not be). I hoped he was getting as much one on one care as possible. I saw us going and getting him. I saw myself reviewing his packet of medical information with the famous Manhattan adoption doctor with the blue rimmed glasses. I imagined the husband videotaping our first meeting and he and I crying and Baby W just staring into our eyes, mostly confused. I saw his little hands. And I saw myself kissing his little face. I wondered how he would feel about being from a different race and culture than his adoptive parents. I'd thought about him searching for his birth parents when he was older. I'd thought about the two of us sitting down and writing letters together to send to his birth mother through his agency. And including his brilliant drawings.
I'd thought all of these things without even realizing it.
It should be noted that we have not applied with this agency - we have not applied with any agency. We're still in the very beginning stages of all of this - and I was getting completely, totally, utterly carried away, ridiculously, for just a few moments. And I recognize my ability to over-dramatize at these times - because, I suppose, everything is so rife with emotion when it comes to building your family in a non-traditional way (i.e., through infertility treatments or adoption or third party reproduction).
I'm beginning to get a small taste, however, that I may be leaving one area of uncertainty for another. Although thankfully, adoption, unlike infertility, guarantees you will be a parent in the end. But really, it's still going to be a damn roller coaster.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Shingle Bells
So, Tuesday my left breast was killing me - and the pain was radiating to my back. It was odd. And then a horrible rash broke out on my breast. I thought I'd wait a day or so in case it was just an allergic reaction to something (although I couldn't quite fathom what on earth my left breast had gotten into). When it persisted, it occurred to me that I could have shingles. My father had shingles when I was a teenager. It was an odd kind of pain - it didn't itch but felt like daggers in my chest and back. My back also spasmed and would jolt me out of bed. It felt viral, if that makes any sense, and not topical.
After consulting Doctor Google, I realized that if I indeed had shingles, it needed to be treated within 48 hours of the first outbreak. I began to panic. 48 hours from the outbreak was the night I was reading the information - at 11 PM. My post-op appointment was the next morning, and I thought maybe Doctor Superman could take a look at it.
Of course, Doctor Superman does not treat skin disorders and calmly told me he couldn't treat something that's not his area and didn't want to steer me in the wrong direction. Always the professional. He sent me upstairs for a consult with a dermatologist. Due to Doctor Superman's persistence, they agreed to see me today. Thank goodness - because I do have shingles and am now on the proper medication for it. Hopefully it should clear up in seven to 10 days. But I have to tell you, it hurts like a mother. When I asked the resident who was assisting the treating physician if I should tell people I work with to stay away from me if they haven't had chickenpox (shingles is the same virus as chickenpox and if an adult hasn't had chicken pox it's highly contagious - and worse for an adult to contract than a child - according to my mother) she looked at me like I'd lost my mind and told me that I shouldn't be at work, AT ALL. I was stunned. I'd already lost a WEEK of work due to the surgery. I have deadlines. I have discovery requests. I have a hearing approaching. I am essentially still working two jobs while they find a replacement for my old position (and P.S., shingles can be brought on by stress-interesting, no?). It's crazy. Anyway, the treating physician said that he would recommend missing Friday and Monday and to call if it looked like there was no improvement - it should cease being contagious at that point and I should feel better.
Anyway, back to the land of infertility: Doctor Superman said that everything looks good. The tubes are cleared and he removed the scar tissue from my uterus. And a polyp. He had me look at the incisions after he removed the bandages - I was astonished at how tiny they were. And because of there location, I'll likely barely notice them once they are completely healed. And yes, this is what everyone was telling me before the surgery.
So, at this point, he basically told me that we could go ahead on our own or go forward with the IUI. He said that because of my age, only 35 (I love this man), he feels comfortable in us going forward naturally. If no dice in the next couple of months, IUI. I told him I'd discuss with the husband. Also, he again reiterated that the moment I get a positive test I must contact him and he'll throw everything in his arsenal at me, including heparin. I'm so relieved - because otherwise, it's just doing the same thing, over and over again, expecting a different result. I' m a little disappointed, in a way, that he didn't want to march right into the IUI but it certainly makes things easier not doing one. We'll see.
And really, I'm normally a pretty healthy person. And not so whiny about pain. Normally. Really.
After consulting Doctor Google, I realized that if I indeed had shingles, it needed to be treated within 48 hours of the first outbreak. I began to panic. 48 hours from the outbreak was the night I was reading the information - at 11 PM. My post-op appointment was the next morning, and I thought maybe Doctor Superman could take a look at it.
Of course, Doctor Superman does not treat skin disorders and calmly told me he couldn't treat something that's not his area and didn't want to steer me in the wrong direction. Always the professional. He sent me upstairs for a consult with a dermatologist. Due to Doctor Superman's persistence, they agreed to see me today. Thank goodness - because I do have shingles and am now on the proper medication for it. Hopefully it should clear up in seven to 10 days. But I have to tell you, it hurts like a mother. When I asked the resident who was assisting the treating physician if I should tell people I work with to stay away from me if they haven't had chickenpox (shingles is the same virus as chickenpox and if an adult hasn't had chicken pox it's highly contagious - and worse for an adult to contract than a child - according to my mother) she looked at me like I'd lost my mind and told me that I shouldn't be at work, AT ALL. I was stunned. I'd already lost a WEEK of work due to the surgery. I have deadlines. I have discovery requests. I have a hearing approaching. I am essentially still working two jobs while they find a replacement for my old position (and P.S., shingles can be brought on by stress-interesting, no?). It's crazy. Anyway, the treating physician said that he would recommend missing Friday and Monday and to call if it looked like there was no improvement - it should cease being contagious at that point and I should feel better.
Anyway, back to the land of infertility: Doctor Superman said that everything looks good. The tubes are cleared and he removed the scar tissue from my uterus. And a polyp. He had me look at the incisions after he removed the bandages - I was astonished at how tiny they were. And because of there location, I'll likely barely notice them once they are completely healed. And yes, this is what everyone was telling me before the surgery.
So, at this point, he basically told me that we could go ahead on our own or go forward with the IUI. He said that because of my age, only 35 (I love this man), he feels comfortable in us going forward naturally. If no dice in the next couple of months, IUI. I told him I'd discuss with the husband. Also, he again reiterated that the moment I get a positive test I must contact him and he'll throw everything in his arsenal at me, including heparin. I'm so relieved - because otherwise, it's just doing the same thing, over and over again, expecting a different result. I' m a little disappointed, in a way, that he didn't want to march right into the IUI but it certainly makes things easier not doing one. We'll see.
And really, I'm normally a pretty healthy person. And not so whiny about pain. Normally. Really.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Back in the Land of the Living
First of all, sadly, and let us please all bow are heads, the belly button ring is no longer. Hacked off with enormous cutters by a marathon-addicted madman in charge of the OR.
As I was having the IV placed (sonofabitchthatthingfrickin'hurtlikeamother) and writhing in pain, Nurse Ratchet began asking me a series of fairly innocuous questions, "When was your last period, did you have anything to eat or drink after midnight, do you have any jewelry left on your person?" Why yes, Nurse Ratchet, I do. I have a belly button ring, but I discussed it with Doctor Superman and he preferred that I leave it in - something about infections. She actually whipped around, narrowed her eyes and bellowed, "I find that hard to believe." "Really? Well, generally I am in the business of LYING to medical staff because I am only SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD and don't want my mother, who happens to be in the next room, finding out about this piercing I had done ten years ago, but today, lady, I am actually telling you the truth." This went around and around for several minutes. She continued to ask the exact same questions and I continued to answer in the exact same manner, "Have you ever tried to have it removed?" "Yes, I have tried on several occasions, and so has my husband. I don't have a problem with removing it - I just have never been ABLE to remove it. It's supposed to twist off, but I have never been able to twist it off. This is why I asked Doctor Superman about it - because I figured I would have to go to a piercer to have it removed. " "Have you ever actually tried to remove it?" And so on. I implored her to call my physician, to at least verify that he did in fact tell me to keep the ring in. After delaying my surgery for over an hour, they sent in Mister OR Director (i.e., Marathon Addict), a youngish man who discussed his marathon addiction with me and tried the tactic of "relating" to the uncooperative patient by discussing his own past piercings in his left nipple and up his left ear. I kept repeating, "I don't have a problem removing it, I just don't know how to remove it, I'm afraid if you cut it, the sharp edges will cut my skin because it's a barbell." Etc. Etc. Etc. My doctor did come down and verified that he told me to keep it in - but the hospital was hearing none of it and wanted that thing removed. No metal in the operating room. Under any circumstances. Including, apparently, in one's mouth. I wanted to ask, "Do you actually pull out people's fillings?" All the while my mother was in the waiting room - watching them drag me and my IV and my layers of hospital clothes (I have yet to figure out which way the stupid pants were supposed to tie - front or back - both seemed decidedly wrong - but no matter, once I entered the OR they made me drop my drawers) from room to room. I was becoming increasingly agitated. I was already nervous and the IV continued to hurt - I just wanted the surgery to be over and done with.
When I finally got into the operating room - I jokingly apologized for the delay but said that I really enjoy making a ruckus and even more, enjoy being the center of attention and planned the whole thing when the anesthesiologist said, "Really?" and I said, "Um, no, that was a joke." Wow. No sense of humor. In a few minutes however I heard the anesthesiologist say to the anesthesiologist nurse, "I'm administering the cocktail" and then I was out.
I awoke in recovery with a nurse sitting in a chair between my bed and another's. I was quite surprised upon waking because I had envisioned waking without pain and the pain, if any, would come on gradually in the evening. That was not the case. I was in pain the instant I awoke and could tell precisely where they'd sliced me. I also woke with no feeling in my right arm. This didn't really bother me - but apparently it bothered the staff as I kept flapping my arm around for sometime. The medical staff was concerned and even Dr. No Sense of Humor came by, but eventually the numbness subsided.
The man next to me was an actor who kept telling everyone who would listen that he had been a professional actor for forty years and played plenty of doctors. He also didn't want any pain medications and despite staff trying to convince him otherwise, he knew what he was talking about, he'd played plenty of doctors, you see. I looked him up later and he is indeed a working actor who has played plenty of doctors. Obviously, he knew what he was talking about.
My doctor, it should be known, did tell me that I would experience some pain. He also told me that I really needed to take the week off but I thought he was being overly cautious. He wasn't. Although I thought my mother and I would be able to take advantage of my week off by shopping and running around the city catching movies and plays, I spent most of the week asleep. I didn't begin to feel normal until last evening. I still have soreness, but I am improving. Perhaps I am just wimpy, I don't know. But I think that cutting one's abdomen, no matter how small the incisions, and then stirring things around in there, doing a little repair here and there, is bound to induce a little pain. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Anyway, I hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving! I think I best go lay down for a spell.
As I was having the IV placed (sonofabitchthatthingfrickin'hurtlikeamother) and writhing in pain, Nurse Ratchet began asking me a series of fairly innocuous questions, "When was your last period, did you have anything to eat or drink after midnight, do you have any jewelry left on your person?" Why yes, Nurse Ratchet, I do. I have a belly button ring, but I discussed it with Doctor Superman and he preferred that I leave it in - something about infections. She actually whipped around, narrowed her eyes and bellowed, "I find that hard to believe." "Really? Well, generally I am in the business of LYING to medical staff because I am only SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD and don't want my mother, who happens to be in the next room, finding out about this piercing I had done ten years ago, but today, lady, I am actually telling you the truth." This went around and around for several minutes. She continued to ask the exact same questions and I continued to answer in the exact same manner, "Have you ever tried to have it removed?" "Yes, I have tried on several occasions, and so has my husband. I don't have a problem with removing it - I just have never been ABLE to remove it. It's supposed to twist off, but I have never been able to twist it off. This is why I asked Doctor Superman about it - because I figured I would have to go to a piercer to have it removed. " "Have you ever actually tried to remove it?" And so on. I implored her to call my physician, to at least verify that he did in fact tell me to keep the ring in. After delaying my surgery for over an hour, they sent in Mister OR Director (i.e., Marathon Addict), a youngish man who discussed his marathon addiction with me and tried the tactic of "relating" to the uncooperative patient by discussing his own past piercings in his left nipple and up his left ear. I kept repeating, "I don't have a problem removing it, I just don't know how to remove it, I'm afraid if you cut it, the sharp edges will cut my skin because it's a barbell." Etc. Etc. Etc. My doctor did come down and verified that he told me to keep it in - but the hospital was hearing none of it and wanted that thing removed. No metal in the operating room. Under any circumstances. Including, apparently, in one's mouth. I wanted to ask, "Do you actually pull out people's fillings?" All the while my mother was in the waiting room - watching them drag me and my IV and my layers of hospital clothes (I have yet to figure out which way the stupid pants were supposed to tie - front or back - both seemed decidedly wrong - but no matter, once I entered the OR they made me drop my drawers) from room to room. I was becoming increasingly agitated. I was already nervous and the IV continued to hurt - I just wanted the surgery to be over and done with.
When I finally got into the operating room - I jokingly apologized for the delay but said that I really enjoy making a ruckus and even more, enjoy being the center of attention and planned the whole thing when the anesthesiologist said, "Really?" and I said, "Um, no, that was a joke." Wow. No sense of humor. In a few minutes however I heard the anesthesiologist say to the anesthesiologist nurse, "I'm administering the cocktail" and then I was out.
I awoke in recovery with a nurse sitting in a chair between my bed and another's. I was quite surprised upon waking because I had envisioned waking without pain and the pain, if any, would come on gradually in the evening. That was not the case. I was in pain the instant I awoke and could tell precisely where they'd sliced me. I also woke with no feeling in my right arm. This didn't really bother me - but apparently it bothered the staff as I kept flapping my arm around for sometime. The medical staff was concerned and even Dr. No Sense of Humor came by, but eventually the numbness subsided.
The man next to me was an actor who kept telling everyone who would listen that he had been a professional actor for forty years and played plenty of doctors. He also didn't want any pain medications and despite staff trying to convince him otherwise, he knew what he was talking about, he'd played plenty of doctors, you see. I looked him up later and he is indeed a working actor who has played plenty of doctors. Obviously, he knew what he was talking about.
My doctor, it should be known, did tell me that I would experience some pain. He also told me that I really needed to take the week off but I thought he was being overly cautious. He wasn't. Although I thought my mother and I would be able to take advantage of my week off by shopping and running around the city catching movies and plays, I spent most of the week asleep. I didn't begin to feel normal until last evening. I still have soreness, but I am improving. Perhaps I am just wimpy, I don't know. But I think that cutting one's abdomen, no matter how small the incisions, and then stirring things around in there, doing a little repair here and there, is bound to induce a little pain. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Anyway, I hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving! I think I best go lay down for a spell.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Too Tired for Titles
In four more minutes I am not allowed to continue sipping this soda, nor eating, nor consuming any type of beverage, soda or not. Tomorrow I will be going in for the laparoscopy/hysteroscopy and repair (a little rotor rooter if you will) and am just trying my hardest to not think about it too much, just go in there, and get it over with. I was a little surprised when Doctor Superman began diagramming where the incisions, INCISIONS PEOPLE will be going. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to me that there would be any type of slicing. Small as those incisions are, but still.
I was also a little embarrassed when I had to ask about my belly button ring and whether or not it should be removed. That old thing was put in about ten years ago (when I was young and carefree) and I'm starting to feel a little ridiculous about it. I'm not exactly hanging out in bikinis these days. I had to lift up my shirt in his office so he could check out where it's located. That was fun. Oh, doctor, I run ALL THE TIME, I want to make sure that I can CONTINUE RUNNING. Oh, the flab all around my belly? Um, right, well, that's just something weird that's been happening lately. NORMALLY you see, I am very, very in shape. No fat all all. This is just a momentary fluke. Really.
You'll all be thrilled to learn, I'm sure, that removal is unnecessary.
The husband and I attended an adoption conference today. We are both exhausted. More on that later.
Happy Monday.
I was also a little embarrassed when I had to ask about my belly button ring and whether or not it should be removed. That old thing was put in about ten years ago (when I was young and carefree) and I'm starting to feel a little ridiculous about it. I'm not exactly hanging out in bikinis these days. I had to lift up my shirt in his office so he could check out where it's located. That was fun. Oh, doctor, I run ALL THE TIME, I want to make sure that I can CONTINUE RUNNING. Oh, the flab all around my belly? Um, right, well, that's just something weird that's been happening lately. NORMALLY you see, I am very, very in shape. No fat all all. This is just a momentary fluke. Really.
You'll all be thrilled to learn, I'm sure, that removal is unnecessary.
The husband and I attended an adoption conference today. We are both exhausted. More on that later.
Happy Monday.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Becoming a Parent
I've been drafting a post for sometime now - but I'm having trouble expressing it all with any brevity.
I used to scour blogs for hours looking for women who had miscarried multiple times and went on to have successful pregnancies. Many of them have. However, for the most part, they had chromosomal issues in one or more of the previous pregnancies. Or they had Factor V Leiden and went on heparin. Or they had a correctable issue with their uterus. The other women continued to miscarry until they stopped trying to get pregnant with their own eggs or moved on to adoption. I feared these women. I didn't want to be them. I didn't want to give up and adopt. I didn't want the consolation prize.
My mind, however, is changing on that front. I read Dan Savage's The Kid (highly recommend) and am currently reading A Love Like No Other: Stories from Adoptive Parents. The husband and I have attended no less then three events about adoption in the past week. We are feeling good. We are feeling positive. It doesn't feel like a consolation prize at all. It feels like a godsend.
We're going to work with Doctor Superman, but we've given ourselves a deadline. At the deadline, we're marching over to the adoption agency and submitting the application.
We like the certainty of international adoption. In many countries, it's a fairly streamlined system. The wait is known, the travel time is known, the approximate age-range is known. At this point, we're leaning towards Korea - which has some of the best foster and medical care for their children who are waiting for adoption. We also have a good chance of knowing something about our son's (mostly boys from Korea) history - which is important to us. The husband and I are committed to attending Korean cultural events with our child, of sending him to culture camps during the summer, of trying to recognize, appreciate, keep a sense of where he came from. But we recognize our inability to completely do so. On that front, we've been joking around about our teenage son coming home with his friends and being mortified because his geeky very white parents are sitting around the house in traditional Korean garb, eating traditional Korean food and speaking to each other in Korean (learned from our intensive Korean language course at the New School, of course). As many internationally adopted kids are - he may have little interest in his birth country until he reaches adulthood. But we want those options out there for him.
It's the first time I've felt truly excited and happy when thinking about our future as parents in the past three years. For the first time, I've realized that with time, I will parent a child. And it feels fantastic.
I used to scour blogs for hours looking for women who had miscarried multiple times and went on to have successful pregnancies. Many of them have. However, for the most part, they had chromosomal issues in one or more of the previous pregnancies. Or they had Factor V Leiden and went on heparin. Or they had a correctable issue with their uterus. The other women continued to miscarry until they stopped trying to get pregnant with their own eggs or moved on to adoption. I feared these women. I didn't want to be them. I didn't want to give up and adopt. I didn't want the consolation prize.
My mind, however, is changing on that front. I read Dan Savage's The Kid (highly recommend) and am currently reading A Love Like No Other: Stories from Adoptive Parents. The husband and I have attended no less then three events about adoption in the past week. We are feeling good. We are feeling positive. It doesn't feel like a consolation prize at all. It feels like a godsend.
We're going to work with Doctor Superman, but we've given ourselves a deadline. At the deadline, we're marching over to the adoption agency and submitting the application.
We like the certainty of international adoption. In many countries, it's a fairly streamlined system. The wait is known, the travel time is known, the approximate age-range is known. At this point, we're leaning towards Korea - which has some of the best foster and medical care for their children who are waiting for adoption. We also have a good chance of knowing something about our son's (mostly boys from Korea) history - which is important to us. The husband and I are committed to attending Korean cultural events with our child, of sending him to culture camps during the summer, of trying to recognize, appreciate, keep a sense of where he came from. But we recognize our inability to completely do so. On that front, we've been joking around about our teenage son coming home with his friends and being mortified because his geeky very white parents are sitting around the house in traditional Korean garb, eating traditional Korean food and speaking to each other in Korean (learned from our intensive Korean language course at the New School, of course). As many internationally adopted kids are - he may have little interest in his birth country until he reaches adulthood. But we want those options out there for him.
It's the first time I've felt truly excited and happy when thinking about our future as parents in the past three years. For the first time, I've realized that with time, I will parent a child. And it feels fantastic.
Monday, October 29, 2007
From Fertile Infertile to Infertile Infertile
I just came back from several days spent in New England with my mother (she travelled north after spending the previous week with my father and Aunt and Uncle on a genealogy sojourn to West Virginia) and the husband. It was, mostly, a good time (the Husband and I found the Shelburne Museum creepy and weird. We half expected to find Mrs. Shelburne's embalmed body hidden behind a fake closet. My mother, of course, loved it.). Edited to add: For those of you annoying like my husband, who seem to think facts are important, there is no Mrs. Shelburne, her name was actually Mrs. Webb.
I then went to work for a few hours today until I had to leave for HSG numero dos. I was not looking forward to it. The last time I had it done, I found it extremely painful - during the procedure, not afterwards. The insertion of the the catheter had me writhing in pain. This time, I felt, nothing. Well, maybe not nothing, but only slight discomfort. When I mentioned this to Doctor Superman, he said that they use an incredibly thin catheter because it is "simply more humane." Apparently my previous doctor used a catheter the size of a mack truck. I am beginning to wonder if my previous doctor was something of a sadist. He wasn't exactly gentle with the dildo-cam either.
The good news: I have amazingly wonderful birthing hips! I have the pelvic bones of a fertile goddess! They are the perfect shape! The perfect size! They're like the wings of a butterfly!
The bad news: My uterus is badly scarred. And my fallopian tubes are now blocked. He indicated that this could be from the multiple miscarriages or the D & C (the uterine scarring, not the blocked tubes) or both.
Hide-your-head-in-the-sand-news: Apparently I have to have surgery to smooth out the uterus and unblock the tubes - and check to see if I have endometriosis. And I'll be having it the week of Thanksgiving.
Wonderful.
In other news, my friend from high school had his baby (well, he didn't, his wife did) and named him something akin to "Great Emperor" and another friend just e-mailed me today to tell me she's expecting her second. The first was born September 2006. When it rains it pours.
I then went to work for a few hours today until I had to leave for HSG numero dos. I was not looking forward to it. The last time I had it done, I found it extremely painful - during the procedure, not afterwards. The insertion of the the catheter had me writhing in pain. This time, I felt, nothing. Well, maybe not nothing, but only slight discomfort. When I mentioned this to Doctor Superman, he said that they use an incredibly thin catheter because it is "simply more humane." Apparently my previous doctor used a catheter the size of a mack truck. I am beginning to wonder if my previous doctor was something of a sadist. He wasn't exactly gentle with the dildo-cam either.
The good news: I have amazingly wonderful birthing hips! I have the pelvic bones of a fertile goddess! They are the perfect shape! The perfect size! They're like the wings of a butterfly!
The bad news: My uterus is badly scarred. And my fallopian tubes are now blocked. He indicated that this could be from the multiple miscarriages or the D & C (the uterine scarring, not the blocked tubes) or both.
Hide-your-head-in-the-sand-news: Apparently I have to have surgery to smooth out the uterus and unblock the tubes - and check to see if I have endometriosis. And I'll be having it the week of Thanksgiving.
Wonderful.
In other news, my friend from high school had his baby (well, he didn't, his wife did) and named him something akin to "Great Emperor" and another friend just e-mailed me today to tell me she's expecting her second. The first was born September 2006. When it rains it pours.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
doctor superman
The husband and I decided to take a cab Friday morning. A decadence we rarely indulge. The cabbie wound his way through Central Park and to the East Side. We hopped out in the 70s and found our way to a long waiting room filled with female patients and their partners. We waited. And waited. And waited. I explored the bathroom - glass vase filled with smooth rocks, the new-fangled incense in oil, floating sink and walls covered with tiny glass tiles the color of sea glass. It was, likely the best, most architecturally modern bathroom I have seen in a physician’s waiting room. Ever. Appropriate to see in the pages of Town and Country or some such magazine. This place has money. A lot.
And still, we waited.
Eventually someone came out in brightly colored scrubs. Apologies all around. She sat us down in our new doctors “office.” It was clearly not his office. It consisted of a computer, a desk and three chairs. I learned later that his office is actually upstairs. Our doctor greeted us with a warm smile and handshake. Does he know that all my hope, my last bit of hope resides in him? I met much of what he said with vigorous nodding and tried in vain not to cry. When he mentioned that we were in a good place, really, the tears began. He indicated that since we’d had a “connection”, that there had been implantation, that that was a good sign. When implantation isn’t working, there is little they can do. It is a much trickier place to be when you have failed attempt after failed attempt with no implantation. Implantation, he indicated, is very mysterious - and they still know little about it. They can place the best looking blasts into the uterus and still no connection. And they don’t know why. He said that he understood that many who have repeatedly miscarried would prefer not to get pregnant at all but that the reality is that this, biologically speaking, is a better place to be. They just have to figure out what isn’t working.
He went through a list of tests he’d like to do. Including another HSG. Something I would prefer never to do again. But, I will.
He also said that due to the MTHFR coupled with the repeated miscarriages, he’d like to see me on the folic acid combo (B6 and B12), baby aspirin and heparin.
Heparin.
Again, tears.
He then discussed doing the FSH three day test. I told him that my FSH was tested and it was 9.2. His eyes widened. He didn’t like that result, not at all. He said that at my age it shouldn’t be any higher than 7. He asked what my previous RE told me about this result and I said that he said anything under 10 was OK. I didn’t mention that I had to ask him what it was - and this was approximately 9 months after it was taken. The FSH was taken in November of last year. The new RE wants to do it again. And on Saturday. I shoved forth a study that indicates that those who test positive for the MTHFR (A1298C) gene mutation have higher FSH levels and respond poorly to ovarian stimulation (fewer follicles greater than 13 mm). It also cites a study that found that folic acid had little effect on those with the MTHFR A1298C gene mutation. I’m proof positive of that, I think. It has great effect for those with the C677T mutation. The study does not outline treatment methods however, but seemed to imply that those with that particlur gene mutation need stronger meds for ovarian stimulation. All and all it’s not exactly the greatest study in the hope department - but it does, possibly explain, my poor response to the Clomid. He initially wanted to know whether or not the study had been published - I think perhaps in a way to dismiss its validity, its relevance, or to explain why he knew nothing about it. When I told him that it had been published in the September 2007 issue of “Fertility and Sterility”, he was surprised, a bit taken aback. But he wasn’t irritated or annoyed, he seemed slightly embarrassed. Which I appreciate. I want a physician who can be humble - and is secure enough in his abilities that there isn’t a lot of unnecessary posturing and that whole god complex crap. I think my old RE would have been completely pissed off and possibly dismissive (as he was when I asked about heparin). I actually don’t expect my doctors to spend time crawling through each and every study and article about MTHFR. That’s something that I can do. And believe me, I do.
When we were done and the husband and I reached the elevator. I burst into tears. Heparin. He’s willing to do it. He’s willing to try.
I couldn’t sleep the entire night before I had to go into get another FSH done. I’m not sure I want to know. I told the doc as much and he said that that wasn’t exactly the way to do things and my husband agreed. I understand that. I’m just dreading hearing the phrase, “donor eggs.”
Afterwards I forced the husband into Pottery Barn Kids. Why the hell would I want to go there, he asked? I said, because instead of making me sad, it makes me feel like it’s really going to happen for us. I know, that doesn’t make any sense. But the way I think about it these days is this: if we really want to parent a child, we will. It just may not be through the traditional route. And I’m trying to get myself to come around to that idea.
With that in mind, after my run yesterday, I went to a bookstore (stinking up the place, yes) and read through Cross-Cultural Adoption and skimmed through The Adoption Decision. I decided to buy The Kid by Dan Savage and A Love Like No Other: Stories from Adoptive Parents.
So, here we go. I’ve dubbed him, for now, Doctor Superman. I have to believe that he has super powers. Or else I can’t get on this train again.
And still, we waited.
Eventually someone came out in brightly colored scrubs. Apologies all around. She sat us down in our new doctors “office.” It was clearly not his office. It consisted of a computer, a desk and three chairs. I learned later that his office is actually upstairs. Our doctor greeted us with a warm smile and handshake. Does he know that all my hope, my last bit of hope resides in him? I met much of what he said with vigorous nodding and tried in vain not to cry. When he mentioned that we were in a good place, really, the tears began. He indicated that since we’d had a “connection”, that there had been implantation, that that was a good sign. When implantation isn’t working, there is little they can do. It is a much trickier place to be when you have failed attempt after failed attempt with no implantation. Implantation, he indicated, is very mysterious - and they still know little about it. They can place the best looking blasts into the uterus and still no connection. And they don’t know why. He said that he understood that many who have repeatedly miscarried would prefer not to get pregnant at all but that the reality is that this, biologically speaking, is a better place to be. They just have to figure out what isn’t working.
He went through a list of tests he’d like to do. Including another HSG. Something I would prefer never to do again. But, I will.
He also said that due to the MTHFR coupled with the repeated miscarriages, he’d like to see me on the folic acid combo (B6 and B12), baby aspirin and heparin.
Heparin.
Again, tears.
He then discussed doing the FSH three day test. I told him that my FSH was tested and it was 9.2. His eyes widened. He didn’t like that result, not at all. He said that at my age it shouldn’t be any higher than 7. He asked what my previous RE told me about this result and I said that he said anything under 10 was OK. I didn’t mention that I had to ask him what it was - and this was approximately 9 months after it was taken. The FSH was taken in November of last year. The new RE wants to do it again. And on Saturday. I shoved forth a study that indicates that those who test positive for the MTHFR (A1298C) gene mutation have higher FSH levels and respond poorly to ovarian stimulation (fewer follicles greater than 13 mm). It also cites a study that found that folic acid had little effect on those with the MTHFR A1298C gene mutation. I’m proof positive of that, I think. It has great effect for those with the C677T mutation. The study does not outline treatment methods however, but seemed to imply that those with that particlur gene mutation need stronger meds for ovarian stimulation. All and all it’s not exactly the greatest study in the hope department - but it does, possibly explain, my poor response to the Clomid. He initially wanted to know whether or not the study had been published - I think perhaps in a way to dismiss its validity, its relevance, or to explain why he knew nothing about it. When I told him that it had been published in the September 2007 issue of “Fertility and Sterility”, he was surprised, a bit taken aback. But he wasn’t irritated or annoyed, he seemed slightly embarrassed. Which I appreciate. I want a physician who can be humble - and is secure enough in his abilities that there isn’t a lot of unnecessary posturing and that whole god complex crap. I think my old RE would have been completely pissed off and possibly dismissive (as he was when I asked about heparin). I actually don’t expect my doctors to spend time crawling through each and every study and article about MTHFR. That’s something that I can do. And believe me, I do.
When we were done and the husband and I reached the elevator. I burst into tears. Heparin. He’s willing to do it. He’s willing to try.
I couldn’t sleep the entire night before I had to go into get another FSH done. I’m not sure I want to know. I told the doc as much and he said that that wasn’t exactly the way to do things and my husband agreed. I understand that. I’m just dreading hearing the phrase, “donor eggs.”
Afterwards I forced the husband into Pottery Barn Kids. Why the hell would I want to go there, he asked? I said, because instead of making me sad, it makes me feel like it’s really going to happen for us. I know, that doesn’t make any sense. But the way I think about it these days is this: if we really want to parent a child, we will. It just may not be through the traditional route. And I’m trying to get myself to come around to that idea.
With that in mind, after my run yesterday, I went to a bookstore (stinking up the place, yes) and read through Cross-Cultural Adoption and skimmed through The Adoption Decision. I decided to buy The Kid by Dan Savage and A Love Like No Other: Stories from Adoptive Parents.
So, here we go. I’ve dubbed him, for now, Doctor Superman. I have to believe that he has super powers. Or else I can’t get on this train again.
Monday, October 08, 2007
mixed tape
I hate to make the equivalent of a mixed tape, but if there was one, this song would be on it, and I would be telling you how this, all of this, may be coming to an end - I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. I've encountered so many in similar circumstances, or worse, and they, despite the odds, still have all this hope, this knowledge, this belief, this certainty, that somehow, some way this will all work out in the end. I don't have that belief. From the first miscarriage, from the first, "this happens all the time, just try again" I knew something was seriously wrong. And over two years later, no one has been able to tell me what.
I have to take stock of my own life. And begin to move forward. I will always mourn what I have lost. I will never be who I used to be. I have to remember that we have a good life, my husband and I. I love my husband. That is more than so many have.
But I still, I still miss the person that I used to be. And I miss the little ones who I have carried, for such a short time, and what they could have been.
--Crosses by Jose Gonzales
I saw the hematologist today. I really believed he would take one look at my medical records and order heparin, immediately. It was maybe my last hope, really. But no one seems to think that heparin is necessary. Not him, not my RE. Just try, try again. "Eventually", my sister says, the doctors say, others say, "just try, try, try again, eventually it will, has to, work out." I'm just not so sure. If someone could say you will have x number of miscarriages and on x pregnancy you will have a child - maybe then, maybe then I could do it. I could muster it up. I could soldier on. But no one can know that. Until they figure out what is wrong, I believe it will just continue - indefinitely.
I'm the friend that you could see adopting. You wouldn't be surprised, you would almost expect it. But here's the reality, at this point, right now, I don't want to adopt. I resent it. I resent that that's what I have to do to parent a child. I don't even know myself anymore. Who is this person? I think adopting is a great thing. I'm just not there.
I'm completely obsessed with myself and my own fertility. I'm a nuisance to the doctors who treat me. I trust none of them. I second guess everything they say. I do my own research. I decide based upon an article here, a study there, a blogger's experience, how I should be treated. It's practically all I discuss with my husband.
I looked at some donor profiles. I found a lovely girl. A college student who loves to write. She's interested in activism. She is short with brown hair and light eyes. She wants a family who cares about the arts. She's looking for a family who is open-minded. I liked her. And when I realized this, I woke my husband up with my crying.
I won't know what she was like at age three. I won't know if she used to draw for hours on construction paper while her mother did the laundry. I won't know if she used to tell the same joke over and over again. I won't know if she had a dog named Rascal or if she got jam stuck in her sleeves. I won't know about the time she slammed her finger in the car door or when she had her first kiss. I won't know any of these things.
I'll only have what I read on a few pieces of paper. Does she wrinkle her nose when she laughs? Does she salt all of her food? Does she always put her hair behind her ears? Does she listen to comedy albums over and over again? Does she spend her Saturdays at art museums?
I have two more appointments with two different REs. We will see what they have to say. And then, I need to reevaluate. I need to be thankful for what we have. I need to stop feeling like a failure. I need to stop feeling like I've failed my husband. I need to put this behind me.
I have to take stock of my own life. And begin to move forward. I will always mourn what I have lost. I will never be who I used to be. I have to remember that we have a good life, my husband and I. I love my husband. That is more than so many have.
But I still, I still miss the person that I used to be. And I miss the little ones who I have carried, for such a short time, and what they could have been.
Don't you know that I'll be around to guide you
Through your weakest moments to leave them behind you
Returning nightmares only shadows
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright for now
Crosses all over, heavy on your shoulders
The sirens inside you waiting to step forward
Disturbing silence darkens your sight
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright for now
Crosses all over the boulevard
Crosses all over the boulevard
Crosses all over the boulevard
Crosses all over the boulevard
The streets outside your window overflooded
People staring, they know you've been broken
Repeatedly reminded by the looks on their faces
Ignore them tonight and you'll be alright
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright
Through your weakest moments to leave them behind you
Returning nightmares only shadows
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright for now
Crosses all over, heavy on your shoulders
The sirens inside you waiting to step forward
Disturbing silence darkens your sight
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright for now
Crosses all over the boulevard
Crosses all over the boulevard
Crosses all over the boulevard
Crosses all over the boulevard
The streets outside your window overflooded
People staring, they know you've been broken
Repeatedly reminded by the looks on their faces
Ignore them tonight and you'll be alright
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright
--Crosses by Jose Gonzales
I saw the hematologist today. I really believed he would take one look at my medical records and order heparin, immediately. It was maybe my last hope, really. But no one seems to think that heparin is necessary. Not him, not my RE. Just try, try again. "Eventually", my sister says, the doctors say, others say, "just try, try, try again, eventually it will, has to, work out." I'm just not so sure. If someone could say you will have x number of miscarriages and on x pregnancy you will have a child - maybe then, maybe then I could do it. I could muster it up. I could soldier on. But no one can know that. Until they figure out what is wrong, I believe it will just continue - indefinitely.
I'm the friend that you could see adopting. You wouldn't be surprised, you would almost expect it. But here's the reality, at this point, right now, I don't want to adopt. I resent it. I resent that that's what I have to do to parent a child. I don't even know myself anymore. Who is this person? I think adopting is a great thing. I'm just not there.
I'm completely obsessed with myself and my own fertility. I'm a nuisance to the doctors who treat me. I trust none of them. I second guess everything they say. I do my own research. I decide based upon an article here, a study there, a blogger's experience, how I should be treated. It's practically all I discuss with my husband.
I looked at some donor profiles. I found a lovely girl. A college student who loves to write. She's interested in activism. She is short with brown hair and light eyes. She wants a family who cares about the arts. She's looking for a family who is open-minded. I liked her. And when I realized this, I woke my husband up with my crying.
I won't know what she was like at age three. I won't know if she used to draw for hours on construction paper while her mother did the laundry. I won't know if she used to tell the same joke over and over again. I won't know if she had a dog named Rascal or if she got jam stuck in her sleeves. I won't know about the time she slammed her finger in the car door or when she had her first kiss. I won't know any of these things.
I'll only have what I read on a few pieces of paper. Does she wrinkle her nose when she laughs? Does she salt all of her food? Does she always put her hair behind her ears? Does she listen to comedy albums over and over again? Does she spend her Saturdays at art museums?
I have two more appointments with two different REs. We will see what they have to say. And then, I need to reevaluate. I need to be thankful for what we have. I need to stop feeling like a failure. I need to stop feeling like I've failed my husband. I need to put this behind me.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Remind Me Next Time to Wear Pants
Quite sometime ago, due to the recommendation of an infertile friend (age 41, pregnant now from second IVF - due any day) I read Inconceivable by Julia Indichovia. My impression of the writer after reading it was that she was slightly cracked. Right - Chinese herbs and visualization (hanging out on her bathroom floor, apparently) and changing your sheets to red will lower your FSH level! Fantastic - I have a bridge over here . . . Anyway. I could only think that the change in her FSH and resulting pregnancy was due to the bodies natural inclination to change - to have one result one day and one result the next. However, she really did have an FSH of 42 and she really did go onto have a child. Despite the odds. So, now, in the face of this possibility, I think, what the hell? What do I have to lose? God knows I could benefit from a little yoga, a little acupuncture, a little diet overhaul just so that I might occasionally RELAX a little, despite the outcome (hey, by they way, if any of the gods are out there listening - looking for a positive outcome.) My sister and mother-in-law have already begun uttering the word, "adoption." Just to be clear - the doc did not say that I have diminished ovarian reserve - just that that could be a reason why I haven't really responded to the Clomid and why I seemed to have surged (LH) prior to there being properly matured follicles. This would also explain the repeated miscarriages. And this explanation was given to me only when pressed, repeatedly, and threatened with a pie-in-face scenario.
So, I called the YMCA (around the corner from my apartment) and wouldn't you know it but they had a yoga class in fifteen minutes. I ran out of my apartment and over to the Y. In shorts. Shorts that perhaps I shouldn't actually be wearing. Shorts that show my currently pale fatty legs. Oh, and please, please make sure that you have me bending down, backwards, with my head through my legs so that I can look up and accidentally see the back of my legs and my REAR in the mirror. Shorts are a bad idea for yoga. A VERY, VERY bad idea.
So, please, please remind me to go to that ridiculous store with the worst window displays I've ever seen and the twenty or so sales persons milling about the store with fake smiles plastered to their mugs with a tendency to hover over each patron out of sheer boredom in order to buy some damn yoga pants.
I'll be going once a week.
Don't let my chattiness about all this fool you. I am still terrified.
That is all.
So, I called the YMCA (around the corner from my apartment) and wouldn't you know it but they had a yoga class in fifteen minutes. I ran out of my apartment and over to the Y. In shorts. Shorts that perhaps I shouldn't actually be wearing. Shorts that show my currently pale fatty legs. Oh, and please, please make sure that you have me bending down, backwards, with my head through my legs so that I can look up and accidentally see the back of my legs and my REAR in the mirror. Shorts are a bad idea for yoga. A VERY, VERY bad idea.
So, please, please remind me to go to that ridiculous store with the worst window displays I've ever seen and the twenty or so sales persons milling about the store with fake smiles plastered to their mugs with a tendency to hover over each patron out of sheer boredom in order to buy some damn yoga pants.
I'll be going once a week.
Don't let my chattiness about all this fool you. I am still terrified.
That is all.
The Challengers
Challengers
by
The New Pornographers
Yes I know it was late
We were greeting the sun
Before long
And you live with someone
I live with somebody too
Leave it there
For safe keeping
One of the west village in plains
That was the custom
Come dawn
On the walls of the day
In the shade of the sun
We wrote down
Another vision of us
We were the challengers of
The unknown
"Be safe" you say
Whatever the mess you are you mind okay
That is the custom
On down
Until I see you around
Until we clear the accounts
Leave it there
Leave it to us
We are the challengers of
The unknown
My husband looked at me the other day when this song came on and said that it always makes him think of us, that it has become for him, our song. My husband is one of the most sentimental people I know. For him to not father a child . . .
The physician uttered the words, "Diminished ovarian reserve." He does not know, but it could be. It could be. Explains the miscarriages, actually. Keep plugging along until we hit one that works. And in the end, that could be never. Didn't seem too keen on IVF - the "expense" he kept uttering. I asked what he meant by that and he said, "Not only the monetary expense but the emotional toll. It's a lot of time and effort and in the end, it could still not work out. " He said that for us to get a better picture we would need to do a Clomid challenge test. Up the dosage, etc. He also said we could abandon this road and go for egg donation. On the other hand, he said, "it ain't over until the fat lady sings." Even if I have a "diminished" ovarian reserve it doesn't mean that I have zero good eggs at all. Again, though, it's not enough information at this point to go on. My FSH was fine, normal in fact. He finds the size of the follicles in relation to the LH troubling. If I was surging in order to ovulate, the follicles should be around 20 mm. My largest was 15 mm.
This is the strange thing - I always thought I would have fertility problems. Even as a young kid. Why? I haven't a clue. Did I do this to myself? If I'd started at age 20 would this still be a problem? I started at 32. We'll never know, but it could be. Could be. My mother had me at 34. My sister had her last at around the same age. I also, later, imagined my husband shooting me up with fertility drugs for an IVF cycle. Pretty much from the first miscarriage. Perhaps it is just an overly worried, neurotic person who imagines such things from the first sign of trouble. My doc doesn't seem too thrilled with the whole IVF idea but I'm willing to go there. I guess I'd like to try all avenues and then in the end, I won't have to wonder if it would have worked or not. My doc seems overly concerned with the cost of things. I want to start yelling, "I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH THIS THING COSTS. DAMN IT!"
So, there we are. The Challengers. Yes, I know it was late but we were "greeting the sun. " We have another vision of us. One with children. Just one.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
What the @#$)(*#????
My body has been slowly, very slowly, responding to the Clomid. After the day of bloat from hell, nothing major has been happening. This includes when they've done scans, blood work, etc. I'm just poking along. Today, however, it looks like two of the follicles have dropped out and one remains. It's not very large. Not as large as they'd like to see. The nurse read my blood test results over the phone:
Estradiol: 164
LH: 41
Progesterone: 1.2
I asked what these numbers mean. She said that the LH is running high. I asked what a high LH meant, and she hesitated, and then said, "I don't know."
Now, when a nurse tells you, "I don't know" I think this should read as, "I do know, but the doctor is the one who should tell you."
Normal results for LH women are typically between 6 and 30 U/L.
In women, "LH and FSH levels can help to differentiate between primary ovarian failure (failure of the ovaries themselves or lack of ovarian development) and secondary ovarian failure (failure of the ovaries due to disorders of either the pituitary or the hypothalamus). Increased levels of LH and FSH are seen in primary ovarian failure. Some causes of primary ovarian failure are ovarian agenesis (failure to develop ovaries), chromosomal abnormality, such as Turner’s syndrome, ovarian steroidogenesis defect such as 17 alpha hydroxylase deficiency and premature ovarian failure due to such things as radiation, chemotherapy, autoimmune disease and chronic anovulation (failure to ovulate) due to polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), adrenal disease, thyroid disease or ovarian tumor."
I know nothing at this point. Next appointment is the 9th. More blood work. More scans.
Things are looking bleak.
Estradiol: 164
LH: 41
Progesterone: 1.2
I asked what these numbers mean. She said that the LH is running high. I asked what a high LH meant, and she hesitated, and then said, "I don't know."
Now, when a nurse tells you, "I don't know" I think this should read as, "I do know, but the doctor is the one who should tell you."
Normal results for LH women are typically between 6 and 30 U/L.
In women, "LH and FSH levels can help to differentiate between primary ovarian failure (failure of the ovaries themselves or lack of ovarian development) and secondary ovarian failure (failure of the ovaries due to disorders of either the pituitary or the hypothalamus). Increased levels of LH and FSH are seen in primary ovarian failure. Some causes of primary ovarian failure are ovarian agenesis (failure to develop ovaries), chromosomal abnormality, such as Turner’s syndrome, ovarian steroidogenesis defect such as 17 alpha hydroxylase deficiency and premature ovarian failure due to such things as radiation, chemotherapy, autoimmune disease and chronic anovulation (failure to ovulate) due to polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), adrenal disease, thyroid disease or ovarian tumor."
I know nothing at this point. Next appointment is the 9th. More blood work. More scans.
Things are looking bleak.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Zippo
So, the old bod isn't really responding to the Clomid. My ovaries look virtually the same as on Tuesday. My twice done blood work (evil, evil!) shows little change. My lining is a tad thicker (from 5 to 7?) and my doc's partner in crime (whom I've never met before, Dr. Bow Tie) said that there were three "baby follicles." Somehow, for some reason, I liked the term, "baby follicles." It sounds so nice. Cozy even. I suppose, I shouldn't have (or want) baby follicles. I should have (and want) big honkin' enormous, mature, hairy, motorcycle-driving follicles. Bring on the beer guzzling follicles, please!
Anyway, I started wondering if this poor response was another clue in the puzzle of my infertility. Do I actually have a luteal phase defect? Does this explain the miscarriages? Am I on the road to no longer producing eggs? WHAT'S HAPPENING?
I did a mad Dr. Google consult and found this:
"It is important to determine whether you have responded to the treatment (i.e. ovulated) by measuring blood progesterone levels around day 21 to 23 of the treatment cycle or performing an ultrasound scan. The starting dose of Clomid should only be increased if their is no response after the second cycle of treatment because of those women who will respond to 50
mg dose, only two thirds will do so in the first cycle. If the Clomid drug treatment is successful, ovulation tends to occur about a week after the last pill. "
Despite the fact that "there" is misspelled, I am taking some comfort in the above. My last pill was on Monday. I did a scan and blood work on Tuesday. Again on Friday (blood work) and Saturday (scan). According to the above, I shouldn't expect to ovulate until at least Monday. From what I'm getting from the docs, I should have had more of a response by now. The fertility monitor, however, finally showed, "high fertility" today. In a normal cycle, I would have ovulated yesterday.
I hope things start to whip up soon. Or at the very least, that it is not that unusual to show little response on the first round of Clomid. I really don't want to up the dosage anytime soon.
Any experience with this?
The husband and I spent the day kayaking down the Peconic River, eating pizza and playing with our dogs at the beach with some friends. We came home to two jazz musicians, a saxophone player and a trumpet player, practicing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of our street (they were about to go play in a club nearby). The sound was great. It was a nice (albeit exhausting) day.
Anyway, I started wondering if this poor response was another clue in the puzzle of my infertility. Do I actually have a luteal phase defect? Does this explain the miscarriages? Am I on the road to no longer producing eggs? WHAT'S HAPPENING?
I did a mad Dr. Google consult and found this:
"It is important to determine whether you have responded to the treatment (i.e. ovulated) by measuring blood progesterone levels around day 21 to 23 of the treatment cycle or performing an ultrasound scan. The starting dose of Clomid should only be increased if their is no response after the second cycle of treatment because of those women who will respond to 50
mg dose, only two thirds will do so in the first cycle. If the Clomid drug treatment is successful, ovulation tends to occur about a week after the last pill. "
Despite the fact that "there" is misspelled, I am taking some comfort in the above. My last pill was on Monday. I did a scan and blood work on Tuesday. Again on Friday (blood work) and Saturday (scan). According to the above, I shouldn't expect to ovulate until at least Monday. From what I'm getting from the docs, I should have had more of a response by now. The fertility monitor, however, finally showed, "high fertility" today. In a normal cycle, I would have ovulated yesterday.
I hope things start to whip up soon. Or at the very least, that it is not that unusual to show little response on the first round of Clomid. I really don't want to up the dosage anytime soon.
Any experience with this?
The husband and I spent the day kayaking down the Peconic River, eating pizza and playing with our dogs at the beach with some friends. We came home to two jazz musicians, a saxophone player and a trumpet player, practicing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of our street (they were about to go play in a club nearby). The sound was great. It was a nice (albeit exhausting) day.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Violet Beauregarde
No sooner had I typed the last word on my previous post was I overcome with a horrific, awful, no good, very bad, feeling of bloat. And pain. And nausea. That partially lasted (the bloat) until well into this evening. I have been feeling a tad Violet all day, basically. I thought it necessary to have someone roll me on home. Because I am a complete idiot, I was convinced that this was the result of a massive consumption of cauliflower earlier in the day. It did not occur to me, not once, that it may have been due to the Clomid. That is, until after I'd seen my doc and the write-up from the pharmacy spilled out from my purse onto my car floor. And wow, did it not say, "if you experience severe bloat or nausea, consult your physician." I mentioned the bloat, but not in any great detail because:
1) nothing has changed - my ovaries look identical to their scanned appearance last week, and
2) I have some fluid - apparently in my abdomen or in my uterus. When he said that I had an usual amount of fluid somewhere I shut down and started silently freaking out. He could have said it was coming out of my nostrils, and
3) My lining is the tiniest bit thicker.
I left there with a script for some blood work (progesterone, estradiol?) but no results as of yet.
As I was entering the lab, I scanned the bottom of the blood draw form, and was taken aback (as I always am) by the diagnosis checked off at the bottom:
"Habitual aborter."
What an ugly sounding term.
1) nothing has changed - my ovaries look identical to their scanned appearance last week, and
2) I have some fluid - apparently in my abdomen or in my uterus. When he said that I had an usual amount of fluid somewhere I shut down and started silently freaking out. He could have said it was coming out of my nostrils, and
3) My lining is the tiniest bit thicker.
I left there with a script for some blood work (progesterone, estradiol?) but no results as of yet.
As I was entering the lab, I scanned the bottom of the blood draw form, and was taken aback (as I always am) by the diagnosis checked off at the bottom:
"Habitual aborter."
What an ugly sounding term.
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