It's time.
I have spent every moment of sanity since my failed IVF meditating, praying even, about what our next step should be. I truly just internally let myself feel the experience, listen to my heart, and embrace the outcome. Before, I thought, How in the hell does anyone make a decision like this? How do you figure out what to do next?
You stay quiet, and you listen. I'm not sure what I listened to. I don't know if it was my heart, or God, or some bigger sense than me. I don't know. I don't feel a need to identify it. But as time went on, it has become completely clear to me that I know what's next and what is right for J and I. We are ready.
My heart began to fill with warm feelings about adoption. This is something my husband and I have always been open to. My entire life I've envisioned a family made up of biological and adopted children, all my children to love and to raise and to hold forever. I couldn't shake this need to read about adoption, to consume all of the information. I felt excited as the days went on.
It hasn't even been very long since my IVF failed. Approximately one month. I should still be mourning all of the loss I've experienced over the past two years. And I am in some ways. But I am mostly looking forward for some reason.
Our post-IVF consultation was scheduled with my doctor for March 4th. I received a call last week that they could now get me in two days later, and I was ecstatic. I was so ready for some answers and to put all of this behind me. I knew I couldn't expect any kind of definitive information. I knew my doctor wouldn't say that I should definitely do IVF again because next time it definitely would work. I knew he wouldn't say there was no chance in hell it could ever work, and I should just move on. I was expecting something along the lines, "Odds just weren't in your favor this time. If we try again, we can hope for better results."
But I really wanted answers. Something that would allow me to let go, to forgive myself.
And so at the appointment, my doctor explained that he believes my endometriosis was so severe for so long that it essentially destroyed the quality of my egg reserve. He couldn't have known this without trying the IVF, so it was very informative. He said if we were interested in trying IVF again, his recommendation would be to put me on Lupron injections for 1-2 years. These would return me to that menopause state from this past summer (which was fairly miserable) and would really force my immune system to reset and get rid of any remaining endometriosis. He would also suggest I eliminate gluten from my diet and begin CoQ10 supplements. After that two-year period, he would change my IVF protocol to one that he would be more likely to use with older women who have egg quality issues. I asked if he felt confident that this approach would change things for us, but he couldn't say. There are no guarantees. I only asked for confirmation of just that. We can't know anything for sure.
I can't explain it, but I left that appointment feeling so happy and satisfied. I felt I had done what I could. I did what I owed myself and my husband and my future family. We did what we had to do to learn what we know now. And what we know now is that no matter what, J and I will probably never have biological children. It makes me sad, but it's okay.
We will have children. They will be our children, and we will love them so much. So much. I can't even begin to imagine how much because I can hardly comprehend it. I could burst.
I left that appointment knowing what was next. We would adopt our babies, and we would be happy parents full of love. I left feeling like I had permission to want these things, permission to move forward, to make things happen.
I left feeling encouraged even though I was delivered bad news. I left feeling relieved that I could for once know a certain path.
Sometimes I wonder if on some level I've always known I wouldn't be pregnant. I wouldn't give birth. From the moments our first attempts at conceiving didn't work, I felt a sinking feeling. Everyone told me to calm down. They told me I was ridiculous. Even as we made progress through fertility treatments and approached IVF time, I didn't feel incredibly positive. I tried to; I forced myself to. When it didn't work, I wasn't at all surprised. I was devastated. That's for sure, but I wasn't surprised.
Sometimes I wonder if on some level I've always known I would be an adoptive mother. Adoption stories have always held my attention and my heart. Nothing gets me moved and emotional like a woman telling the story of bringing her adopted baby home and into her family. My favorite baby dolls as a child were always of different ethnicities. (Which I thank my parents for. So progressive and awesome!) Even as I was preparing for IVF, I was blogging about seeking out conversations with adoptive mothers and learning as much as I could from them. I even wondered aloud why that was my focus when I should be concentrating on IVF.
Sometimes I wonder if on some level I've always known this was my path. I ignored it, or maybe I just did what I needed to do to get here. But now I know what it is, and it feels so good. I'm going to be a mother. My husband is going to be a father. And we can't wait to meet our children. Can't. Wait.
Last night I started crying for the first time in days, maybe even a week. It hit me that this road probably won't be simple or easy, either. I'm tired. We're both tired. And it would be so wonderful if something could go smoothly for us in our journey toward parenthood. But if it doesn't, we will be okay. Because in the end, we will be parents, we will have children, and we will be a family.
I'm going to keep listening to my heart.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Sunday, February 16, 2014
insanity.
As time has passed, in many ways, I feel more and more insane.
Just when I think I'm good -- so normal -- I lose it.
I read online that due to the hormones from an IVF cycle, when it fails it's very similar to enduring a miscarriage. I don't mean to compare my experience to the experience of anyone who has been through a miscarriage, because I can't know if that's accurate or not. But I will tell you that I have felt a devastating loss, a sense of insanity, an unpredictability in my mood and emotions, and an intense feeling of grief.
Last night I had a long phone conversation with my baby sister who lives in LA. I told her my stories of devastation and all of the instances of insanity I have experienced. Moments when I truly wondered if I was stable -- if I could go on with normal things and not reveal how crazy I am.
I shared a specific story with her from this past weekend, and we laughed about it. Which felt good. We laughed because it was so pathetic, and because it really is funny, but only because I'm a couple of days past it. She said I should write about it.
On Friday, I got my hair cut. I woke up and put makeup on. I got dressed in my favorite jeans and heeled boots, and I felt kind of pretty. This hadn't happened in a long time.
I had randomly gotten a last minute appointment because I felt like I needed it. My new hairdresser was cute and sweet, and I soaked it all in as she washed my hair and I felt a little pampered.
I came home and did dishes. I cleaned the bathroom and picked up the kitchen. I played with my dogs. I felt normal, and I was proud of myself. I started to believe that I would be okay.
On Saturday I woke up feeling fairly good. My husband and I made breakfast and watched a little morning television.
I told myself how normal and awesome and strong and impressive I am. I really focused on how well I was doing and thought, God -- you are a fucking rock star right now. Keep it up. And then at some point I started crying.
And I guess that opened up everything, and I cried and I cried. I cried for hours. I couldn't stop. J suggested I get in the hot shower and just sit there if I wanted. So I did, and it felt good, and I got out tear-free and calmed down.
I had lotioned my body and put on my fluffy robe. I made my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water so I could just chill out. Our dogs were running around, and Walter jumped up on my bare legs, scratching me. I told him No. I told him Off. And he got down.
And then he did it again. Jumped up and scratched my legs. And I turned and out of nowhere -- I'm not even convinced that the thoughts entered my mind before the words flew out of my mouth -- I screamed "GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU FUCKING DOG. FUCK YOU!" Literally screamed. So loud and out of control.
I calmly set my glass of water on the counter and turned around to leave the kitchen. I walked to my bedroom and just stood there.
Obviously J had heard this whole thing go down, and he came in to find me. And I collapsed in tears again, and the tears didn't leave me for another few hours. I felt out of control and awful. Again.
Some days I am me. And some days I am terrible. And I just want to be me again.
{Side note to anyone who might be worried about my dog -- He's fine. I immediately felt badly for yelling at him, but he's fine. We love him and spoil him, and he has a wonderful life (at least when I can keep my shit together).}
Just when I think I'm good -- so normal -- I lose it.
I read online that due to the hormones from an IVF cycle, when it fails it's very similar to enduring a miscarriage. I don't mean to compare my experience to the experience of anyone who has been through a miscarriage, because I can't know if that's accurate or not. But I will tell you that I have felt a devastating loss, a sense of insanity, an unpredictability in my mood and emotions, and an intense feeling of grief.
Last night I had a long phone conversation with my baby sister who lives in LA. I told her my stories of devastation and all of the instances of insanity I have experienced. Moments when I truly wondered if I was stable -- if I could go on with normal things and not reveal how crazy I am.
I shared a specific story with her from this past weekend, and we laughed about it. Which felt good. We laughed because it was so pathetic, and because it really is funny, but only because I'm a couple of days past it. She said I should write about it.
On Friday, I got my hair cut. I woke up and put makeup on. I got dressed in my favorite jeans and heeled boots, and I felt kind of pretty. This hadn't happened in a long time.
I had randomly gotten a last minute appointment because I felt like I needed it. My new hairdresser was cute and sweet, and I soaked it all in as she washed my hair and I felt a little pampered.
I came home and did dishes. I cleaned the bathroom and picked up the kitchen. I played with my dogs. I felt normal, and I was proud of myself. I started to believe that I would be okay.
On Saturday I woke up feeling fairly good. My husband and I made breakfast and watched a little morning television.
I told myself how normal and awesome and strong and impressive I am. I really focused on how well I was doing and thought, God -- you are a fucking rock star right now. Keep it up. And then at some point I started crying.
And I guess that opened up everything, and I cried and I cried. I cried for hours. I couldn't stop. J suggested I get in the hot shower and just sit there if I wanted. So I did, and it felt good, and I got out tear-free and calmed down.
I had lotioned my body and put on my fluffy robe. I made my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water so I could just chill out. Our dogs were running around, and Walter jumped up on my bare legs, scratching me. I told him No. I told him Off. And he got down.
And then he did it again. Jumped up and scratched my legs. And I turned and out of nowhere -- I'm not even convinced that the thoughts entered my mind before the words flew out of my mouth -- I screamed "GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU FUCKING DOG. FUCK YOU!" Literally screamed. So loud and out of control.
I calmly set my glass of water on the counter and turned around to leave the kitchen. I walked to my bedroom and just stood there.
Obviously J had heard this whole thing go down, and he came in to find me. And I collapsed in tears again, and the tears didn't leave me for another few hours. I felt out of control and awful. Again.
Some days I am me. And some days I am terrible. And I just want to be me again.
{Side note to anyone who might be worried about my dog -- He's fine. I immediately felt badly for yelling at him, but he's fine. We love him and spoil him, and he has a wonderful life (at least when I can keep my shit together).}
Friday, February 14, 2014
all the days after.
The next morning I woke up to spotting. Already.
My nurse said in her awful voicemail message that my period would start within five days. Then I was to call the office to schedule my consultation, and they'd get me back on birth control.
But I truly wasn't expecting for my body to physically expel everything I had built within mere hours of finding out the worst news. I wasn't ready for it.
And it made me angry.
I had to go about my day. I woke up early and drove to this high school to observe this teacher. I acted normal. I almost had forgotten what happened.
On my long drive home, I started to cry. I started to feel pissed off. I started to wonder what the fuck was going on.
But this wast the easiest day, and I don't know why. Finding out was the simple part. It was everything that came next that sent me over the edge.
On Saturday, I began bleeding heavily. J found me in the bathroom crying hysterically. I was naked from a shower, and my emotions were out of control. I couldn't even dry off without blood running down my thighs, and I couldn't help but notice how cruel it felt. How mean and awful it was that my body did this to me -- so boldly presenting my failure.
A couple of days later I called to schedule my consultation, but what do you know -- they can't get me in for more than a month. They're all booked.
This offended me because I knew if I had gotten pregnant, they would have time for me. But I didn't. I failed, and so I would have to wait again. My importance was expired, just like my hope and possibility. They made the appointment for March 4th.
The next several days were hard. It's still so unexpectedly hard. In fact, I'm not even two weeks out yet. But it feels like weeks and weeks -- months and months, even. Not that I'm healed, but that time has been creeping by. And I hate it, and I feel defeated.
My nurse said in her awful voicemail message that my period would start within five days. Then I was to call the office to schedule my consultation, and they'd get me back on birth control.
But I truly wasn't expecting for my body to physically expel everything I had built within mere hours of finding out the worst news. I wasn't ready for it.
And it made me angry.
I had to go about my day. I woke up early and drove to this high school to observe this teacher. I acted normal. I almost had forgotten what happened.
On my long drive home, I started to cry. I started to feel pissed off. I started to wonder what the fuck was going on.
But this wast the easiest day, and I don't know why. Finding out was the simple part. It was everything that came next that sent me over the edge.
On Saturday, I began bleeding heavily. J found me in the bathroom crying hysterically. I was naked from a shower, and my emotions were out of control. I couldn't even dry off without blood running down my thighs, and I couldn't help but notice how cruel it felt. How mean and awful it was that my body did this to me -- so boldly presenting my failure.
A couple of days later I called to schedule my consultation, but what do you know -- they can't get me in for more than a month. They're all booked.
This offended me because I knew if I had gotten pregnant, they would have time for me. But I didn't. I failed, and so I would have to wait again. My importance was expired, just like my hope and possibility. They made the appointment for March 4th.
The next several days were hard. It's still so unexpectedly hard. In fact, I'm not even two weeks out yet. But it feels like weeks and weeks -- months and months, even. Not that I'm healed, but that time has been creeping by. And I hate it, and I feel defeated.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
finding out.
I got home a little after 10:45 p.m. on the night of the 29th. The night J and I would learn if we had achieved what we wanted more than anything in life.
As soon as I stepped in the door, I dropped my bags and hugged him. It had been so hard to concentrate through class, to keep my stomach settled, to know that this most-anticipated message was in my pocket.
We looked at each other and decided to listen -- even though I think we almost preferred not to.
I hit play on the message, and my nurse didn't sound joyful. I knew she wasn't delivering good news. She said, "I wish so badly I had better news to deliver."
And it was over. It was all over.
I started nodding my head quietly, tears starting to form. I had prepared myself for this because I "didn't feel pregnant," whatever that means. But I didn't feel it.
J put his arms around me, and the tears started to fall.
The message ended, and I just kept nodding. And it was over.
It was over, and I had to go to bed because I had to leave the house at 6:30 the next morning to observe a high school teacher in another city. Life was going on as usual, even though I wasn't ready.
It was over, and that was all.
As soon as I stepped in the door, I dropped my bags and hugged him. It had been so hard to concentrate through class, to keep my stomach settled, to know that this most-anticipated message was in my pocket.
We looked at each other and decided to listen -- even though I think we almost preferred not to.
I hit play on the message, and my nurse didn't sound joyful. I knew she wasn't delivering good news. She said, "I wish so badly I had better news to deliver."
And it was over. It was all over.
I started nodding my head quietly, tears starting to form. I had prepared myself for this because I "didn't feel pregnant," whatever that means. But I didn't feel it.
J put his arms around me, and the tears started to fall.
The message ended, and I just kept nodding. And it was over.
It was over, and I had to go to bed because I had to leave the house at 6:30 the next morning to observe a high school teacher in another city. Life was going on as usual, even though I wasn't ready.
It was over, and that was all.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
transfer day.
We went to Oklahoma City Sunday night, even though our transfer time was 1 p.m. We could have made it Monday morning, but we just wanted to relax. To get settled and comfy and not worry about anything (yeah right!).
Monday morning came quickly, and we got some breakfast, showered, got into our comfy clothes. We arrived a little earlier than we were asked to, but what else were we going to do? And I kind of thought maybe the earlier we got there, the earlier we'd get some information about our embryos.
We didn't wait long before they took us back, but once we were back is when the real waiting began. They gave me a blanket to wrap my bare lower half in, and J and I sat on the same bed I was in during my retrieval process. I had done a pretty good job of keeping my shit together until this point. But that's when it all started to hit me. We would really get the biggest information of our lives, up to this point, in a few minutes. I just needed to know.
I had to take deep breaths, and there was no way I could think about anything else. J and I would make eye contact periodically, and I could tell he was experiencing a similar torment.
Finally the embryologist came back. It was all very, very matter-of-fact, which really kind of felt offensive in some way. She explained that all three were behind. They were moving slowly, more slowly than they would have expected. She asked for permission to perform assisted hatching on them to maybe improve their chances. We gave her permission to do what they needed to do to help them out. I asked, as she was leaving, why our embryos might be so slow, and is it a bad thing. She said it could be because they fertilized late, it could be because they were of poorer quality, it could be for all kinds of unknown reasons. I decided to cling to her first explanation.
My heart was pounding this whole time, and it didn't stop.
A different doctor, who I had never met, was set to do my transfer. He came back to introduce himself and was really quite personable -- more so than my own doctor. But he quickly said, "Well, these embryos aren't that great."
My heart sank.
He asked me how old I was and then told me that he would give a healthy 27-year-old with three embryos of this quality a 30-40% chance of achieving pregnancy.
My heart sank again.
I just wanted him to leave. I just wanted to cry. I just wanted to wake up and start over.
The doctor assured me the procedure would be fine and that they'd get started in a few minutes.
An assistant to the embryologist brought back a photo of our three embryos. I wanted to cry. They were real, and I could see them, and they "weren't that great" according to everyone around me.
The photo also had their new grades next to each. Two IVs and a III. And none of them were blastocysts yet. At day 5. It's bad news.
When we were alone, I turned to J -- totally fighting back tears -- and said, I just wish I didn't know.
They took me back to the OR and had J change into his "scrubs." He sat behind my head, but I couldn't even really tell he was there. The procedure was fast and efficient, and everything went "perfectly" according to the doctor. Everything except that I had these not so great embryos that I had willed so hard to become my babies.
They transferred me from the tables to a bed quickly, but I of course didn't want to move a muscle. I stayed there for one hour, and then they had me use the restroom -- which I really badly did NOT want to do. Then they sent us on our way, nurses telling me to keep us updated, and good luck, and hopefully even more than one would take!
I just wanted to cry.
So, yeah, I should've turned to the positives in this situation, and eventually I did. But it once again felt like another instance of bad news, less-than-ideal news. I just wanted something at some point to go perfectly.
J got me set up in our big king size bed at the hotel, and I was comfy. But then I cried. I was stuck in my situation, and it wasn't what I had dreamed it would be, and no one had ever given me really good news.
My husband and I eventually talked about the fact that we've never, ever had a 30-40% chance of getting pregnant. I agreed that the prospect was exciting, and at least we had that.
I stayed on my back in the hotel for 24 hours, and then we drove home. The drive home was miserable. I couldn't see anything, it was bumpy, I was cramped and uncomfortable. At about an hour into our drive, I started feeling cramps. It truly felt like I was getting my period. I didn't know if I should be excited that I was feeling something, anything -- or if I should be afraid that it wasn't normal.
I didn't say anything to J; I just hoped it was a good thing. And so the calculating began. They hadn't even been blastocysts, so could they really be implanting already? What else did I feel? Should I tell someone?
The cramping didn't stop that evening. And even at times, it almost felt intense. Then the cramps would calm down, and I'd almost not notice them. I texted my nurse about it, because I didn't know if it was worrisome or not. She didn't really tell me one way or the other, but she instructed me to take two Advil.
I did. And then J googled Advil, and we read that Advil impedes implantation. I wanted to vomit, I wanted to cry, all of the blood drained out of my body. Why would she tell me to do that? Why had I done what she said without reading about it first? I was panicking.
I finally fell asleep that night, but when I woke up in the morning and was still having some cramps, I decided to call my fertility institute and talk to a different nurse (my nurse and doctor work in partnership with this specific institute, but I only went to the institute for my two procedures -- retrieval and transfer). I got a nurse immediately, and she eased my mind. She said they don't want my uterus to expel the embryos, but that the cramps could also mean good things. She said to stay away from the Advil but that it wouldn't prevent implantation -- it's just not recommended during pregnancy.
I knew there was nothing I could do, so I chose to kind of let go of it -- at least as best I could.
I remained in bed for another 24 hours, and on Thursday I got up, took a shower, and went to my RE for a blood draw to check how I've been absorbing my progesterone.
Did I mention that when I got home Tuesday night from OKC, I felt like I had a scratchy, irritated throat. This is absolutely always my first symptom of a cold. I tried to will it away, but I knew it was coming, and at just the most perfect time.
By Thursday, I definitely had a sore throat and was coughing, but I knew it'd get worse. Because I could have been pregnant, I couldn't take anything, and in the next 4-5 days, I became so miserably sick that I couldn't believe my luck.
I went back to school and work feeling like absolute shit since I had missed so much for all of my appointments and procedures lately, but I was miserable. And the days moved along, and I wanted so badly for January 29th -- the day of my pregnancy blood test -- to arrive, and I wanted so badly for it to stay away forever.
That morning, I drove the hour and a half to my RE's office. I waited a few minutes, and then my nurse took me back. She drew the blood and told me about what was next -- either way. If I was pregnant, I would come back on Monday for my second beta. If I wasn't, I'd stop the progesterone, my period would start within five days, and I would call to schedule a consultation to discuss the cycle and my future options.
I didn't want to find out the outcome without my husband, and I had to be on campus an hour and a half away that night for a class. I wouldn't be home until 10:30 p.m. I asked my nurse to call and leave the outcome in a voicemail that J and I could listen to together later that night, once I got home. And she agreed.
I was sitting in my office when my phone rang around 4:30 that afternoon. The caller ID said it was her, and my heart stopped. I had to let it ring and ring and then go to voicemail. And then my phone alerted me to her message, and I just stared at the notification. The answer was there, right there where I could reach it. But I didn't. I didn't want to know without J, and so it remained there for another almost seven hours.
Monday morning came quickly, and we got some breakfast, showered, got into our comfy clothes. We arrived a little earlier than we were asked to, but what else were we going to do? And I kind of thought maybe the earlier we got there, the earlier we'd get some information about our embryos.
We didn't wait long before they took us back, but once we were back is when the real waiting began. They gave me a blanket to wrap my bare lower half in, and J and I sat on the same bed I was in during my retrieval process. I had done a pretty good job of keeping my shit together until this point. But that's when it all started to hit me. We would really get the biggest information of our lives, up to this point, in a few minutes. I just needed to know.
I had to take deep breaths, and there was no way I could think about anything else. J and I would make eye contact periodically, and I could tell he was experiencing a similar torment.
Finally the embryologist came back. It was all very, very matter-of-fact, which really kind of felt offensive in some way. She explained that all three were behind. They were moving slowly, more slowly than they would have expected. She asked for permission to perform assisted hatching on them to maybe improve their chances. We gave her permission to do what they needed to do to help them out. I asked, as she was leaving, why our embryos might be so slow, and is it a bad thing. She said it could be because they fertilized late, it could be because they were of poorer quality, it could be for all kinds of unknown reasons. I decided to cling to her first explanation.
My heart was pounding this whole time, and it didn't stop.
A different doctor, who I had never met, was set to do my transfer. He came back to introduce himself and was really quite personable -- more so than my own doctor. But he quickly said, "Well, these embryos aren't that great."
My heart sank.
He asked me how old I was and then told me that he would give a healthy 27-year-old with three embryos of this quality a 30-40% chance of achieving pregnancy.
My heart sank again.
I just wanted him to leave. I just wanted to cry. I just wanted to wake up and start over.
The doctor assured me the procedure would be fine and that they'd get started in a few minutes.
An assistant to the embryologist brought back a photo of our three embryos. I wanted to cry. They were real, and I could see them, and they "weren't that great" according to everyone around me.
The photo also had their new grades next to each. Two IVs and a III. And none of them were blastocysts yet. At day 5. It's bad news.
When we were alone, I turned to J -- totally fighting back tears -- and said, I just wish I didn't know.
They took me back to the OR and had J change into his "scrubs." He sat behind my head, but I couldn't even really tell he was there. The procedure was fast and efficient, and everything went "perfectly" according to the doctor. Everything except that I had these not so great embryos that I had willed so hard to become my babies.
They transferred me from the tables to a bed quickly, but I of course didn't want to move a muscle. I stayed there for one hour, and then they had me use the restroom -- which I really badly did NOT want to do. Then they sent us on our way, nurses telling me to keep us updated, and good luck, and hopefully even more than one would take!
I just wanted to cry.
So, yeah, I should've turned to the positives in this situation, and eventually I did. But it once again felt like another instance of bad news, less-than-ideal news. I just wanted something at some point to go perfectly.
J got me set up in our big king size bed at the hotel, and I was comfy. But then I cried. I was stuck in my situation, and it wasn't what I had dreamed it would be, and no one had ever given me really good news.
My husband and I eventually talked about the fact that we've never, ever had a 30-40% chance of getting pregnant. I agreed that the prospect was exciting, and at least we had that.
I stayed on my back in the hotel for 24 hours, and then we drove home. The drive home was miserable. I couldn't see anything, it was bumpy, I was cramped and uncomfortable. At about an hour into our drive, I started feeling cramps. It truly felt like I was getting my period. I didn't know if I should be excited that I was feeling something, anything -- or if I should be afraid that it wasn't normal.
I didn't say anything to J; I just hoped it was a good thing. And so the calculating began. They hadn't even been blastocysts, so could they really be implanting already? What else did I feel? Should I tell someone?
The cramping didn't stop that evening. And even at times, it almost felt intense. Then the cramps would calm down, and I'd almost not notice them. I texted my nurse about it, because I didn't know if it was worrisome or not. She didn't really tell me one way or the other, but she instructed me to take two Advil.
I did. And then J googled Advil, and we read that Advil impedes implantation. I wanted to vomit, I wanted to cry, all of the blood drained out of my body. Why would she tell me to do that? Why had I done what she said without reading about it first? I was panicking.
I finally fell asleep that night, but when I woke up in the morning and was still having some cramps, I decided to call my fertility institute and talk to a different nurse (my nurse and doctor work in partnership with this specific institute, but I only went to the institute for my two procedures -- retrieval and transfer). I got a nurse immediately, and she eased my mind. She said they don't want my uterus to expel the embryos, but that the cramps could also mean good things. She said to stay away from the Advil but that it wouldn't prevent implantation -- it's just not recommended during pregnancy.
I knew there was nothing I could do, so I chose to kind of let go of it -- at least as best I could.
I remained in bed for another 24 hours, and on Thursday I got up, took a shower, and went to my RE for a blood draw to check how I've been absorbing my progesterone.
Did I mention that when I got home Tuesday night from OKC, I felt like I had a scratchy, irritated throat. This is absolutely always my first symptom of a cold. I tried to will it away, but I knew it was coming, and at just the most perfect time.
By Thursday, I definitely had a sore throat and was coughing, but I knew it'd get worse. Because I could have been pregnant, I couldn't take anything, and in the next 4-5 days, I became so miserably sick that I couldn't believe my luck.
I went back to school and work feeling like absolute shit since I had missed so much for all of my appointments and procedures lately, but I was miserable. And the days moved along, and I wanted so badly for January 29th -- the day of my pregnancy blood test -- to arrive, and I wanted so badly for it to stay away forever.
That morning, I drove the hour and a half to my RE's office. I waited a few minutes, and then my nurse took me back. She drew the blood and told me about what was next -- either way. If I was pregnant, I would come back on Monday for my second beta. If I wasn't, I'd stop the progesterone, my period would start within five days, and I would call to schedule a consultation to discuss the cycle and my future options.
I didn't want to find out the outcome without my husband, and I had to be on campus an hour and a half away that night for a class. I wouldn't be home until 10:30 p.m. I asked my nurse to call and leave the outcome in a voicemail that J and I could listen to together later that night, once I got home. And she agreed.
I was sitting in my office when my phone rang around 4:30 that afternoon. The caller ID said it was her, and my heart stopped. I had to let it ring and ring and then go to voicemail. And then my phone alerted me to her message, and I just stared at the notification. The answer was there, right there where I could reach it. But I didn't. I didn't want to know without J, and so it remained there for another almost seven hours.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
all the embryo updates.
We got three embryo updates post-retrieval. The retrieval was on a Wednesday, so we knew nothing until Thursday around 12:45.
My nurse called to ask how I was doing and then proceeded to give me the rundown. She said that three of my six eggs had immediately been mature enough for fertilization. Only half. We were doing ICSI because of J's specific fertility issues, and I was nervous about that whole process anyway. But half? Okay, what else? All three of the mature eggs -- from what they could tell at this point -- had fertilized normally. This was a relief to me. The remaining three eggs were put in culture over night to mature, and all three had and were ready for a second-day ICSI fertilization. At this point, I felt super hopeful that we could get a number of fertilized eggs overall.
What I didn't know is that second-day fertilization rates are really low. I hadn't ever read about it; in fact, I probably didn't even know it was a thing at that point.
Recap:
Day 1 = 3 initially mature eggs, 3 fertilized eggs, 3 second-day mature eggs
On Friday, my call came at the same time -- around 12:45. At this point, I decided I knew my nurse's pattern/schedule and would wait by my phone everyday beginning at 12:15. She told me that two of the three that had fertilized were dividing, but the third had ultimately not fertilized normally -- it was polynucleated. This automatically felt painful because we lost a possibility in those moments, but I chose to focus on the two that remained. One of the embryos was a two-cell, and the other was a four-cell, if I'm remembering correctly. She also told me that one of the three previously immature eggs had fertilized normally during the second-day ICSI fertilization. That's when I decided to look up the process and the success rates only to find that rates are low! So I was glad to accept my one new fertilized egg. We had a total of three embryos, and all I could hope was that all three would make it to the end -- to transfer day.
My nurse reminded me that because we were looking at so few embryos, it was possible that they would determine a three-day transfer was best. I asked her whether this was a good thing or bad thing, and she just explained that the embryos need to be back in the body; it's where they belong, where they're safest. The five-day transfer is helpful in kind of weeding out the embryos, determining which are strongest by asking them to continue growing for a longer period of time. I didn't have the luxury of several embryos, so the five-day transfer was up in the air. They'd tell me tomorrow for sure -- which was the day of three-day transfer. So it would be a last minute thing, if it was necessary. It all, honestly, stressed me the fuck out.
Recap:
Day 2 = 2 dividing embryos (2-cell and 4-cell), 1 new fertilized egg
Saturday was my final embryo report and also the day of a three-day transfer if they decided that was my best option. This time my nurse called while I was in the shower -- because I was expecting her call at 12:45. My husband brought the phone in, I turned off the water, and we both huddled around my cell phone to listen to the report -- me dripping with shower water but not even noticing.
All three embryos were still dividing. The second-day fertilization was actually making better progress than one of the two original embryos. It was a healthy-looking four-cell. The strongest embryo was one from the first day at eight cells, and the third was a semi-weak, or slow, four-cell. She mentioned that our embryologist thought our strongest embryo was starting to "make some big changes," I guess transforming into a morula, which was good news. I felt hopeful.
She explained we would definitely be waiting for day 5 to do the transfer. I asked why -- I mean, if I only had three and if the embryos are best off in my body, what were we waiting for? (Not that I specifically wanted to do a three-day transfer, but I just didn't understand the logic behind the decision.) She explained that I was 27 and blah blah blah... I really felt like I didn't get an answer. All I can make of it is that because of my age, they expected my embryos to do well/be of good quality and that perhaps my risk of triplets would be high if they transferred all three? I don't know.
She explained that we had two level II embryos, and one level III. I felt confident in the two level IIs.
We hung up hopeful that all three would continue doing well and the strongest of the three would really take off. My nurse reminded us that we wouldn't receive an update the next day, Sunday, and that we wouldn't know anything more until we arrived for the transfer -- PURE TORTURE. We got our transfer time and the remaining instructions for Monday, and our call was done.
Recap:
Day 3 = 3 dividing embryos (2 four-cells, 1 eight-cell making "changes")
The next 48 hours were really kind of excruciating. To not know until you arrive at the hospital if you have any embryos left is awful. I kept telling myself that they would not make us come in for the procedure if there wasn't anything to transfer. I repeated this over and over, and that's what got me through.
My nurse called to ask how I was doing and then proceeded to give me the rundown. She said that three of my six eggs had immediately been mature enough for fertilization. Only half. We were doing ICSI because of J's specific fertility issues, and I was nervous about that whole process anyway. But half? Okay, what else? All three of the mature eggs -- from what they could tell at this point -- had fertilized normally. This was a relief to me. The remaining three eggs were put in culture over night to mature, and all three had and were ready for a second-day ICSI fertilization. At this point, I felt super hopeful that we could get a number of fertilized eggs overall.
What I didn't know is that second-day fertilization rates are really low. I hadn't ever read about it; in fact, I probably didn't even know it was a thing at that point.
Recap:
Day 1 = 3 initially mature eggs, 3 fertilized eggs, 3 second-day mature eggs
On Friday, my call came at the same time -- around 12:45. At this point, I decided I knew my nurse's pattern/schedule and would wait by my phone everyday beginning at 12:15. She told me that two of the three that had fertilized were dividing, but the third had ultimately not fertilized normally -- it was polynucleated. This automatically felt painful because we lost a possibility in those moments, but I chose to focus on the two that remained. One of the embryos was a two-cell, and the other was a four-cell, if I'm remembering correctly. She also told me that one of the three previously immature eggs had fertilized normally during the second-day ICSI fertilization. That's when I decided to look up the process and the success rates only to find that rates are low! So I was glad to accept my one new fertilized egg. We had a total of three embryos, and all I could hope was that all three would make it to the end -- to transfer day.
My nurse reminded me that because we were looking at so few embryos, it was possible that they would determine a three-day transfer was best. I asked her whether this was a good thing or bad thing, and she just explained that the embryos need to be back in the body; it's where they belong, where they're safest. The five-day transfer is helpful in kind of weeding out the embryos, determining which are strongest by asking them to continue growing for a longer period of time. I didn't have the luxury of several embryos, so the five-day transfer was up in the air. They'd tell me tomorrow for sure -- which was the day of three-day transfer. So it would be a last minute thing, if it was necessary. It all, honestly, stressed me the fuck out.
Recap:
Day 2 = 2 dividing embryos (2-cell and 4-cell), 1 new fertilized egg
Saturday was my final embryo report and also the day of a three-day transfer if they decided that was my best option. This time my nurse called while I was in the shower -- because I was expecting her call at 12:45. My husband brought the phone in, I turned off the water, and we both huddled around my cell phone to listen to the report -- me dripping with shower water but not even noticing.
All three embryos were still dividing. The second-day fertilization was actually making better progress than one of the two original embryos. It was a healthy-looking four-cell. The strongest embryo was one from the first day at eight cells, and the third was a semi-weak, or slow, four-cell. She mentioned that our embryologist thought our strongest embryo was starting to "make some big changes," I guess transforming into a morula, which was good news. I felt hopeful.
She explained we would definitely be waiting for day 5 to do the transfer. I asked why -- I mean, if I only had three and if the embryos are best off in my body, what were we waiting for? (Not that I specifically wanted to do a three-day transfer, but I just didn't understand the logic behind the decision.) She explained that I was 27 and blah blah blah... I really felt like I didn't get an answer. All I can make of it is that because of my age, they expected my embryos to do well/be of good quality and that perhaps my risk of triplets would be high if they transferred all three? I don't know.
She explained that we had two level II embryos, and one level III. I felt confident in the two level IIs.
We hung up hopeful that all three would continue doing well and the strongest of the three would really take off. My nurse reminded us that we wouldn't receive an update the next day, Sunday, and that we wouldn't know anything more until we arrived for the transfer -- PURE TORTURE. We got our transfer time and the remaining instructions for Monday, and our call was done.
Recap:
Day 3 = 3 dividing embryos (2 four-cells, 1 eight-cell making "changes")
The next 48 hours were really kind of excruciating. To not know until you arrive at the hospital if you have any embryos left is awful. I kept telling myself that they would not make us come in for the procedure if there wasn't anything to transfer. I repeated this over and over, and that's what got me through.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
egg retrieval and progesterone.
Tuesday, January 14th was first day off from receiving injections since Christmas Day. It was a bizarre feeling -- mostly panic -- that I had forgotten my shots or missed something important.
That evening we made our way to Oklahoma City, about a three-hour drive, so that we could settle in to our hotel room and enjoy a relaxing night prior to waking up early for the egg retrieval procedure. I had been instructed about not eating anything after midnight and making sure to arrive sans makeup and deodorant and nail polish. So that's what I spent my evening doing -- showering (which I did again in the morning), removing nail polish, eating dinner, and then just hanging out with my husband watching the good HBO shows that we don't get at home. (I miss GIRLS so much!)
In the morning, I showered again (paranoid much?), put on sweats and comfy shoes, and we were off. The hospital was less than a half mile from our hotel, so it wasn't much of a journey. They checked us in right away and took all the money we had to our names.
They led me back to a large recovery room where five beds were separated by curtains. I was given a gown and told to undress. They got me situated in one of the beds with a warm blanket -- always my favorite part -- and then it was time for my IV. They couldn't get it the first time in my right hand, but the first attempt in the left hand was fine. The saline started flowing, and I felt the cold run up my arm.
The anesthesiologist came in to introduce himself and ask me some questions about my medical history. He was so kind and friendly; I liked him immediately. Next up was my RE and his two shadowing medical students. He checked on me and explained things a little more.
My nurse, Jamie, was amazing, and I don't think I'll ever forget her. She took me through the whole scenario -- what kind of anesthesia they'd use and what it would feel like as I went under, how long the procedure would take, where my eggs would go, when I would wake up, that I might be weepy coming out of the drugs, the information they'd have for me upon waking, memory issues, etc. Nothing I experienced that day was a mystery to me because she had prepared me so well and taken such good care of me.
When it was time, they had me empty my bladder and walk back to the operating room. I got situated in a specific spot on the table, and they strapped my legs into the most intense "stirrups" I've ever seen in my life. Before I knew it, I was feeling good as the anesthesia made its way into my blood stream. I felt warm and drunk and sleepy, and that's the last thing I remember.
What seemed like immediately, I was groggily waking up in the same bed I had started in, J sitting in the corner chair. Tears were sliding down my cheeks, but I didn't know why. They told me they retrieved "six good eggs" and they were already with the embryologist. I felt so happy because it really was the best outcome I could have asked for since I only had six or seven responsive follicles. I had hoped and prayed for at least five.
I got my emotions in check and started to feel more and more like myself when another woman was wheeled out of the procedure. She had gone through the same process as us on the exact same schedule with the same physician, so we had come to know one another. We were always there for appointments at the same time, waiting in the waiting room together and with our husbands.
I could tell she was weepy as she woke up also. The doctor came back and told her he had only been able to get three eggs -- that's all there was. And she cried and cried and apologized to her husband. And so I cried again too.
They asked J to go get the car so that I could be wheeled out front and we could be on our way home. They had me use the restroom one last night. I was bleeding a little bit, and they assured me that it was normal and that I could expect to be a little sore.
I felt so good on the way home. They had gotten six eggs. Now, if you had told me two weeks before that they would only get six eggs, I would have been devastated. But having adjusted to only six follicles, it was all I could have hoped for. Funny how perspective changes.
Once we got home, I just wanted to take it easy and watching TV -- do mindless stuff. I hardly had my mind on the call we would get the next day about how many had fertilized.
That evening, my husband gave me my first progesterone shot. I was wary of these shots in particular because of what you hear about them, even because of what my nurse had said about them. I started off with a system, though, and it worked perfectly for the duration of the shots. I heated up a hot pad and put it on the site for about 20 minutes leading up to the shot. I also put the vial of progesterone in my bra to warm it. When the injection was administered, it hardly hurt at all. When it was over, I would spend a couple of minutes massaging the site, and then I'd apply the heat again for maybe 10 minutes. Each night we alternated sides of my butt to inject, and other than one instance where my husband drew blood, they never hurt or caused problems.
I woke up the next morning knowing the call would be coming, and I couldn't have hoped any harder that we would get good news.
That evening we made our way to Oklahoma City, about a three-hour drive, so that we could settle in to our hotel room and enjoy a relaxing night prior to waking up early for the egg retrieval procedure. I had been instructed about not eating anything after midnight and making sure to arrive sans makeup and deodorant and nail polish. So that's what I spent my evening doing -- showering (which I did again in the morning), removing nail polish, eating dinner, and then just hanging out with my husband watching the good HBO shows that we don't get at home. (I miss GIRLS so much!)
In the morning, I showered again (paranoid much?), put on sweats and comfy shoes, and we were off. The hospital was less than a half mile from our hotel, so it wasn't much of a journey. They checked us in right away and took all the money we had to our names.
They led me back to a large recovery room where five beds were separated by curtains. I was given a gown and told to undress. They got me situated in one of the beds with a warm blanket -- always my favorite part -- and then it was time for my IV. They couldn't get it the first time in my right hand, but the first attempt in the left hand was fine. The saline started flowing, and I felt the cold run up my arm.
The anesthesiologist came in to introduce himself and ask me some questions about my medical history. He was so kind and friendly; I liked him immediately. Next up was my RE and his two shadowing medical students. He checked on me and explained things a little more.
My nurse, Jamie, was amazing, and I don't think I'll ever forget her. She took me through the whole scenario -- what kind of anesthesia they'd use and what it would feel like as I went under, how long the procedure would take, where my eggs would go, when I would wake up, that I might be weepy coming out of the drugs, the information they'd have for me upon waking, memory issues, etc. Nothing I experienced that day was a mystery to me because she had prepared me so well and taken such good care of me.
When it was time, they had me empty my bladder and walk back to the operating room. I got situated in a specific spot on the table, and they strapped my legs into the most intense "stirrups" I've ever seen in my life. Before I knew it, I was feeling good as the anesthesia made its way into my blood stream. I felt warm and drunk and sleepy, and that's the last thing I remember.
What seemed like immediately, I was groggily waking up in the same bed I had started in, J sitting in the corner chair. Tears were sliding down my cheeks, but I didn't know why. They told me they retrieved "six good eggs" and they were already with the embryologist. I felt so happy because it really was the best outcome I could have asked for since I only had six or seven responsive follicles. I had hoped and prayed for at least five.
I got my emotions in check and started to feel more and more like myself when another woman was wheeled out of the procedure. She had gone through the same process as us on the exact same schedule with the same physician, so we had come to know one another. We were always there for appointments at the same time, waiting in the waiting room together and with our husbands.
I could tell she was weepy as she woke up also. The doctor came back and told her he had only been able to get three eggs -- that's all there was. And she cried and cried and apologized to her husband. And so I cried again too.
They asked J to go get the car so that I could be wheeled out front and we could be on our way home. They had me use the restroom one last night. I was bleeding a little bit, and they assured me that it was normal and that I could expect to be a little sore.
I felt so good on the way home. They had gotten six eggs. Now, if you had told me two weeks before that they would only get six eggs, I would have been devastated. But having adjusted to only six follicles, it was all I could have hoped for. Funny how perspective changes.
Once we got home, I just wanted to take it easy and watching TV -- do mindless stuff. I hardly had my mind on the call we would get the next day about how many had fertilized.
That evening, my husband gave me my first progesterone shot. I was wary of these shots in particular because of what you hear about them, even because of what my nurse had said about them. I started off with a system, though, and it worked perfectly for the duration of the shots. I heated up a hot pad and put it on the site for about 20 minutes leading up to the shot. I also put the vial of progesterone in my bra to warm it. When the injection was administered, it hardly hurt at all. When it was over, I would spend a couple of minutes massaging the site, and then I'd apply the heat again for maybe 10 minutes. Each night we alternated sides of my butt to inject, and other than one instance where my husband drew blood, they never hurt or caused problems.
I woke up the next morning knowing the call would be coming, and I couldn't have hoped any harder that we would get good news.
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