Set alarm at 5:45pm.
Shower in Betadine. Ew.
Put on the sexy drawers.
Accompany hubby to lab.
Give paperwork and ID’s to secretary.
Rub eyes in wonder (no coffee… grrrr…) as secretary informs you that the biologist and your doctor would like to do ICSI, since last time results were not that great, with only one embryo.
Rub eyes again, say “sure, whatever, oui oui” and sign paperwork.
Accompany hubby to tiny room with paper on a bed.
Go to bathroom. Wash hands. Wash man-parts.
Return to room.
Wipe hands and man parts with moist towelettes.
Show hubby the hawt drawers & recent brazilian wax. Meow.
Close eyes and pretend doing it this way is normal.
Take sterile cup out of paper bag.
Aim. Fire.
Return spermy cup into paper bag.
Return spermy cup papefr bag to secretary.
Go to car, drive to clinic.
Check in. Change into paper gown that shows your butt off.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Ingest nasty liquid that makes you see pink elephants.
Have your bed wheeled down to the operating room.
Tell your RE she looks cute in her scrubs. (It’s the drugs talking, really.)
Up, on the table.
Wooh, the room begins to spin.
OUT.
Wake up, asking “How many?? How many??” to a recovery room filled with nurses who have no idea what you are talking about.
Wait.
Wait.
Get wheeled back up to room.
Wait.
Wait.
Eat something, (hospital food… gross) just to prove to them you don’t need to throw up.
Wait.
Wait.
Pee.
Wait.
Wait.
“Okay, (4:30pm) you can go now.”
Stop by RE’s secretary.
“How many?? How many??”
The telephone rings.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Mme Fancypants, the doctor was able to retrieve a total of 8 eggs.
Scream “We have WON the LOTTERY PEOPLE!!!!!”
Secretary gives blank stare, gently asks you to calm down, explaining that of the 8 eggs, 4 were mature and ’survived’ through the ICSI manipulation and sperm ingection.
4, you tell yourself, that’s wonderful.
That’s double what we had last IVF.
And they’re all mature. All injected.
4 eggs.
Freck, that’s the most you could have hoped for.
Ride home with hubby.
Tell hubby you’re such a good wife that he’s going to cook dinner.
Hubby orders pizza.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
We will know Wednesday if and how many embryos are kicking.
Last night, at exactly 9pm, I pushed one final needle into my belly and emptied the syringe, triggering my body into ovulation.
Five follicles had grown to maturity Saturday morning when I saw my RE. I closed my eyes and silently hoped that in the hours that followed, the sixth one would have caught up.
Tomorrow is egg retrieval day. I’m going to visit the ER for the fourth time this year, climb into a table, and let myself be sedated into unconsciousness, once again.
I will not know, upon awakening, if the five, or the six, have yielded each one an ovocyte, but before leaving the clinic, in the afternoon, should receive that news. And then come home, and wait, with my man, leaving our precious cargo in the lab.
Sometimes the banal can seem so filled with emotion and meaning. I know that there is a fork in the gray road ahead, that one path will be open, and the other closed, and that the end of this long year will be filled with either joy or heartbreak.
Please let it be joy.
I thought the right one was dead. Two inseminations and one IVF, it’s never given the least bit of hope that it was anything but defunct… finished.
Imagine my surprise, and the surprise of my doctor, during the course of this morning’s ‘wanding’, when five nicely maturing follicles were spotted growing on my right ovary.
Five, count em, and one on the left, which makes a total of six.
I know, that isn’t a lot, compared to some women who make ten, fifteen, or even more follicles, but I’m a slow responder, have little ovarian reserve, and quite frankly, was expecting the worst. Last cycle we had four follies, yielding two eggs and one embryo. If in the six follies we have enough eggies to have two pretty embabies, and I’ll be happy.
I’m not hoping yet, but I do feel a little relief with each hurdle passed.
Egg retrieval is set for Monday.
Tomorrow is my first ultrasound, and first bloodwork, after 8 days of stimming.
I don’t ‘feel’ anything happening, it’s a bit eerie. No churning, no swelling ovaries, just a sore belly, and two black spots, evidence of my nightly injections and the times I hit a vein.
Is anything happening down there?
Oh dildocam, how I long to see thee!
Sunday was my wedding anniversary (6 years – eek, I’m an old hag!) and the Hubs and I had a rather non-eventful day, laying around the house in a zone, since my body decided that 3 am would be a good time to wake up, we are too broke to go away for the weekend, and, uh, there are lots of other things like IVF and having my period and not getting that Brazillian wax (due to said period) that made me think, nah, let’s just put off the party a couple of days.
We did however, do brunch before brushing our teeth and exchange gifts, at which moment I got a ring I have been drooling over and shamelessly hinting à la “That’s what I want you to buy me for our wedding anniversays, got it?” I haven’t been wearing my wedding ring (fat hands, eergh!! it doesn’t fit anymore) and I don’t have the heart to get it enlarged, since that it kind of akin to admitting that I will always have fat hands, from this day forth, and oh, did I tell you I’ve actually been jogging? For about 2 months now. Yeah, for real. But my hands are still fat.
So you can imagine the SURPRISE when I opened the tiny box, and THERE IT WAS, the ring I’ve been brainwashing him to buy me perfect gift from an, oh, so thoughtful man.
I bought him a bottle of cologne so he doesn’t smell funny.
I also celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary by stopping the BCP’s and using my prescription tampons, prescribed to me by my lovely RE. I still don’t know exactly what they’re for, except that it says ‘probiotic’ on the tiny can, that they have progesterone in them (interesting) and that you can get them without a prescription from Mexico if you want to be as priveledged as I seem to be.
Other than that, I also celebrated my wedding anniversary by recieving an unsolicited email from my mommie telling me in about 10 000 words what en evil person and terrible daughter I am. I retaliated by googling Amazon and ordering this book.
((insert awkward subject change here))
In other news, I start my stims on Wednesday, and have once again, neither hope nor ambition for this cycle, at least for the time being. Let it be what it is but I guess I just feel like my little heart can only take so much. So I’m trying not to hope, or to think about it. We’ll see how easy that proves to be once the needles come out.
Oh and one last thing, I am going back to school. It’s official, I’ve registered and will be doing 4 classes by coorespondance this year. So I am eagerly awating my acceptance package (please don’t regect me!!!!) and my coursework. Sadly I won’t be going to the school I spoke about, since it is WAY too expensive, and I am ineligable for any aid, but we’ll see how things work out in the future. For the moment I’m taking some general classes and then next year should I continue, I’ll have to choose a field of study. I’ve got some ideas rolling around in my mind but we’ll just see what happens between now and then.
So yes, I went ‘under the wand’ on Monday, and we have our first surprise for this IVF cycle!!
I have a cyst on my left ovary, which, if you will remember my last cycle, is the only one that produced any follies. So I’m going in tomorrow morning to have it punctured, which I guess is not a big deal, except for being under general anesthesia and another needle in my hoo-hoo.
Sunday I will stop taking the pill, and begin stims next Wednesday. I thought I’d post the stims protocol this time for all you wonderful nerdy IVFers. Who knows , maybe someone knows something about this, since it is quite different from the last time I cycled.
Decapeptyl injections, dosage: 0.1 mg daily. After doing a little homework via google, I have found out is the GnRH antagonist and apparently Lupron’s evil step-sister (oh well). In the US the equivalent is triptorelin.
Oh, and am I the only one that thinks it’s weird that IVFers use the same drug as men with prostate cancer?
Menopur injections, dosage: 150 UI daily.
Fostimon injections, dosage 150 UI daily. Fostimon is basically the French equivalent to Bravelle.
Oh, and the prenatals, of course. And the real hoot is that I have prescription tampons for my next period (after the Mighty Cyst Lancing episode tomorrow.) I think they’re supposed to help me heal faster.
Didn’t you want to know that??
I know, I know, I’ve been so busy intermittently not writing and then writing about other drama, that it may come as a surprise to you that I am cycling.
Yeah.
I’ve been on BCP for a few weeks now, so I think this is like CD20something but honestly, I haven’t been bothered to count.
I don’t know what to say. I can’t say I’m really into this. I can say I’m into it working, I guess I’m just not up for another round of heartbreak.
We are seeing my RE on Monday. She’ll wand me (yes, ‘wand’ is a verb) and check to see if my ovaries ovary is effectively in rest mode, and then I begin stims.
I’d love to say I’m hopeful, that I am excited to try again, that I am positive and that I believe that this will work. I’d love to say those things, but isn’t this the one place where I can speak the whole truth?
I’m fragile, wary of what might come of all of this, worried it will be too much to take. I don’t know if I will ever be a mother. I just don’t know if I, if my body, can.
I’ve been tweeting for about a year now, and keep wondering why I go back. Until this morning, when I discovered the most beautiful thing about what I used to describe as ‘a bunch of people shouting in a crowded room and barely noticing each other.
Want to know what it is?
I can scream in a crowded room and barely get noticed.
I’ve struggled my whole life with shyness. I have an uncanny way of making myself invisible in social situations, and trust me, at 5′11 that’s a pretty amazing feat. I can even do it in heels.
I don’t know what happened. I had a crazy weekend. You know about that. Drama, drama, drama. I don’t know if my mother is ever going to speak to me again, oh and I have cried and cried my bloodshot to hell eyes out the last several days. Apparently she has some kind of heart blockage, and again, is acting super top secret about it. Apparently it’s serious.
Did I forget to mention that she lives in a hotel and has no savings as well? She never thought about her future, she’s been saying for years that “Jesus is going to come back before ______,” (insert Christmas/you’re old enough to date/get married/have kids/etc) so why would she need savings? And no, my friends, in case you are not aware of it, Jesus has not come back and she’s fifty nine and can’t hold a job so, I think we may be stepping up the drama in the near future. Oh, and if this isn’t enough to make you run screaming “Cult alert!! Cult alert”, yes, I’m the girl who grew up without a TV, because, of course, the Government was watching us through them.
Didn’t you know that?
Oh, and while we’re really getting to know each other, “Silvio Berlosconi is the Antichrist.”
I’m not kidding.
So yes, this is the environment I grew up in, that not secret environment that I haven’t talked to you about yet here, because, well, it’s complicated, and I think that all things faith and spiritual can be quite confusing, especially when you do sincerely believe there is a God but somehow have to work through shit questions like “But why mom did you cast demons out of me when I talked back to you?”
(Sassy officailly loses rest of dwindling readership here.)
So yes, my loves, I grew up surrounded by The Crazy, and I’m dealing and this is a BIG part of why I started therapy and have been dealing with so many issues, things I didn’t even know were issues, because if you grow up in The Crazy , then you think that The Crazy is normal and that The normal is The Enemy.
“Wasn’t this going to be a post about Twitter?”
Yes, so as I was (or wasn’t) saying, I have been talking and writing with some other family members, and some friends, trying to work this out, you know, the part of being cut out of my mom’s life and the other part about feeling emmotionally raped when I have interaction with her and the other, other part about feeling guilty like it is all my stupid fault and the other, other , other part about NO that is wrong that is CODEPENDENCY people, and the other other other other other part about Mommykin’s jealous breakdown about the fact that this whole “I hate you/Please love me” meltdown that has been going on the last several months is actually a jealous fit of rage and that all came out this weekend too.
And the part about how the only way I can prove to my mom I love her is by not having relationships with other people and putting her first, and shutting my mouth, and agreeing with her, when she sends me yet another email explaining why Silvio Berlosconi is the Antichrist.
Back to Twitter, so like I said, I spent the last couple days emailing and talking to family members and loved ones about this situations, honestly searching to see if there was and fragging stone I had left unturned in my crusade to make things right, while at the same time, not losing my soul (again), because, well, I just can’t.
I’ve cried so much, sometimes when I’m writing those emails there is actually water, floating around in little puddles between the letters on my keyboard, dripping off my fingers, and clouding my eyes. After a conversation with my aunt (mom’s sis) the other evening, I hung up the phone only to stare at the wall blankly for over an hour. When the hubs found me he put his arms around me and I just started hurling and crying so hard, so deep, it was like an animal inside my was making these frightening noises and at one point I was so hopelessly lost and sad and done with everything that is beautiful and good, throwing up clear bile, (I know, gross) that I just fell asleep on a salty, wet pillow. I woke up the next day and was empty, drained.
I just dont’ know what I can do.
And then tis morning (back to Twitter) I found the answer, to this, and heretofore all prroblems and drama in my life.
Because the government may not be watching us through our televisions, but there is always someone out there , judging.
Amen.
(update : not my painting – but it spoke to me!)
I’m sorry for being so dramatic. I needed to vent, and I guess I preferred you, rather than ‘accidently’ kicking my husband’s shins while we ate dinner, or being mean to telemarketers.
Thank you for the comments, love… support. Again, you guys are the best.
I did talk to my brother last night, to try to get to the bottom of my mom’s ‘health problems’. She’s been telling everyone not to tell me but he did anyway. He said he didn’t agree with her and that if she was sick I have a right to know.
Thank you baby brother.
I guess she has some heart problems that look pretty serious. We’re awaiting the results (or rather, she’s waiting, I’m just waiting for little bro to leak them back to me…) but her heart is apparently skipping beats and there is some kind of blockage.
I don’t know what to say, or do. I tried emailing her last week, and got no answer. Honestly, I’m scared to call, as the last couple time I have done that have resulted in being told I don’t love her and getting hung up on.
My brother put it well, saying “She does want a relationship with you, it just has to be 100% on her own terms.”
I feel like my heart is about to explode into my throat. Drama. Too much. I don’t know, maybe I am just in a moment of weakness… my Dad has cancer, ok. So my mother, who has decided that since I am The Shittiest Daughter Ever since I was gong through IVF meltdown/post surgery recovery/attending my uncle’s funeral and hasn’t been speaking to me since this past April, has decided to do some behind the scenes guilt tripping.
So, I hear from my aunt, that my mom doesn’t want me to know that she is sick with something she’s sworn not to tell me.
Is she sick? Maybe. Am I evil? Surely. Since all I can think is how she will always find a way to make herself the center, to remind me, when I am unemployed and taking care of preggo babysis and trying to keep my life/head together while she couldn’t give a rat’s arseneck how many potential babies my womb destroys or that I am a living entity apart from what she has decided that I am.
I know this is not making any sense. Unless you love someone like her, don’t bother trying to make any sense of it. I just wish there was some non-ridiculous way to say something like, “Mom, I love you. I hope you’re not sick, oh, and I’m not evil. Just dont hijack my life.”
