BrooklynGirl

That Lean, Mean Green

Money money money money money
Some people got to have it
Some people really need it
Listen to me y'all, do things, do things, do bad things with it
You wanna do things, do things, do things, good things with it
Talk about cash money, money.
--The O'Jays

Well, I paid the fertility clinic today. I had been suffering from the delusion that the bills had been delayed or that some anonymous benefactor had taken pity on us and just made them go bye bye, but no--it turns out they had come and my husband was just waiting for the "right time" to bring it up. As if there is such a thing.

Feh.

I Wish

I wish I could say that I was wrong. I wish I could say it was worth it to blow $195 on a pregnancy test. I wish I hadn't just gotten my period about an hour ago. I wish.

But alas. None of those things is true. I got the call from the nurse earlier today, and then as if nature felt it necessary to add an exclamation point, the gates of the Great Menstrual Flood of 2004 opened.

I wish I could be like getupgrrl and say I'm not wallowing in the "why me-ness" of this situtation, but the fact is that's exactly what I'm doing. This gigantic fuck you from the universe plays into all the insecurities I've ever had that something is wrong with me. These aren't rational fears, mind you. These are the fears of an adolescent who worries that no one will want to sit with her at lunch or that she'll wear the wrong clothes and that no one will be her friend or that the boy she really likes who's standing across the room talking to his friends is really talking about her and what a freak she is. Like I said, not rational.

But then again, maybe what's really scary to me is the fact that I'm not an adolescent. I know that sometimes you do eat lunch alone (even when you don't want to), sometimes it does really matter what clothes you wear, and sometimes the cute boy really is calling you a freak. There's no guaranteed happy ending for this infertility story: we will run out of money and, thus, options.

Anyway, that's all the blathering I have in me for now. Thanks for your good thoughts. I wish I could have delivered on them.

Do the Ostrich!

So, my beta is tomorrow. Figuring an HPT would tell me all I need to know and seeing as how my cheap ass insurance won't pay for a beta, I wasn't planning to go in, but I got a stern talking to from the PA who did my insemination about how HPTs are unreliable, etc., etc. So, fine--I'll wake up at 5 am, drag my sorry ass to the upper east side, and spend the day phoning home to check my messages. Who wouldn't look forward to that?

Until then, however, I plan to play ostrich and bury myself in my school work and work work and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary is going to happen tomorrow.

I'll be back when I have news.

Irony Thy Name Is Infertility

So, a couple of years ago when this whole babymaking operation first got off the ground, my husband and I used to joke about having sex on a schedule (hey, it was funny then) and we developed all sorts of euphemisms for it, the only one of which I remember is "Is it a good time to work on The Project?" Sometimes, instead of announcing that it was, in fact, a good time to work on The Project, I would suggest we go out for oysters--since my husband really likes oysters and they're supposed to be an aphrodiasiac.

Anyhoo, last night, I had class, but my husband IMed me at work to say that he was going out for oysters. I thought this was kinda cute, and I like that he's doing what he can to find a silver lining and do things that bring him pleasure since, obviously, having conjugal relations with a specimen cup is not that pleasurable in and of itself. Maybe I'm wrong.

This morning, he went in to do his thing and then a little while later I showed up to do my thing or rather, to have my thing done.¹ When I left, the physician's assistant reminded me to have intercourse tonight and again tomorrow morning. I inwardly chuckled at this, knowing that a man who had to get up early and go all the way uptown in order to get intimate with a cup was not likely to want so much more intimacy so soon, but not wanting to get into those details with the perky young PA, I just nodded my head. Yes, I would be a good girl and have myself some sex. I wondered if I could suggest more oysters to my poor sweet husband who once, believe it or not, actually liked having sex with me.²

By I made my way home, there was a message from said sweet husband who was on his way home for work. He wasn't feeling well. Stomach flu or maybe food poisoning. Naturally, we suspect the oysters. This poor sweet mean is spending this valuable time being intimate with the commode, the bed, and when he's feeling perky, the couch, but certainly not with me. Ha, ha, ha. Take that Alanis Morisette--now, that's irony for you.

¹So far, every other couple I have seen at the clinic goes in to do their IUIs together, but it hasn't been a priority for me to work our already complicated schedules out to accomodate that. I mean, there's no mistaking the fact that this is not an intimate moment what the the harsh lights, sterile catheter, etc., and I just can't will myself to pretend that it is. Does this make me a bad person? Probably, yeah.

²This is not to suggest that I think his get up and go has got up and gone altogether, but, well, you know what I mean.

Tomorrow, Tomorrow

Well, tomorrow's the IUI. I’ve got lots of thoughts bouncing around in my head that I’ve been trying to articulate, but mostly it comes to this: I so badly want this to work. I wish it didn’t feel so self-serving to say that, but it's all I've got.

I don't want to have to think about what happens if it doesn't work, and I don't want to worry about the money, and the time, and whether there's a reason this is happening to me. I don't want to feel this out of control of my own life anymore. I don't want to try to accept that this just wan't meant to be. I don't want to look on the bright side of things. I don't want to count my blessings.

I just want this. Am I really asking too much?

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

--Langston Hughes

I'm a Lunatic

I mean, this is not news, but I just wanted to get the confession out there. After spending so much time fretting about my E2 levels, I was talked down off the ledge first by getupgrrl, and then on that strong foundation, by my doctor.

The first bit of good news was that the only phlebotomist who get get blood from me without torment was on duty at the clinic this morning. I was teary-eyed with relief when I saw her and couldn't stop myself from remarking remarking repeatedly and quite loudly "Thank God you're here," which--it occurred to me after the fact--might incur the wrath of the other phlebotomists who seem to have no qualms about hurting me when they're not even trying. At least, I don't think they're trying. Or weren't until I started playing favorites. Because I'm just self-involved enough to believe that they would actually care who "gets" to draw blood from the likes of me (I told you I was crazy).

Anyway, after the success of the blood draw, I was further cheered to find that my doctor was on monitoring duty so I got to check in with him. He took a look at my follicles, pronounced them mature--all 5 of them!--and said we'd trigger tonight. He said that my E2 levels were fine and pointed out that I didn't actually go to medical school so I should quit playing doctor. Okay, so he didn't really say that, but I could tell he was thinking it. He shook my hand and wished me luck, which was oddly touching.

So, we trigger with Ovidrel tonight and then the IUI itself is Wednesday. Hilariously, I'm trying to schedule around my Spanish class that morning because believe it or not, my grade is affected by unexcused absences, and I just can't imagine having to explain to my 25-year old professor why this is one absence he should excuse. Please, just spare me that indignity!

What A Weekend

This weekend was my friend D.'s wedding so that took up a lot of emotional and actual time. When I wasn't at the wedding or obsessing about how to get to the wedding or wondering where I'd administer my injections at the wedding, I was at the clinic and/or obsessing about what was happening at the clinic.

Today's CD 11 for me, and that's when I triggered last month (but that's not necessarily something we want to emulate as I wound up with only one dominant follicle and am not, as you might have noticed, pregnant). Still, I doubled my dosage this month so I was expecting things to move along more quickly. Instead, what's happened is this: I've spent the last three mornings at the clinic (a major drag when you have to be there around 7 and have been out late at wedding-related festivities the nights before).

Given my misadventures in blood-letting, these visits have not been fun. What's more....I don't think the news has been good. The fellow I saw yesterday and today was not terribly communicative, but if I'm reading the ultrasound screen right (and hey, with my extensive medical training, why wouldn't I be?), I seem to have 5 follicles at around 15mm. And that seems good. But yesterday's e2 level was 298, which seems bad. Really bad. My Infoholic Witch keeps finding women with E2 levels over 1000. Over 1500 even. And I'm at 298?

I'm not a particularly svelte girl, and my Infoholic Witch has also somewhat helpfully pointed out that my extra padding, as it were, can affect my E2 level, but still. Phrases such as "poor responder" and "snowball's chance in hell" kept running through my head, when I should have been thinking good thoughts for the bride and groom. Oh, and did I mention that this was an old fashioned Catholic ceremony--the sort that mentions childbearing as a part of the wedding vows? That part was my favorite.

Unholy Things

So, in this Lenten season, it seems appropriate to announce that yesterday I received the stigmata. Okay, so this particular stigmata is more a sign of my infertility (imagine a scarlet I, if you will) than of my religious devotion, but still. Mel Gibson's got nothing on me.

I'll explain....Like Monica, I'm a tough stick and when I showed up for my appointment at the clinic on Friday, the phlebotomist took one look at my arms and....well, ignored the fact that she couldn't see or feel any veins and dove right in. She poked around my elbow region for awhile while I clenched my teeth and attempted to assure her that I was not about to pass out.

Having been unsuccessful in the attempt, she turned to the veins in my forearms, which are generally a good bet, although my right forearm had been tapped earlier in the week and the resulting bruise was so ghastly it scared her away. This left one option: the back of the hand. Because nothing is easy, of course, she missed on the right hand and blew the vein so we had to use the left.

I left the office with both hands bandaged rather noticably. So many indignities, so little time!

...And Wednesdays Aren't Great Either

So, there's been some sad news out there in cyberland lately so I'm reluctant to post my whiny little post, but here it goes anyway: I spent 2 hours at the clinic this morning. The place was jammed so it couldn't be helped [she says charitably as if good karma were some sort of fertility talisman], but still. 2 hours.

The phlebotomist once again mocked my uncooperative veins and told me to drink more water--I've stopped counting at 3 liters a day so I can't imagine the problem is dehydration. My veins are difficult, but they're mine and I love them so back off. We're doing what we can. Anyway, the doc found 3 follicles on my right ovary (the largest of which was 11 mm) and a bunch of smaller ones on my left so we're continuing with the Bravelle until Friday, when we'll return to spend 2 more hours in the clinic. Bollocks.

I seem to be having a better response than last time which is good, though I'm still trying to bar my Hope Addict from the premises. She's running around the edges though--like the creepy kid who terrorizes Keifer Sutherland in Flatliners: I hear a rustling sound, and I know it's her, but when I turn around, she's gone. She's a crafty bitch that one.

I Don't Like Mondays

Well, fuck. Sad news for getupgrrl is casting a pall over everything. I don’t know what to say except to repeat that it’s not fair. It’s really not.

I had my Day 5 appointment at the clinic yesterday morning, and it should have been just easy peasy blood work, but it took the phlebotomist three tries to find a vein. They always look at me vaguely accusingly when they examine my arms--like I purposely made the vains hard to find.

Anyway, with the fresh bruises just beginning to form, I made my way to Spanish class (using the hell out of my Metrocard, by the way: 5 different subways before 9 am) where we were learning how say things with various times of day—just simple sentences like "Class starts at 9:30," "I return home at 6:00," "I am going out with Carmen at 8:00," etc. You know, your basic language learning stuff.

So, the question my instructor went around the room and asked everyone was "What time do you leave your house on Mondays?" Now, most of the kids leave their dorms around the corner from class at around 9:15 for a 9:30 class (Salen de sus residencias a las nueve y cuarto de la mañana). And then there's me, who left the house at 6 a.m. (Salgo de mi casa a las seis de la mañana) to go to the doctor. And I felt so old. I mean, I remember what it was like to be an undergraduate, and if I thought about pregnancy at all, it was always about how to avoid it. And look at me now.

After we'd mastered the concept of time (well, kind of), we talked about our plans for spring break. Somehow I managed to restrain myself and did not ask "How do you say intrauterine insemination in Spanish?" Instead, I pretended I was going to Cancun.