Final grade for the NuvaRing: B+. It did eventually engender in me a certain amount of irritability (ahem) and sore breasts. The most distressing side effect was a cystitis-y bladder irritation. I was annoyed enough that I took it out on 2 am of the day I was supposed to remove it. Overall, though, a solid performance. OCPs get a straight D.
I think my favorite thing about the NuvaRing was the way it did not require me to do anything every day. I couldn't feel it, and for those 21 days I could just forget about the whole TTC thing. Good stuff.
I'm now on intramuscular injectible estrogen. It's a small quantity, but since the carrier oil is very thick it still hurts sometimes. But it's only every three day, so no biggie.
I am also, following on the lining success of my past two cycles, taking via-oh-god-please-don't-spam-me-gra. Except when I ordered it from my grey market Indian pharmacy I did not order enough for three cycles. I guess I thought it would be... negative? Pessimistic? Evidence of a disturbing lack of faith? Anyway, I got enough for two cycles. But for various reasons, I have just enough now to scrape thinly over the third cycle provided I use the bonus "buy some get a free gift!" tablets, which were a higher dosage. I'm cutting them with a pill cutter, so fine. The funny part is that the free ones? Soft chews. So the ones I am cramming up my nether regions are fruit flavored.
Lining check on the 11th.
Showing posts with label another openin of another show. Show all posts
Showing posts with label another openin of another show. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Pills and newborns and ramblings
The first step to an IVF cycle is the taking of birth control pills, and believe me, the irony of this is lost on no one.
I hate this bit. They make me depressed, they make me nauseated, and I have the sneaking suspicion that they're not actually necessary. But I'm also apparently not interested in fighting it, so the little yellow pills I do pop.
I just got back from a solo cross-country visit with my best friend and her family, which consists of a husband, two preschoolers, a two month old baby, and an adolescent dog the size of a Shetland pony.
I had a great time. I was a bit nervous that my Crazy would boil over and get all over the newborn's sweet fuzzy head -- this is the baby that BFF was pregnant with while I was (briefly) pregnant with the Sea Monkeys, and I had so fondly imagined us being the mothers of newborns together.
But it was better than fine. There was a certain leaning-on-the-bruise aspect, but it was far outweighed by the sensory delight of handling a tiny baby again. I got to wear him a good deal, and I love wearing babies. I smelled his head and stroked his wee crumpled hands and gave him bottles and it was not even bittersweet, just sweet with a side of wistful.
The only really painful moment was an unexpected one -- I was wearing him on my back and BFF and I were picking up the two older kids from nursery school. One of the other moms was chatting and airily said to BFF, upon being told that I was visiting "Oh, my best friend doesn't have kids either, it's great because they can help out, huh?" It was a perfectly innocent thing to say, but I was just overwhelmed with ouch and couldn't say a thing back. I just froze. What felt like a year and was probably a few seconds later, BFF firmly corrected her and said "no, she has a little boy at home with her partner". And the world started again and everything was fine.
I mean, it wasn't a crazy assumption. How many mothers can just take off across the country to visit a friend? (Mothers of one who have a tolerant partner, that's who.) And how was she supposed to know, looking at me, that I am a mother? She couldn't see my c-section scar. I wasn't wearing a pin that said I gestated a child, ask me how!
I don't know why that spiked my grief, or why even remembering it now is so painful. Maybe because just for a minute it dangles me over the cliff of how close I came to not being a mother at all. It's becoming clear that my body doesn't love producing babies. Maybe our little guy was a complete fluke, a one-in-a-million. Maybe someone is going to show up and tell me that it was all a mistake and I don't get to keep him after all. Nope. I don't care. I'm not giving him back.
This morning I was telling my boss about my trip and seeing the new baby. "It didn't give you ideas, did it?" she joked.
"Hahaha!" said I. "Ha! Ha."
It was a lovely trip. We ate stunningly good food, got massaged, got manicured and pedicure'd, and engaged in plenty of the activity I've missed most: chatting aimlessly with my best friend within hugging range. I'm awfully glad I went.
I hate this bit. They make me depressed, they make me nauseated, and I have the sneaking suspicion that they're not actually necessary. But I'm also apparently not interested in fighting it, so the little yellow pills I do pop.
I just got back from a solo cross-country visit with my best friend and her family, which consists of a husband, two preschoolers, a two month old baby, and an adolescent dog the size of a Shetland pony.
I had a great time. I was a bit nervous that my Crazy would boil over and get all over the newborn's sweet fuzzy head -- this is the baby that BFF was pregnant with while I was (briefly) pregnant with the Sea Monkeys, and I had so fondly imagined us being the mothers of newborns together.
But it was better than fine. There was a certain leaning-on-the-bruise aspect, but it was far outweighed by the sensory delight of handling a tiny baby again. I got to wear him a good deal, and I love wearing babies. I smelled his head and stroked his wee crumpled hands and gave him bottles and it was not even bittersweet, just sweet with a side of wistful.
The only really painful moment was an unexpected one -- I was wearing him on my back and BFF and I were picking up the two older kids from nursery school. One of the other moms was chatting and airily said to BFF, upon being told that I was visiting "Oh, my best friend doesn't have kids either, it's great because they can help out, huh?" It was a perfectly innocent thing to say, but I was just overwhelmed with ouch and couldn't say a thing back. I just froze. What felt like a year and was probably a few seconds later, BFF firmly corrected her and said "no, she has a little boy at home with her partner". And the world started again and everything was fine.
I mean, it wasn't a crazy assumption. How many mothers can just take off across the country to visit a friend? (Mothers of one who have a tolerant partner, that's who.) And how was she supposed to know, looking at me, that I am a mother? She couldn't see my c-section scar. I wasn't wearing a pin that said I gestated a child, ask me how!
I don't know why that spiked my grief, or why even remembering it now is so painful. Maybe because just for a minute it dangles me over the cliff of how close I came to not being a mother at all. It's becoming clear that my body doesn't love producing babies. Maybe our little guy was a complete fluke, a one-in-a-million. Maybe someone is going to show up and tell me that it was all a mistake and I don't get to keep him after all. Nope. I don't care. I'm not giving him back.
This morning I was telling my boss about my trip and seeing the new baby. "It didn't give you ideas, did it?" she joked.
"Hahaha!" said I. "Ha! Ha."
It was a lovely trip. We ate stunningly good food, got massaged, got manicured and pedicure'd, and engaged in plenty of the activity I've missed most: chatting aimlessly with my best friend within hugging range. I'm awfully glad I went.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Here we go.
HSG is scheduled for tomorrow at 1:45 pm; I have to be there at 1 to rock the backless hospital gown.
I'm nervous as hell. Not only was the last one quite amazingly painful, but it was when I got the news about the Asherman's. It sucked. I'm not really looking forward to being in that room again. In fact, my last few visits to this particular hospital campus have not been the funnest experiences ever. Well. It already is what it is in there, it's just me knowing, right? And I always have to know.
In a few more months it'll be a cool two years since we started TTC #2. I won't say it's been a miserable two years, far from it! Over this time Small Boy has transformed from a toddling baby to a sturdy preschooler, full of ideas and plans and words and strategies. He's got enormous grey eyes and delts sculpted from playground tumbling and long, long legs on a rather short torso (sorry, kid, that one's all me). Sometimes it hurts how much I love him.
Other good stuff has happened. We got another four years of Obama, and my state got marriage equality, which means a tremendous amount to me.
It hasn't been the easiest two years, either. It's certainly had its moments. The ultrasound moment when the doctor said "I don't see a heartbeat. I'm sorry," feels like it's preserved in amber, but I hope that someday it will quietly dissolve. The actual aftermath was not as terrible as that moment. In retrospect, it is something I'm kind of proud of. I worked, I researched, I stuck to my guns about the misoprostol. I was given a humane amount of pain relief and it was over quickly. I'm even glad I got to hold those two rather revolting little sea monkeys (although the positive nature of that experience was perhaps influenced by the aforementioned "humane amount of pain relief"). They were grody, but they were mine. I don't know if they were people. I know to some they would've been. But it's possible that they just weren't equipped to be people, they simply didn't have what they needed, there was no world in which they would've been people because they were just missing some vital ingredients.
I mean, it's also possible that they were perfect and my stupid Asherman-y uterus killed them, but whatevs. I can't know. I could've known, maybe, if I'd gone ahead and had the D&C so I could've had an analysis of the fetal tissue. But what would it have changed? I'd have been risking a future actual child in order to know more about what happened to these. So I guess I don't always have to know.
So here we are. In a lot of ways I'm in the best place I've been for two years. Calmer, happier, healthier. Ready to roll the dice two more times, and then, if I must, to put them down and walk away.
Gulp. Tomorrow I start rattlin' the bones.
I'm nervous as hell. Not only was the last one quite amazingly painful, but it was when I got the news about the Asherman's. It sucked. I'm not really looking forward to being in that room again. In fact, my last few visits to this particular hospital campus have not been the funnest experiences ever. Well. It already is what it is in there, it's just me knowing, right? And I always have to know.
In a few more months it'll be a cool two years since we started TTC #2. I won't say it's been a miserable two years, far from it! Over this time Small Boy has transformed from a toddling baby to a sturdy preschooler, full of ideas and plans and words and strategies. He's got enormous grey eyes and delts sculpted from playground tumbling and long, long legs on a rather short torso (sorry, kid, that one's all me). Sometimes it hurts how much I love him.
Other good stuff has happened. We got another four years of Obama, and my state got marriage equality, which means a tremendous amount to me.
It hasn't been the easiest two years, either. It's certainly had its moments. The ultrasound moment when the doctor said "I don't see a heartbeat. I'm sorry," feels like it's preserved in amber, but I hope that someday it will quietly dissolve. The actual aftermath was not as terrible as that moment. In retrospect, it is something I'm kind of proud of. I worked, I researched, I stuck to my guns about the misoprostol. I was given a humane amount of pain relief and it was over quickly. I'm even glad I got to hold those two rather revolting little sea monkeys (although the positive nature of that experience was perhaps influenced by the aforementioned "humane amount of pain relief"). They were grody, but they were mine. I don't know if they were people. I know to some they would've been. But it's possible that they just weren't equipped to be people, they simply didn't have what they needed, there was no world in which they would've been people because they were just missing some vital ingredients.
I mean, it's also possible that they were perfect and my stupid Asherman-y uterus killed them, but whatevs. I can't know. I could've known, maybe, if I'd gone ahead and had the D&C so I could've had an analysis of the fetal tissue. But what would it have changed? I'd have been risking a future actual child in order to know more about what happened to these. So I guess I don't always have to know.
So here we are. In a lot of ways I'm in the best place I've been for two years. Calmer, happier, healthier. Ready to roll the dice two more times, and then, if I must, to put them down and walk away.
Gulp. Tomorrow I start rattlin' the bones.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Begin again
I keep starting posts and fading out.
The Asherman's surgery in May was, by all accounts, a success. Dr. Isaacson was lovely, in accordance with all the recommendations I got from the Asherman's mailing list. He found one major band near the cornu (where the tube attaches) and some minor adhesions near the cervix. He feels pretty sure that the largest adhesion was from the c-section; apparently, when they're done popping out the baby, they sponge down the uterus. And either I was sponged too hard or -- more likely -- my body simply didn't like being sponged, and reacted by forming an adhesion.
Learning that it was probably the c-section, not the D&C, is kind of mixed. On one hand, it's comforting to know that it probably couldn't have been avoided. If someone asked me if I would pay the price of Asherman's to safely have Small Boy, I'd agree instantly. At least I got something out of the deal, you know?
On the other hand, it means that Dr. Stewart missed the adhesions during the quite-hasty SHSG. And that last year's pregnancy never had a chance, and that those embryos might have well been flushed down the toilet, and that all that horror could have been avoided.
Second-guessing does no good in the real world, so of course I try to spend no more than 80% of my waking hours running mental simulations of alternate universes.
But all that's old news. See? I put a line under it. It's old news because yesterday I had my first Delestrogen shot for my FET cycle. HOLY CRAP that hurt. I'm a spoiled little princess who's only ever done progesterone in ethyl oleate with slender 25ga needles. The 22ga was like sticking a fucking drinking straw into my glute.
Her Indoors was, as ever, both charming and useful. After giving me the shot, she eyed my prone, gasping form sympathetically.
Her: Does it hurt?
Me: YES
Her: If I slap you, it might help.
Me: SURE WHATEVER
Her: delivers ringing slap to my buttock, right where the shot went
Me: ... wow, that totally helped.
This brief domestic scene illustrates two points about our life nicely:
1) Her Indoors is smart about all sorts of things. There's an explanation having to do with the dissipation of oil in the muscle and circulation and nerve endings and stuff.
2) I trust her really a lot.
So yeah, new cycle!
If my lining does as it ought -- and that's a big "if" -- my scheduled transfer date is November 12. In 2008, on the cycle that resulted in Small Boy, my transfer was November 15. In 2011, on the cycle that resulted in the zombie pregnancy, my transfer was November 10. I guess this is just the time of year that I like to put embryos in my uterus.
Here we go!
Here we go.
Here we go...
The Asherman's surgery in May was, by all accounts, a success. Dr. Isaacson was lovely, in accordance with all the recommendations I got from the Asherman's mailing list. He found one major band near the cornu (where the tube attaches) and some minor adhesions near the cervix. He feels pretty sure that the largest adhesion was from the c-section; apparently, when they're done popping out the baby, they sponge down the uterus. And either I was sponged too hard or -- more likely -- my body simply didn't like being sponged, and reacted by forming an adhesion.
Learning that it was probably the c-section, not the D&C, is kind of mixed. On one hand, it's comforting to know that it probably couldn't have been avoided. If someone asked me if I would pay the price of Asherman's to safely have Small Boy, I'd agree instantly. At least I got something out of the deal, you know?
On the other hand, it means that Dr. Stewart missed the adhesions during the quite-hasty SHSG. And that last year's pregnancy never had a chance, and that those embryos might have well been flushed down the toilet, and that all that horror could have been avoided.
Second-guessing does no good in the real world, so of course I try to spend no more than 80% of my waking hours running mental simulations of alternate universes.
But all that's old news. See? I put a line under it. It's old news because yesterday I had my first Delestrogen shot for my FET cycle. HOLY CRAP that hurt. I'm a spoiled little princess who's only ever done progesterone in ethyl oleate with slender 25ga needles. The 22ga was like sticking a fucking drinking straw into my glute.
Her Indoors was, as ever, both charming and useful. After giving me the shot, she eyed my prone, gasping form sympathetically.
Her: Does it hurt?
Me: YES
Her: If I slap you, it might help.
Me: SURE WHATEVER
Her: delivers ringing slap to my buttock, right where the shot went
Me: ... wow, that totally helped.
This brief domestic scene illustrates two points about our life nicely:
1) Her Indoors is smart about all sorts of things. There's an explanation having to do with the dissipation of oil in the muscle and circulation and nerve endings and stuff.
2) I trust her really a lot.
So yeah, new cycle!
If my lining does as it ought -- and that's a big "if" -- my scheduled transfer date is November 12. In 2008, on the cycle that resulted in Small Boy, my transfer was November 15. In 2011, on the cycle that resulted in the zombie pregnancy, my transfer was November 10. I guess this is just the time of year that I like to put embryos in my uterus.
Here we go!
Here we go.
Here we go...
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
And here we go.
Good:
Ungood:
Although my FSH was a fine 7.4, my E2 (estrogen) was an elevated 104. WTH? Last October, four short months ago, I had perfectly wonderful stats of E2 43, FSH 5.9. What the heck? I mean, I did have a birthday in the meantime, but I was sort of hoping that my ovaries wouldn't notice me sliding into a different age bracket (most clinics have a category of "38 and up"). I guess they noticed.
I just can't help but feel like that last miscarriage kind of broke me.
- My blood pressure is (after vigorous application of medication) back in a range that will allow me to pursue fertility treatment.
- At today's CD3 appointment, my antral follicle count was 20, which is pretty great for an old lady like me.
Ungood:
Although my FSH was a fine 7.4, my E2 (estrogen) was an elevated 104. WTH? Last October, four short months ago, I had perfectly wonderful stats of E2 43, FSH 5.9. What the heck? I mean, I did have a birthday in the meantime, but I was sort of hoping that my ovaries wouldn't notice me sliding into a different age bracket (most clinics have a category of "38 and up"). I guess they noticed.
I just can't help but feel like that last miscarriage kind of broke me.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
CD3: Hip hip hooray! FET #2.5 starts today!
Before I start getting excited about FET #2.5, I have something marvelous to celebrate:
Goldie is here! Goldie is the daughter of Olive and Fern from Insert Metaphor. I've been 'net friends with them for years, literally years. Difficult years.
Olive first left a comment on my blog in February of 2008. We were embarking on our first IVF after a year of unsuccessful home insems and IUIs. They were just starting home insems.
After that, we traveled together. Our journeys have been so similar; they too moved from home insems to IUIs to IVF. Along the way, Olive has written beautifully and vividly about the grinding pain, isolation, and weariness that goes with measuring your TTC time in years. Looking at her old entries gives me the same lump in my throat that I get when looking at my old entries, when every word beat a tattoo of please. please. please.
So welcome, Goldie, and welcome to parenthood, Olive and Fern. Thank you for sharing your journey with us. The road was less lonely with you along.
Hokay, onto the cycle news! We start shooting up Follistim tonight. Yesteday's CD2 appointment went well: 13 or so antral follicles, lining 4.4 (is that a little thick for CD2? Does it matter? Probably not.), E2 43, FSH 5.9. All just ducky.
100 iu of Follistim every night for the next four days, then a lining check on Saturday. Wheeeee! I'm in a marvelously moodswingy up-mood. The only thing that makes my stomach drop is thinking about thawing the embryos, how my poor little two vitrified (badly vitrified?) embryos might or might not survive, and whether the five slow-frozen ones have much of a chance. Did so few of my vitrified embryos survive because they were badly frozen, badly thawed, or because for some reason I make embryos that just aren't very cold-resistant? Please let it be the first. It makes some sense; they were vitrified within the first three months of my clinic beginning their vitrification program. Maybe someone forgot to, I dunno, add salt?
Breathe. I can't affect it. All I can do is try and grow a nice cozy lining, and hope for the best. I'm chugging wheatgrass juice and trying to think plush, loamy thoughts.
Rock on, FET #2.5!
Goldie is here! Goldie is the daughter of Olive and Fern from Insert Metaphor. I've been 'net friends with them for years, literally years. Difficult years.
Olive first left a comment on my blog in February of 2008. We were embarking on our first IVF after a year of unsuccessful home insems and IUIs. They were just starting home insems.
After that, we traveled together. Our journeys have been so similar; they too moved from home insems to IUIs to IVF. Along the way, Olive has written beautifully and vividly about the grinding pain, isolation, and weariness that goes with measuring your TTC time in years. Looking at her old entries gives me the same lump in my throat that I get when looking at my old entries, when every word beat a tattoo of please. please. please.
So welcome, Goldie, and welcome to parenthood, Olive and Fern. Thank you for sharing your journey with us. The road was less lonely with you along.
* * *
Hokay, onto the cycle news! We start shooting up Follistim tonight. Yesteday's CD2 appointment went well: 13 or so antral follicles, lining 4.4 (is that a little thick for CD2? Does it matter? Probably not.), E2 43, FSH 5.9. All just ducky.
100 iu of Follistim every night for the next four days, then a lining check on Saturday. Wheeeee! I'm in a marvelously moodswingy up-mood. The only thing that makes my stomach drop is thinking about thawing the embryos, how my poor little two vitrified (badly vitrified?) embryos might or might not survive, and whether the five slow-frozen ones have much of a chance. Did so few of my vitrified embryos survive because they were badly frozen, badly thawed, or because for some reason I make embryos that just aren't very cold-resistant? Please let it be the first. It makes some sense; they were vitrified within the first three months of my clinic beginning their vitrification program. Maybe someone forgot to, I dunno, add salt?
Breathe. I can't affect it. All I can do is try and grow a nice cozy lining, and hope for the best. I'm chugging wheatgrass juice and trying to think plush, loamy thoughts.
Rock on, FET #2.5!
Monday, September 12, 2011
CD2: and so it begins!
My rest cycle was surprisingly good.
Stuff I did during my rest cycle that I wouldn't have done while actively TTC:
My CD2 E2 was 38, very good. We're going full steam ahead. We'll have to jigger the schedule because, right around transfer time, I'm going to be at a conference in Las Vegas. The last time I was at this conference was 2008. I was nauseated there, from taking the birth control pills for my third IVF cycle. I wrote:
If I had noticed, I don't know that it would have been much better. There was absolutely nothing I could have said.
Things will be different, this conference. This conference, I'll be on estradiol, not birth control pills. I hope I won't be puking (I didn't on estradiol, last time). I'll be by myself; last time I brought Her Indoors with me, to enjoy the local sights and ridiculously extravagant vendor parties. This time, she'll be at home, caring for Small Boy.
This is going to be the longest I've ever left them for. I get a lurch in my stomach when I think about it, so I'm not going to think about it.
Anyway! Here we are. Here we go. Here we go.
Stuff I did during my rest cycle that I wouldn't have done while actively TTC:
- a crazy cleansing diet ("UltraSimple" -- can't say I'd recommend it)
- started and promptly abandoned an exercise program
- went days at a stretch without thinking about my uterus.
My CD2 E2 was 38, very good. We're going full steam ahead. We'll have to jigger the schedule because, right around transfer time, I'm going to be at a conference in Las Vegas. The last time I was at this conference was 2008. I was nauseated there, from taking the birth control pills for my third IVF cycle. I wrote:
I was at a conference this week, in a discipline that's heavily female and, apparently, fecund. I overcompensated mightily, as always. If I'm ever pregnant, I wonder will I notice when a woman is smiling at me too warmly? I know I'll never be a belly-rubber, but I wonder if I'll see. Probably not. I can't see it on anyone else's face even now. I always feel like the only person whose eyes slide away.Here I am, on the other side of the chasm. And now I know the answer to this question: no. I never did notice. As soon as I got pregnant, I was utterly inward-turned, utterly consumed with myself and my fetus and holy cripes look at me I'm doing it I'm doing it. I am 99% certain that I never was a belly-rubber, so that's something, but I don't know how I feel about my own obliviousness. On one hand, maybe it wasn't as obvious as I always thought it was, maybe my longing wasn't painted on my face in four-inch letters. On the other hand maybe it's as eggdance said in her comment to that post: we are invisible to them, I think.
If I had noticed, I don't know that it would have been much better. There was absolutely nothing I could have said.
Things will be different, this conference. This conference, I'll be on estradiol, not birth control pills. I hope I won't be puking (I didn't on estradiol, last time). I'll be by myself; last time I brought Her Indoors with me, to enjoy the local sights and ridiculously extravagant vendor parties. This time, she'll be at home, caring for Small Boy.
This is going to be the longest I've ever left them for. I get a lurch in my stomach when I think about it, so I'm not going to think about it.
Anyway! Here we are. Here we go. Here we go.
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