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.
Showing posts with label ouch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ouch. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Birth story (long, like the labor)
Friday: 38 weeks, 4 days.
I'm at work, trying to finish a project. Trying, but not succeeding. Can't concentrate. It's supposed to be done by Monday. Never mind, I'll bring it home and finish it over the weekend.
(insert laugh track)
Saturday: 38 weeks, 5 days.
6:13 am. I awake to the sensation of a gallon of warm water being dumped over my thighs. I utter the selfsame words that I said to my darling nearly nine months previously, when I realized that there were two lines on the pee-stick.
"Holy shit!"
She wakes and sleepily gropes over to my side of the bed. The water is gushing out of me. My amniotic fluid has been on the high end all through the pregnancy, and yes, there sure is a lot of it.
"There's not that much," she says. Then she reaches over another few inches. "Oh."
The bed is soaked.
She gets up, grabs a towel, I stick it between my legs and shuffle to the toilet, where I sit for a while and listen to the fluid cascade out of me. Holy shit. Holy shit. There will be a baby, today. I thought I was going to go late. Don't most first pregnancies? I thought that I was going to go into labor before my water broke. Almost everybody does. Yeah, well, not me.
We call the OB at around 7. Tell him there's water, lots of it, clear.
"Lots?"
"Yes, lots."
"Come on in, then."
What? Now? I thought we were going to have to struggle to stay at home as long as possible. That's the secret to a good labor, everyone says; don't go to the hospital until you're well underway. Stay home, take warm showers, meditate, listen to good music, take walks. Run around and finish packing that hospital bag that's been half-packed for the past two weeks. CDs, snacks, focus objects, all the niceties.
But nooooooooooooo. Nope, we're meant to go in nownownow.
Commence rushing around, rounding up the last minute packing needs, stripping and remaking the bed so that our dog- and house-sitting friend will actually have someplace to sleep. Luckily, we sleep with several layers of sturdy mattress pads.
Call said friend, who will also be our ride to the hospital. She immediately grasps the whole "there will be a baby soon" concept, with which I am still struggling.
9 am. Arrive at hospital. It's blessedly quiet. They take my insurance and intake information and tell me to have a seat. I lean forward confidentially.
"I'm leaking."
It's not long before I'm called back.
9:30 am. I'm triaged. I'm dilated two cm,which is pretty good considering that I'm only having very sporadic contractions. I explain that, although I know I'll need an IV (being Group B Strep +) I'd like to be able to move around as much as possible. The nurses shake their head and tell me that the doctor will never go for it.
The doctor on duty is someone I've never met before. He turns out to be an absolute peach. Young, almost definitely Jewish, almost definitely gay. I can work with this. He tells us that we'll likely be having a baby by 6pm. I like that thought.
Since my labor isn't well established, we decide to give it a while to see what happens. I'm warned not to move around too much, because in the presence of the definitely ruptured sac it will apparently increase the risk of cord prolapse, which is a real emergency. Oh. I'm a bit bummed about this, but rolling with it.
We hang out, listening to music, chatting gently, for the next five hours. The contractions are getting stronger, but failing to establish any regular pattern. I sit in various beatific yoga poses. The nurses come through and compliment my composure, and I feel smug and sassy.
2:30 pm. Contractions still aren't regular. I'm very aware of the enormous 24-hour clock hanging over my head, in red blinking digits. 24 hours is all the hospitals give you after your water breaks, lest your open flapping cervix let in infection. Mindful of this, I agree to some Pitocin to hurry things along. No, thanks, I'm doing so well, I don't want an epidural.
(laugh track)
They keep jacking up the Pitocin, and things get more and more painful. I breathe, I swivel my hips, I moan deeply, I keep my hands and my mouth soft, I do every freaking thing I can remember from my careful perusal of Ina May's Guide to Childbirth. None of it helps much.
8:00 pm. By now I'm exhausted. Pain is draining. I ask for a shot of Stadol or whatever the hell narcotic they've got going. If I can only get some rest, maybe I can cope a little better.
For the next hour I drift in and out of a drugged haze. The shot doesn't do much for the pain of the contraction, but it puts me to sleep in between them. This means the conscious experience is, effectively, of one long contraction. I ask what time it is and 45 minutes have passed. It passed quickly, but unpleasantly. Fuck this all for a game of soldiers.
9:00 pm. Epi freaking dural, please. I've hit my limit. Unfortunately, the anesthesiologist does not magically appear. It'll take him a little while. The next hour -- the hour after I hit my limit -- is one of the longest of my life. Except...
10:00 pm ...for the next hour. Still no anesthesiologist. The nurse calls to check. Oh, what? He didn't get the message? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. By now I am holding back not at all, on the principle that the louder and more obnoxious I am, the faster they will get me pain relief. The nurse is looking unhappy with the situation; I have little sympathy to spare for her. I'm not typically a megabitch, but my personality is pretty much shredded by the pain. My own darling love hovers, eyes tender and dark with concern. "Sit down", I snap at her. She holds my hands.
"I believe that if you were on a desert island, you could do this."
"If I were on a desert island," I spit out, "I wouldn't have Pitocin on board."
11:00 pm .A full two hours after I had zero desire to do this anymore, the anesthesiologist arrives. He strongly resembles Tuvok. I find this comforting, although not as comforting as I find his cart full of narcotics and anesthetics.
A small prick from the needle. Some other pricks that I totally don't remember because who cares really. Then, suddenly, everything started to get better. There was a bunch of other stuff involving my blood pressure and my sweetie asking "is it supposed to be that low?" and the nurse saying "no, no it's not" but again, who cares. The important thing is that it does not freaking hurt any more.
Eventually they work out the blood pressure thing, whatever, cover me up with my quilt and I pass out.
Sidebar: one of the best things I brought with me to my labor was a quilt from our bedroom. It was untterably comforting to have that over me in the midst of the cold strangeness of a hospital room. Plus, the hospital blankets sucked. It is worth noting that the quilt we brought, we brought for my sweetie, but she yielded it to me. Next time: two quilts.
2:00 am. My poor sweetheart is asleep on the window seat, under one of the sucktastic hospital blankets. I'm staring at the contraction monitor. I'm not dumb. I know that what I see is not great. The contractions are strong, but they're still not regular. I stare at the monitor for a while.
2:30 am. I buzz and ask to talk to the doctor. If I'm cruising for a c-section, we might as well get it over with. The nurse comes in. I also mention to the nurse that I'm feeling an increasingly uncomfortable amount of pressure. "That's going to happen," she says, and I get the feeling that she thinks that I'm a wimp who thinks that all discomfort should be eliminated by the magic epidural. "Humph," I think.
The doctor arrives. I tell him my line of thinking about the contractions and the c-section and the getting it over with.
"I'll check you and we'll go from there," says he.
He checks. Turns out I'm fully dilated. Turns out that the strong, uncomfortable pressure I was feeling? That's the urge to push . That's having a baby. Who knew!
"You don't need a c-section," he says. "Time to start pushing!"
The mood in the room sharpens and lightens all at once. We're not waiting for something to happen anymore. Something is happening. I've been exhausted and dogged by a creeping feeling of dread, but suddenly I've got energy. Here we are! The finish line is in sight! We're going to have a baby soon!
Things get rearranged, our Qwan Yin statue gets replaced by a tray of instruments. The baby's head is right there. First time babies usually come after two hours or so of pushing, but his head is right there. This shouldn't take long.
(laugh track)
The nurse grabs my leg. My sweetie grabs my other leg. I can actually move quite well; Dr. Tuvok has given me a magic epidural which has eliminated the pain while largely preserving my ability to move. Whoopee!
Now, I thought I didn't want directed pushing. But when the time came I was very grateful for the involvement and the structure that directed pushing provided. I didn't have to worry about anything except for pushing when I was told to push. They chanted. I pushed.
...for two and a half hours.
5:00 am. By now I'm flagging. I've been giving it my all for two and a half hours. Really my all, because I really want this baby to be born. I really want this to be over. I'm trying my hardest, but I know that I'm running out of juice.
The doctor comes in, checks me. The baby's head is right there. Exactly where it was two and a half hours ago. Furthermore, the baby's starting to have some decelerations. I know, right? After all this, who could blame him? "We're going to get him out fast," says the doctor. I stare at him in disbelief. What am I going to do, push harder?
The doctor leaves the room. He's got to see to someone else, but he'll monitor the contractions and baby's heart rate via his magic computer screen. We are left to... push. Which we do. Nurse checks again. Baby hasn't budged. Despair is stealing into my heart. Perhaps this baby will never come out. Perhaps I will never leave this room. I am eager to move things along.
5:45 am. "I can support my weight," I tell the nurse. "Can I squat? It might move things along." After all, Ina May freaking loves squatting. She has line drawings of various indigenous peoples emitting various indigenous babies from various squatting positions.
The nurse, who may have read Ina May's book, is surprised and pleased. She approves of squatting. She helps me up. I squat, I push, and bam, baby has the worst deceleration yet. No squatting for me!
It's enough to get the doctor's attention. Another nurse comes banging through the door dramatically. "Stop pushing, turn off the Pitocin." We all know what it means.
I burst into tears of relief. I don't want a c-section but I really, really want this baby safely out of me, by whatever means necessary.
5:45 am. My sweetheart dons a blue bunny suit. She's wearing her blue rimmed glasses and looks pretty. She's told that she has to pile up and magically dispose of the ridiculously huge pile of belongings we brought with us, the pile that it took three people to bring into the room. I have no idea how she manages this, but somehow she does.
They take me to the OR and jack up my epidural. By then I'm shaking like a leaf and feeling generally crappy. They're pumping something into my IV, something that has made me more or less forget what I'm there for. Drifty, drifty. I'm not upset, though. Nothing is my problem; all I have to do is lie there and someone else will take care of things. Only now someone is pulling at my midsection really hard, and also sitting on me. My body jerks on the table, and again, and again. WTF? Luckily, I don't much care.
6:07 am. And then a crackling cry slices through the air, and my fog. It's a baby's cry.
A baby?
A baby!
I'm here to have a baby! That's a baby! That's our baby! He's been born! There's a baby!
I burst into tears, for the second time.
Sweetie looks at me, visibly torn. "Go, go!" I say. She returns, after not very long, I think. I ask his Apgar scores; 8 and 9, she says. I ask several more times, forgetting the answer each time. She tells me again and I'm glad each time.
Okay, I'm exhausted, although less exhausted than I was then. I am going to post this as-is and then have my sweetie check it for accuracy. I suspect that half of my memories are just wrong.
I'm at work, trying to finish a project. Trying, but not succeeding. Can't concentrate. It's supposed to be done by Monday. Never mind, I'll bring it home and finish it over the weekend.
(insert laugh track)
Saturday: 38 weeks, 5 days.
6:13 am. I awake to the sensation of a gallon of warm water being dumped over my thighs. I utter the selfsame words that I said to my darling nearly nine months previously, when I realized that there were two lines on the pee-stick.
"Holy shit!"
She wakes and sleepily gropes over to my side of the bed. The water is gushing out of me. My amniotic fluid has been on the high end all through the pregnancy, and yes, there sure is a lot of it.
"There's not that much," she says. Then she reaches over another few inches. "Oh."
The bed is soaked.
She gets up, grabs a towel, I stick it between my legs and shuffle to the toilet, where I sit for a while and listen to the fluid cascade out of me. Holy shit. Holy shit. There will be a baby, today. I thought I was going to go late. Don't most first pregnancies? I thought that I was going to go into labor before my water broke. Almost everybody does. Yeah, well, not me.
We call the OB at around 7. Tell him there's water, lots of it, clear.
"Lots?"
"Yes, lots."
"Come on in, then."
What? Now? I thought we were going to have to struggle to stay at home as long as possible. That's the secret to a good labor, everyone says; don't go to the hospital until you're well underway. Stay home, take warm showers, meditate, listen to good music, take walks. Run around and finish packing that hospital bag that's been half-packed for the past two weeks. CDs, snacks, focus objects, all the niceties.
But nooooooooooooo. Nope, we're meant to go in nownownow.
Commence rushing around, rounding up the last minute packing needs, stripping and remaking the bed so that our dog- and house-sitting friend will actually have someplace to sleep. Luckily, we sleep with several layers of sturdy mattress pads.
Call said friend, who will also be our ride to the hospital. She immediately grasps the whole "there will be a baby soon" concept, with which I am still struggling.
9 am. Arrive at hospital. It's blessedly quiet. They take my insurance and intake information and tell me to have a seat. I lean forward confidentially.
"I'm leaking."
It's not long before I'm called back.
9:30 am. I'm triaged. I'm dilated two cm,which is pretty good considering that I'm only having very sporadic contractions. I explain that, although I know I'll need an IV (being Group B Strep +) I'd like to be able to move around as much as possible. The nurses shake their head and tell me that the doctor will never go for it.
The doctor on duty is someone I've never met before. He turns out to be an absolute peach. Young, almost definitely Jewish, almost definitely gay. I can work with this. He tells us that we'll likely be having a baby by 6pm. I like that thought.
Since my labor isn't well established, we decide to give it a while to see what happens. I'm warned not to move around too much, because in the presence of the definitely ruptured sac it will apparently increase the risk of cord prolapse, which is a real emergency. Oh. I'm a bit bummed about this, but rolling with it.
We hang out, listening to music, chatting gently, for the next five hours. The contractions are getting stronger, but failing to establish any regular pattern. I sit in various beatific yoga poses. The nurses come through and compliment my composure, and I feel smug and sassy.
2:30 pm. Contractions still aren't regular. I'm very aware of the enormous 24-hour clock hanging over my head, in red blinking digits. 24 hours is all the hospitals give you after your water breaks, lest your open flapping cervix let in infection. Mindful of this, I agree to some Pitocin to hurry things along. No, thanks, I'm doing so well, I don't want an epidural.
(laugh track)
They keep jacking up the Pitocin, and things get more and more painful. I breathe, I swivel my hips, I moan deeply, I keep my hands and my mouth soft, I do every freaking thing I can remember from my careful perusal of Ina May's Guide to Childbirth. None of it helps much.
8:00 pm. By now I'm exhausted. Pain is draining. I ask for a shot of Stadol or whatever the hell narcotic they've got going. If I can only get some rest, maybe I can cope a little better.
For the next hour I drift in and out of a drugged haze. The shot doesn't do much for the pain of the contraction, but it puts me to sleep in between them. This means the conscious experience is, effectively, of one long contraction. I ask what time it is and 45 minutes have passed. It passed quickly, but unpleasantly. Fuck this all for a game of soldiers.
9:00 pm. Epi freaking dural, please. I've hit my limit. Unfortunately, the anesthesiologist does not magically appear. It'll take him a little while. The next hour -- the hour after I hit my limit -- is one of the longest of my life. Except...
10:00 pm ...for the next hour. Still no anesthesiologist. The nurse calls to check. Oh, what? He didn't get the message? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. By now I am holding back not at all, on the principle that the louder and more obnoxious I am, the faster they will get me pain relief. The nurse is looking unhappy with the situation; I have little sympathy to spare for her. I'm not typically a megabitch, but my personality is pretty much shredded by the pain. My own darling love hovers, eyes tender and dark with concern. "Sit down", I snap at her. She holds my hands.
"I believe that if you were on a desert island, you could do this."
"If I were on a desert island," I spit out, "I wouldn't have Pitocin on board."
11:00 pm .A full two hours after I had zero desire to do this anymore, the anesthesiologist arrives. He strongly resembles Tuvok. I find this comforting, although not as comforting as I find his cart full of narcotics and anesthetics.
A small prick from the needle. Some other pricks that I totally don't remember because who cares really. Then, suddenly, everything started to get better. There was a bunch of other stuff involving my blood pressure and my sweetie asking "is it supposed to be that low?" and the nurse saying "no, no it's not" but again, who cares. The important thing is that it does not freaking hurt any more.
Eventually they work out the blood pressure thing, whatever, cover me up with my quilt and I pass out.
Sidebar: one of the best things I brought with me to my labor was a quilt from our bedroom. It was untterably comforting to have that over me in the midst of the cold strangeness of a hospital room. Plus, the hospital blankets sucked. It is worth noting that the quilt we brought, we brought for my sweetie, but she yielded it to me. Next time: two quilts.
2:00 am. My poor sweetheart is asleep on the window seat, under one of the sucktastic hospital blankets. I'm staring at the contraction monitor. I'm not dumb. I know that what I see is not great. The contractions are strong, but they're still not regular. I stare at the monitor for a while.
2:30 am. I buzz and ask to talk to the doctor. If I'm cruising for a c-section, we might as well get it over with. The nurse comes in. I also mention to the nurse that I'm feeling an increasingly uncomfortable amount of pressure. "That's going to happen," she says, and I get the feeling that she thinks that I'm a wimp who thinks that all discomfort should be eliminated by the magic epidural. "Humph," I think.
The doctor arrives. I tell him my line of thinking about the contractions and the c-section and the getting it over with.
"I'll check you and we'll go from there," says he.
He checks. Turns out I'm fully dilated. Turns out that the strong, uncomfortable pressure I was feeling? That's the urge to push . That's having a baby. Who knew!
"You don't need a c-section," he says. "Time to start pushing!"
The mood in the room sharpens and lightens all at once. We're not waiting for something to happen anymore. Something is happening. I've been exhausted and dogged by a creeping feeling of dread, but suddenly I've got energy. Here we are! The finish line is in sight! We're going to have a baby soon!
Things get rearranged, our Qwan Yin statue gets replaced by a tray of instruments. The baby's head is right there. First time babies usually come after two hours or so of pushing, but his head is right there. This shouldn't take long.
(laugh track)
The nurse grabs my leg. My sweetie grabs my other leg. I can actually move quite well; Dr. Tuvok has given me a magic epidural which has eliminated the pain while largely preserving my ability to move. Whoopee!
Now, I thought I didn't want directed pushing. But when the time came I was very grateful for the involvement and the structure that directed pushing provided. I didn't have to worry about anything except for pushing when I was told to push. They chanted. I pushed.
...for two and a half hours.
5:00 am. By now I'm flagging. I've been giving it my all for two and a half hours. Really my all, because I really want this baby to be born. I really want this to be over. I'm trying my hardest, but I know that I'm running out of juice.
The doctor comes in, checks me. The baby's head is right there. Exactly where it was two and a half hours ago. Furthermore, the baby's starting to have some decelerations. I know, right? After all this, who could blame him? "We're going to get him out fast," says the doctor. I stare at him in disbelief. What am I going to do, push harder?
The doctor leaves the room. He's got to see to someone else, but he'll monitor the contractions and baby's heart rate via his magic computer screen. We are left to... push. Which we do. Nurse checks again. Baby hasn't budged. Despair is stealing into my heart. Perhaps this baby will never come out. Perhaps I will never leave this room. I am eager to move things along.
5:45 am. "I can support my weight," I tell the nurse. "Can I squat? It might move things along." After all, Ina May freaking loves squatting. She has line drawings of various indigenous peoples emitting various indigenous babies from various squatting positions.
The nurse, who may have read Ina May's book, is surprised and pleased. She approves of squatting. She helps me up. I squat, I push, and bam, baby has the worst deceleration yet. No squatting for me!
It's enough to get the doctor's attention. Another nurse comes banging through the door dramatically. "Stop pushing, turn off the Pitocin." We all know what it means.
I burst into tears of relief. I don't want a c-section but I really, really want this baby safely out of me, by whatever means necessary.
5:45 am. My sweetheart dons a blue bunny suit. She's wearing her blue rimmed glasses and looks pretty. She's told that she has to pile up and magically dispose of the ridiculously huge pile of belongings we brought with us, the pile that it took three people to bring into the room. I have no idea how she manages this, but somehow she does.
They take me to the OR and jack up my epidural. By then I'm shaking like a leaf and feeling generally crappy. They're pumping something into my IV, something that has made me more or less forget what I'm there for. Drifty, drifty. I'm not upset, though. Nothing is my problem; all I have to do is lie there and someone else will take care of things. Only now someone is pulling at my midsection really hard, and also sitting on me. My body jerks on the table, and again, and again. WTF? Luckily, I don't much care.
6:07 am. And then a crackling cry slices through the air, and my fog. It's a baby's cry.
A baby?
A baby!
I'm here to have a baby! That's a baby! That's our baby! He's been born! There's a baby!
I burst into tears, for the second time.
Sweetie looks at me, visibly torn. "Go, go!" I say. She returns, after not very long, I think. I ask his Apgar scores; 8 and 9, she says. I ask several more times, forgetting the answer each time. She tells me again and I'm glad each time.
Okay, I'm exhausted, although less exhausted than I was then. I am going to post this as-is and then have my sweetie check it for accuracy. I suspect that half of my memories are just wrong.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Stuff that happened yesterday
Kind of funny
One of my coworkers stopped me in the hall to tell me how fabulous I look after having lost all that weight. I was just boggled. I mean yes, I did lose ten pounds in about a week, but only after I gained ten pounds in a similar time frame. Maybe I can make big bucks selling my OHSS-and-pregnancy-loss diet.
Not so funny
Flicking open my Google reader yesterday and seeing a picture of an ultrasound, 6w5d. I would no more than have winced if it had been on one of the many TTC blogs I read, but it wasn't -- it was in a blog belonging to a high school friend, so I was totally unprepared. 6w5d... why does that sound so familiar? Oh, right. Yesterday I was supposed to be 6w5d. And what's that due date at the bottom of the screen? Yup. To the day.
Huh, thought I. So that's what the ultrasound was supposed to look like.
I think anyone who's ever lost a pregnancy is familiar with the "shadow pregnancy"* problem. In my case it was easy to solve. I just unsubscribed to his feed. High School Friend and I haven't been close in the past 15 years, and I can live just fine without the blow-by-blow here.
I will admit that after I unsubscribed I went back and stared at the picture for a while. Oh. So that's what it was supposed to look like.
In other news, my pee stick was blank this morning. Mostly I'm glad, very glad; the swiftly falling levels mean that chances are excellent that my uterus is clearing out nicely all on its own. And the faster they fall, the sooner we can start again.
Still, I felt a tiny sigh. There is no longer anything pregnant about me.
Never mind. On the whole I'm feeling fine. I never would have believed you if you'd told me last Wednesday that by the following Tuesday I would be feeling pretty darn good (of course, last Tuesday I still thought I was pregnant). The situation sucks , but I knew the rules when I sat down at the table. The fluke was that I was pregnant for a little while, not that I lost the pregnancy.
I'm trying to be grateful for the glimpse I had during that little time. The world really was a different place, and it all seems a little cold and dull and mundane back here on the other side. But it's not, really, it's all just as warm and rich and wonderful as it was before. I just hope that it's not too long until I get to put on those emerald-tinted glasses again.
*I believe that the term "shadow pregnancy" was coined by the ever-apt Bri at Unwellness.
One of my coworkers stopped me in the hall to tell me how fabulous I look after having lost all that weight. I was just boggled. I mean yes, I did lose ten pounds in about a week, but only after I gained ten pounds in a similar time frame. Maybe I can make big bucks selling my OHSS-and-pregnancy-loss diet.
Not so funny
Flicking open my Google reader yesterday and seeing a picture of an ultrasound, 6w5d. I would no more than have winced if it had been on one of the many TTC blogs I read, but it wasn't -- it was in a blog belonging to a high school friend, so I was totally unprepared. 6w5d... why does that sound so familiar? Oh, right. Yesterday I was supposed to be 6w5d. And what's that due date at the bottom of the screen? Yup. To the day.
Huh, thought I. So that's what the ultrasound was supposed to look like.
I think anyone who's ever lost a pregnancy is familiar with the "shadow pregnancy"* problem. In my case it was easy to solve. I just unsubscribed to his feed. High School Friend and I haven't been close in the past 15 years, and I can live just fine without the blow-by-blow here.
I will admit that after I unsubscribed I went back and stared at the picture for a while. Oh. So that's what it was supposed to look like.
In other news, my pee stick was blank this morning. Mostly I'm glad, very glad; the swiftly falling levels mean that chances are excellent that my uterus is clearing out nicely all on its own. And the faster they fall, the sooner we can start again.
Still, I felt a tiny sigh. There is no longer anything pregnant about me.
Never mind. On the whole I'm feeling fine. I never would have believed you if you'd told me last Wednesday that by the following Tuesday I would be feeling pretty darn good (of course, last Tuesday I still thought I was pregnant). The situation sucks , but I knew the rules when I sat down at the table. The fluke was that I was pregnant for a little while, not that I lost the pregnancy.
I'm trying to be grateful for the glimpse I had during that little time. The world really was a different place, and it all seems a little cold and dull and mundane back here on the other side. But it's not, really, it's all just as warm and rich and wonderful as it was before. I just hope that it's not too long until I get to put on those emerald-tinted glasses again.
*I believe that the term "shadow pregnancy" was coined by the ever-apt Bri at Unwellness.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The report at 16dpo/11dp5dt
Beta report: still didn't double, but did rise.
12dpo/7dp5dt: 45
14dp/9dp5dt: 74
16dpo/11dp5dt: 120
Doubling time is 69 hours. Still, as friend Rebecca usefully reminded me, less than 72 hours is within normal range. of course I was hoping it would be a robust and comforting 48 hours, but still within normal range, still within normal range, still within normal range, I'm going to keep saying that until I believe it. Oh hey, how did I get the beta, you might ask, when I wasn't scheduled for one until Sunday? My dear wife reminded me that I had the (undated) lab slip and that all I had to do was sashay in, hand over the lab slip, and get the blood drawn. What're they going to do, cram the blood back into my veins? Then I called the RE's office and explained to the nice girl that I needed another lab slip for Sunday because I used the one I had been given today. Oops. I think she thinks I'm a bit of a loon, but who cares? She got me another lab slip.
Cramping and spotting report: Uterine cramps are still low-level and steady, with the occasional one that really makes me wince. Spotting is also steady but extremely light. I'm not too worried about those, as both seem common enough. Some women cramp steadily through the first trimester, apparently.
OHSS report: don't ask. Fortunately, the stomach cramps have been radically reduced by switching to an entirely liquid diet and eating (sipping) small amounts every hour or two. Unfortunately, this includes the night time -- if I don't put something in there every few hours I wake up feeling like I've got hedgehogs moshing in my stomach. I have learned, however, that Ensure is surprisingly tasty.
Hospital staff report: Inappropriate Lab Administrative Assistant was on duty today, the one who cheerfully told me on Wednesday (when my stomach was smaller than it was today) that I look six months pregnant. I am not walking these days so much as I am scuttling, since I can't come anywhere near to standing up straight. So today I crab walk my way in to get my bloodwork and the dialogue proceeds thusly:
IALAA: What's wrong with you?
Me, dumbfounded: I have ten pounds of extra fluid in my abdominal cavity.
IALAA: Oh. Is that a good thing?
Me: No.
IALAA: Huh.
Now, she works at a blood lab in a hospital. Presumably the hospital is full of sick people who walk funny because they're, you know, sick, or hurt or something. Does she really ask all of them what's wrong? Because I think what she should do is take people's lab slips and show them into the blood draw rooms and tell them to have a nice day.
Freaky fact: by some reckoning, 16dpo/11dp5dt = 4 weeks 3 days pregnant. Can't think of it that way yet.
Career report: I told my boss yesterday that I definitely wouldn't be in until Monday, and I don't know what I'll do if I still can't walk/eat/etc by then. Go to work with my grossly distended abdomen and explain to every single person why I can't walk? Take even more sick time? I have plenty of accrued time, but of course it's never politically neutral to take it. I may just have to say fuck it to all that, though. I'm not sure I'll be able to sit at a desk come Monday.
I have thought a bit about being a lesbian going through fertility treatments as opposed to being part of a straight couple going through fertility treatments. The people I work with are great, but I'm just not sure that I could expect sympathy and support for doing something that is so very outside of their frame of reference. I can so clearly imagine the puzzled stares: if she wants kids so badly, then why did she become a lesbian?
Gratitude report: I'm grateful for all the lovely, lovely comments I've gotten on my blog. I'm unutterably grateful that right this second I am pregnant. I am grateful that my BFF has secured for me a Wii. Her offer came at a time when I was feeling particularly physically wretched and thus entitled to any amusement I desired. I really think I've been trying to get a Wii for just about as long as I've been trying to get pregnant, although not with as concerted an effort (I stubbornly refused to pay more than the base price of a non-bundled unit).
Final score: I'm scared and uncomfortable but I think I'm winning.
12dpo/7dp5dt: 45
14dp/9dp5dt: 74
16dpo/11dp5dt: 120
Doubling time is 69 hours. Still, as friend Rebecca usefully reminded me, less than 72 hours is within normal range. of course I was hoping it would be a robust and comforting 48 hours, but still within normal range, still within normal range, still within normal range, I'm going to keep saying that until I believe it. Oh hey, how did I get the beta, you might ask, when I wasn't scheduled for one until Sunday? My dear wife reminded me that I had the (undated) lab slip and that all I had to do was sashay in, hand over the lab slip, and get the blood drawn. What're they going to do, cram the blood back into my veins? Then I called the RE's office and explained to the nice girl that I needed another lab slip for Sunday because I used the one I had been given today. Oops. I think she thinks I'm a bit of a loon, but who cares? She got me another lab slip.
Cramping and spotting report: Uterine cramps are still low-level and steady, with the occasional one that really makes me wince. Spotting is also steady but extremely light. I'm not too worried about those, as both seem common enough. Some women cramp steadily through the first trimester, apparently.
OHSS report: don't ask. Fortunately, the stomach cramps have been radically reduced by switching to an entirely liquid diet and eating (sipping) small amounts every hour or two. Unfortunately, this includes the night time -- if I don't put something in there every few hours I wake up feeling like I've got hedgehogs moshing in my stomach. I have learned, however, that Ensure is surprisingly tasty.
Hospital staff report: Inappropriate Lab Administrative Assistant was on duty today, the one who cheerfully told me on Wednesday (when my stomach was smaller than it was today) that I look six months pregnant. I am not walking these days so much as I am scuttling, since I can't come anywhere near to standing up straight. So today I crab walk my way in to get my bloodwork and the dialogue proceeds thusly:
IALAA: What's wrong with you?
Me, dumbfounded: I have ten pounds of extra fluid in my abdominal cavity.
IALAA: Oh. Is that a good thing?
Me: No.
IALAA: Huh.
Now, she works at a blood lab in a hospital. Presumably the hospital is full of sick people who walk funny because they're, you know, sick, or hurt or something. Does she really ask all of them what's wrong? Because I think what she should do is take people's lab slips and show them into the blood draw rooms and tell them to have a nice day.
Freaky fact: by some reckoning, 16dpo/11dp5dt = 4 weeks 3 days pregnant. Can't think of it that way yet.
Career report: I told my boss yesterday that I definitely wouldn't be in until Monday, and I don't know what I'll do if I still can't walk/eat/etc by then. Go to work with my grossly distended abdomen and explain to every single person why I can't walk? Take even more sick time? I have plenty of accrued time, but of course it's never politically neutral to take it. I may just have to say fuck it to all that, though. I'm not sure I'll be able to sit at a desk come Monday.
I have thought a bit about being a lesbian going through fertility treatments as opposed to being part of a straight couple going through fertility treatments. The people I work with are great, but I'm just not sure that I could expect sympathy and support for doing something that is so very outside of their frame of reference. I can so clearly imagine the puzzled stares: if she wants kids so badly, then why did she become a lesbian?
Gratitude report: I'm grateful for all the lovely, lovely comments I've gotten on my blog. I'm unutterably grateful that right this second I am pregnant. I am grateful that my BFF has secured for me a Wii. Her offer came at a time when I was feeling particularly physically wretched and thus entitled to any amusement I desired. I really think I've been trying to get a Wii for just about as long as I've been trying to get pregnant, although not with as concerted an effort (I stubbornly refused to pay more than the base price of a non-bundled unit).
Final score: I'm scared and uncomfortable but I think I'm winning.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
3dp5dt: pain in the ass
My ass, that is, and I'm talking about the progesterone here.
I must be a real wimp. See, I don't have the dread progesterone in oil, which everyone knows is incredibly painful. I have progesterone in ethyl oleate, nice and thin, which can be injected with a slender 25ga needle. Furthermore, I have my deft-handed darling to inject me, which she does skillfully and nearly painlessly. I do not have a single bruise on my alabaster bottom.
Nevertheless I feel like I've been kicked in the arse hard, once on each cheek. My work chair is thankfully pretty comfortable (a Herman Miller Aeron mesh -- I know, very dot com), but my car seat hurts, our dining room chair hurt, and most notably, toilet seats hurt. And there is just no way around that last one.
Maybe it's a real estate issue. I am far from being a skinny young thing; my BMI classifies me firmly as "overweight", although not obese. But, despite my general adipososity, my bottom is amazingly flat and small. There isn't that much to sink a 1.5" long needle into. Hurm.
Today is a sad day. I woke up feeling sad. Then I came to work and realized that I'd missed a meeting that had been rescheduled. I'd been informed, of course, but had failed to transfer that information to my calendar. Durrr indeed.
I dunno. I'm trying to keep loose, here, but right now I just feel... sad. I blame the progesterone.
Please use space below to whine and keep me company.
I must be a real wimp. See, I don't have the dread progesterone in oil, which everyone knows is incredibly painful. I have progesterone in ethyl oleate, nice and thin, which can be injected with a slender 25ga needle. Furthermore, I have my deft-handed darling to inject me, which she does skillfully and nearly painlessly. I do not have a single bruise on my alabaster bottom.
Nevertheless I feel like I've been kicked in the arse hard, once on each cheek. My work chair is thankfully pretty comfortable (a Herman Miller Aeron mesh -- I know, very dot com), but my car seat hurts, our dining room chair hurt, and most notably, toilet seats hurt. And there is just no way around that last one.
Maybe it's a real estate issue. I am far from being a skinny young thing; my BMI classifies me firmly as "overweight", although not obese. But, despite my general adipososity, my bottom is amazingly flat and small. There isn't that much to sink a 1.5" long needle into. Hurm.
Today is a sad day. I woke up feeling sad. Then I came to work and realized that I'd missed a meeting that had been rescheduled. I'd been informed, of course, but had failed to transfer that information to my calendar. Durrr indeed.
I dunno. I'm trying to keep loose, here, but right now I just feel... sad. I blame the progesterone.
Please use space below to whine and keep me company.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
done!
At home!
Preliminary count = 21 eggs "so far"; they were still looking through the fluid when he gave us the report. Doubtless many of those won't be mature (at the last ultrasound he counted 15 likely-looking follicles), but it's a lovely (lucky?) number to be starting out with.
The anesthesia was a trip, I've never had it before. Man, that stuff works. One minute I was lying there under the huge light, legs strapped into leg-elevator things, thinking about alien abduction. The next second I was someplace else entirely. I couldn't believe it. The very first thing I mumbled -- no fooling -- was "Anesthesiology is a noble profession." The anesthesiologist looked startled and said "thank you". I was just floored that it was all over, just like that. Floored and grateful.
Then I noticed OW OW OW OW. I am not shy and I communicated OW OW OW, and was rewarded with an IV of some narcotic (Diludid?). Unfortunately, it only took the edge off, and it took another few minutes to figure out that a big part of the pain was that I desperately needed to pee. Sadly, we have no pictures of My First (and hopefully Last) Bedpan.
All hospital staff extremely nice. Nurses rock.
The bad part is that now I feel like utter shit -- I can barely hobble half-curled to the bathroom. My list of woes: breathing deeply hurts. Laughing hurts enough that I had to turn off Scrubs. Moving hurts. My shoulder is randomly cramped and hurts as much as my abdomen. Gas pains keep bubbling up. I'm just sort of skating from one moment to the next, convinced that I am moving in the right direction because time is passing, and nothing will fix this but time. Every half-hour is an achievement. Who the fuck are these maniacs who go jogging round the block after their egg retrievals? When the nice nurse dropped her voice and advised me no sex, I could only stare at her in disbelief.
The good: my beloved is taking wonderful care of me, hovering with SmartWater and homemade chicken soup and pillows. I have this neat microwavable heating pad that feels really great on the shoulder. And I know all this is temporary.
Right now, though, right at this moment, I can't imagine ever choosing to do this again. Though I know that if we did this whole process again we'd rack back on the stims, I wouldn't get as many eggs, and thus would not feel so shitty. I'm told that there's a direct relation between the number of eggs and how wrecked you feel afterwards.
Preliminary count = 21 eggs "so far"; they were still looking through the fluid when he gave us the report. Doubtless many of those won't be mature (at the last ultrasound he counted 15 likely-looking follicles), but it's a lovely (lucky?) number to be starting out with.
The anesthesia was a trip, I've never had it before. Man, that stuff works. One minute I was lying there under the huge light, legs strapped into leg-elevator things, thinking about alien abduction. The next second I was someplace else entirely. I couldn't believe it. The very first thing I mumbled -- no fooling -- was "Anesthesiology is a noble profession." The anesthesiologist looked startled and said "thank you". I was just floored that it was all over, just like that. Floored and grateful.
Then I noticed OW OW OW OW. I am not shy and I communicated OW OW OW, and was rewarded with an IV of some narcotic (Diludid?). Unfortunately, it only took the edge off, and it took another few minutes to figure out that a big part of the pain was that I desperately needed to pee. Sadly, we have no pictures of My First (and hopefully Last) Bedpan.
All hospital staff extremely nice. Nurses rock.
The bad part is that now I feel like utter shit -- I can barely hobble half-curled to the bathroom. My list of woes: breathing deeply hurts. Laughing hurts enough that I had to turn off Scrubs. Moving hurts. My shoulder is randomly cramped and hurts as much as my abdomen. Gas pains keep bubbling up. I'm just sort of skating from one moment to the next, convinced that I am moving in the right direction because time is passing, and nothing will fix this but time. Every half-hour is an achievement. Who the fuck are these maniacs who go jogging round the block after their egg retrievals? When the nice nurse dropped her voice and advised me no sex, I could only stare at her in disbelief.
The good: my beloved is taking wonderful care of me, hovering with SmartWater and homemade chicken soup and pillows. I have this neat microwavable heating pad that feels really great on the shoulder. And I know all this is temporary.
Right now, though, right at this moment, I can't imagine ever choosing to do this again. Though I know that if we did this whole process again we'd rack back on the stims, I wouldn't get as many eggs, and thus would not feel so shitty. I'm told that there's a direct relation between the number of eggs and how wrecked you feel afterwards.
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