It’s Been a While

About 3.5 months to be exact. 

Here’s what’s happened…

• IVF cycle 1 BOMBED 💣
• My grandmother passed away 1.5 weeks after we got the above results. ** I remember being at my doctors office discussing next steps and thinking “we need to leave. I have to go home, shower, and get dressed for the wake.” My doctor kept saying how surprised she was that things went so badly, that maybe the medications were too aggressive, and that we should take off the time during the holidays because they’re already stressful enough. I had already made up my mind (and was truly prepared,) that we were starting again in December, so when she said this, I froze. I said “no. I’d like to start next month.” Just like out of a tv show, she said “that would be against my medical opinion. You have enough going on.” I bit my tongue SO hard, but I could still spew thousands of angry sentences. Like…”I paid you $13,000.00 and you couldn’t get your job done, so I’ll tell you when you get another shot.” **sidenote- someone had the audacity to say that “now that your grandmother has passed she’ll take care of things up there and you’ll get pregnant right away.” WHY DO PEOPLE SPEAK? 
• Had follow up ultrasound at the hospital to get the cyst checked out, and there was nothing. Minuscule happiness. I had the pleasure of having a doctor (not mine,) review the ultrasound with me. She was kind enough to point out that my doctor certainly didn’t know what she was doing, we should have had better results, that a cyst in an IVF cycle does not go undetected, and she’d be happy to take me as a patient. Her nurse also shared that I should definitely consider changing doctors, as the doctor who just spoke with me “is really great at getting women of your age pregnant.” I’m 32…Shoot me. 
• I hate this blog. So many of you have announced your pregnancies over the past few months & I’ve broken each time. Crazy because although I know your experiences, I don’t know you or see you on a daily basis…I’m happy for all of you, but if you’re reading this, you know what I’m feeling. 
• Coworker had her baby end of December. Thought the excitement at work regarding babies was done…
• Picked up supplemental insurance that was effective 2/1/2017. Period started 3 days early in January, and the next round of IVF because of that would have started 1/31/2017. We missed it by ONE DAY. 
• Two coworkers announced their pregnancies, and they’re roughly 2 weeks apart. Announcements were made about two weeks apart as well. One word to summarize those weeks: Delightfullllll! 
• Had previously emailed all of the new insurance information to the financial coordinator/insurance guru at my doctors office so that she could get everything all set to start in March. She never responded to anything I sent her, which I didn’t really think twice about. I called the office to let them know it was “day 1 ” in February, “ok, great we will be in touch.” I followed up a week later via email, anddddd got great news. (If you think that’s the case, you haven’t picked up on the black cloud that has me pinned to the ground.) I have to go back for day 3 labs and DH has to give a semen analysis, as our tests from 2016 have “expired” as of February and the new insurance won’t cover anything until they have those updated. Now if the woman at the office had done HER job, this all could have been done in February, but God forbid. 

Basically what it comes down to, is that I’m in the extremely angry stage of this infertility nightmare. And, that is exactly what it is…a fricken hellacious nightmare that I can’t wake up from. 

Let’s Break (It) Down

• I did my trigger shot Tuesday evening on 11/1.
• Thursday, on 11/3 was my egg retrieval.
• Roughly 36 hours after the retrieval, Friday, 11/4, I got the call at work from my doctor. 

Now I’m going to break it all down. 

Thursday morning we arrived for my egg retrieval. Despite being completely nervous about the anesthesia I was feeling alright. We were taken back into the surgical area where they had me change, and informed me about the anesthesia. Top picture is of my IV of saline. Interestingly enough or, if you’ve been following my blog, this won’t surprise you: they had an extremely difficult time finding a vein they could work with. 

 

Below was my view,  prior to the retrieval. It was ominous. I watched the woman before me who was also having a retrieval walk in. I also saw her on the recovery side. 

The one thing I don’t understand? No makeup, no nailpolish, no hair scrungies (as they called them) are allowed. But yet I walked in that day IN these socks…had the procedure with them on…and left with the socks never being removed. Logic? None as far as I’m concerned. And that, is my lovely hair net thing. Yuck. 

 

The doctor then came over to introduce himself. (I knew it wouldn’t be my doctor performing the procedure, which I was perfectly fine with. We were informed of all of these factors at our initial consultation.) Until he spoke to us, time truly felt as though it was standing still. He was calm. Soft spoken. Shook our hands. Started talking about what he was hoping would happen,”I should be able to get 4-6 eggs today. So well hope for the 6. I’ll see you back there.” 
…I broke…
Sunday I was told there were 8 follicles. HOW WAS HE ONLY PLANNING ON 4-6?! I looked at DH and in a completely unflustered voice said, “this isn’t going to work. This is a loss. I can tell this isn’t going to work.” Tears slowly started welling in my eyes. Immediately I chastised myself about crying, took a deep breath, and was overcome with coldness. 
Rigidly sitting there in my chair, my fingers kept frantically edging their way around the hair cap or whatever it is called. Less than 20minutes later, the nurse came over. I was up. I’ll spare the details of walking in, the conversations once in the OR, and my other memories. Fast forward, well I don’t know how long exactly…and I’m in recovery. 
I felt good. Surprisingly good to be quite truthful. The nurse checked to see if there was any bleeding, none; and then asked if I wanted something to eat and drink. My choice was that of a five year old, animal crackers and apple juice. Listen, we were stopping at Starbucks afterwards, so I wasn’t going to fill up on crappy coffee or a bad pastry. As I was sitting there, I could overhear the nurse telling prior egg retrieval patient how well her procedure went, and the medication outline for the next few days. She then popped into my curtained area and asked if I wanted her to get DH. Yes, obviously. Minutes later he was sitting beside me asking how I felt. 

She seemed to reappear shortly thereafter, and indicated that the doctor was going to come over to speak to us. I looked at DH and said, “this is bad. This is very bad. Something is wrong.” From the split second she uttered those words, it was like I was having an out of body experience. The soft spoken and calm doctor was back. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Ok.” I responded. “I’m afraid things didn’t go as we were planning.” Cue my usual direct and questioning attitude floating away. With that my fiery temper also seemed to instantly disappear. “Unfortunately, we were only able to get one egg. I was planning on 4-6 but it just didn’t happen. I’m so sorry. Also, one of the follicles that was measuring on the left, was not a follicle, it’s a cyst. I don’t know who was doing your ultrasounds or what your doctor was looking at, but this definitely shouldn’t have gone undetected. You need to follow up with your doctor about that. Again, I’m so sorry that things didn’t go the way you or I was planning.”
I really want to say the world stopped spinning, but it didn’t; it fell out from underneath me. I was white hot with unparalleled rage. HOW was there only one? WHAT were they counting? WHO told me there were 8? HOW was this cyst missed? HIS coworker is my doctor, and he was surprised she missed this? WHAT the actual fuck? WHO do I trust, him or my doctor? And my last thought, “I knew from the beginning this wouldn’t work.” This time no tears formed. I was borderline psychotic and completely paralyzed with shock, and immediately launched myself into the statistics. After a few minutes of mental calculations, I knew this round was over. I wouldn’t need the follow up call the next day, there was truly no need for it to take place as there wouldn’t be any good news. We finally we able to leave. I got in the truck, tried to fall asleep, and immediately started sobbing. Here’s a visual for you, I looked like a St. Bernard covered in slobber. I called my mom. I called my MIL, and texted those that knew what was going on. Everyone said the same thing “it only takes one.” After a few explanations that we were already at a negative starting point, all I wanted to do was sleep and forget this entire experience. Upon arriving home I did sleep after watching two hours of TV. Physically I felt alright, just a heaviness like pre-period cramps, but was exhausted. 
Well…that one didn’t take per the phone call Friday afternoon with my doctor. So for the sake of my sanity, please never say that to me again. Was I surprised absolutely not. Did I cry? Nope. Did I want to punch a wall? Certainly. The call sucked, the rest of my day sucked, and that entire weekend sucked. I don’t think I cried anymore after Friday evening and talking with DH. 
Until Saturday, 11/12 when I sat down to write this blog. I completely crumbled into a billion little pieces. I’ll get into that another time. 

Here’s really what I’d like to say…

A massive fuck you to my first doctor. The doctor that told me in the beginning of 2016 that we had a 95% chance of being pregnant by the end of the year. Thank you for etching that into my brain. Thank you for constantly making me feel like a failure and a huge disappointment to myself, my husband, and my family. You have demolished every ounce of faint hope that I ever possessed in this year. I was convinced after leaving your office that day I’d be pregnant for my birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Those were milestones I anticipated despite knowing there was a chance it wouldn’t happen. Well, now those times start a week from today, and I blame you for my misery, sadness, and the facade of happiness I have to display. FUCK YOU for making bold and brash statements that I allowed my sanity to cling to, and now I sit here with barely a shred left. 

Deflated

Sums up how I feel about today. This post won’t be inspiring, positive, or uplifting. Please feel free to closer your browser at anytime. 

Had another UltraBlood combination this morning. Good takeaway, I was able to get blood done prior to my ultrasound as there was no wait and my doctors office hadn’t opened yet. Bad takeaway, it was a different ultrasound tech. Not that it was bad, but I feel like I should start charging a viewing fee for the office staff. At least I could recoup some money. 

Clockwise from upper left hand picture: Bandage from bloodwork this morning; updated injection tracker, which I also have in an Excel format but keep a hand written copy too; my daily update sheet; and my needle marks from my bloodwork. 
The call this afternoon from the doctors office went like this: “you have no mature follicles but your hormone levels are starting to rise which is a good thing. Same injection dose tonight and Thursday evening, and then 6am ultrasound and bloodwork on Friday.” My immediate reaction: “fuckkkkkkk.” 
Today, I’m over it. I’m annoyed. I’m aggravated. I’m deflated. Injections were fun and exciting (not really, but I made myself believe it,) and now I hate them. I want mature follicles. I’m sick of having blood drawn. Having an appointment at 6am on a Friday is NOT my ideal way to start the day. I’m tired. I want a baby.
…because of those four little words…I do not have a damn choice in the matter. I’ll keep stabbing myself with injections and having blood sucked out every other day. I’ll keep smiling when others announce they’re expecting and go home and cry because it’s just too much for me to handle. The whole state will probably examine me or get to do a transvaginal ultrasound on me before I ever end up pregnant. I’ll go on some prolific tirade when I read about some woman who has abused or abandoned her child, of course it’ll be her 4th or 5th. My weight will continue to be like a seesaw as medications are altered and the different side effects take their toll. The proverbial chess match of “us vs. infertility”will wage on, and we will constantly be chased around in fear. And…what if we never have a child? What does this “journey” get called if it fails, a tortuous experiment? Life shattering misery? Sheer hell? I can predict that there are no positive outcomes from going through this, and not having a child at the end. 

For those of you that have been going through years of treatments, I bow down to you. Truly, I’m impressed with your strength and determination. I can’t do this for years. Better yet, I won’t. When I say I would go off the deep end, that is a statement made with 175% positivity. I’m not even a year into treatments and I want to be done. Horrible, but this is where I am today. 
Life with infertility has knocked me flat on my ass today. 

Old Faithful

So today is Clomid round 3, day three. It’s Thursday, and of course that has me feeling much better about the day. This morning at work I went for my morning coffee walk, the sun was shining and it was going to be a great day! Although the day was moving at turtle speed, we are one day away from the weekend and no Clomid side effects! #winning

Wrong.

Exactly in the middle of a two hour meeting, there it was; it couldn’t leave me alone and let me enjoy not expericing side effects. My head was pulsating. It felt like a bass drum was inserted in my skull. 

When your skull feels as though someone is smashing it repeatedly from the inside, you want to crawl in a hole and smother yourself with anything to nullify the pain.   I could tell from the onset, this was going to be a nasty mother… I popped some pain relievers, crossed my fingers, and sat there fists clenched and head throbbing. After lunch it hadn’t gotten better, the pain had only amplified and I felt as though my head was being crushed. As someone who gets migraines,  this pain today was unparalleled. Minutes ticked by and by the end of the day, I was on the brink of tears. 

My drive home was excruciating. Finally, after what seemed like the never ending commute, I was walking through the door. I started sobbing. 

My.head.hurt.so.badly. 

I immediately changed into some comfy clothes, down two ibuprofen, chugged a glass of iced tea, and crawled into bed hoping that throughout the previous actions I’d knock myself out cold so I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain. I mean who wouldn’t run into their REs office and beg for Clomid after reading about this?! As I lay in bed with tears streaming down my cheeks, and in an intense amount of pain my only thought was “get through the night.” 
About 4 hours later, as I sit here in front of the tv, I am feeling like a different person. While I’ve knocked the headache out completely, I am exhausted. I told my DH It felt like someone had sucked the life out of me. Let’s talk about irony. I feel as though I’ve been drained of all life due to this medication, and I am taking this medication in hopes of carrying a life. How’s that for a brain teaser? These headaches have become my ‘old faithful’ throughout this experience. 

Knowing my Clomid headaches are back, tomorrow I’m sure will result in another doozy. 

Father’s Day

A laborious breakfast spread is laid on the table, as I wait for my husband to get out to bed. I’ve been up since just after 4am; homemade pastries, meats, homemade waffles, a quiche etc., are all waiting to be devoured. Sitting in the middle of the table is a small little card, in an unaddressed envelope. Upon stumbling into the kitchen he sighs with delight seeing the cornucopia of yummy breakfast foods in front of him. Still half asleep he reaches for his piping hot cup of coffee while side eyeing the card. I don’t make a fuss. I sit there sipping my coffee and feeling the heat trickle down my throat as anticipation and nerves rise at a monumental rate. I dab away the flakes from the buttery croissant and coyly say “good morning,” while sliding the card closer towards him. He meets my eye, and I can see the comprehension of me silently willing him to open the card. As he grabs the card, I can see his optimism and hope, the desire to be a father in his eyes. Meanwhile, I sit there knowing our lives will never be the same. 
Dreams my friends, are sometimes much worse than nightmares. 

I slowly roll over reaching out for my DH and realize once again, that dream sequence is not my reality. Not on any past Father’s Day, not on this Father’s Day, and not anytime soon. Begrudgingly, I haul myself out of bed, and plaster that academy award winning smile on my face to greet the world, or to just stare endlessly into the bottom of the coffee cup I know awaits me in the kitchen. 

I’m not a man. I will never be a father. But so badly, I wish that my husband were a father and that we’d be able to spend the day doting on him. Although not many of our friends have babies, this quote echoes in my heart on an abnormally regular beat: 

That is all I want. To call him a father. To hear a little voice call him daddy, dad, or dada. To pick out heinous ties and silly socks, and cards that talk about how great of a man he is, and how wondrous of a father he has been for our child. Br at this point in our lives, so I can’t shed tears over what isn’t. But, I do. 

My period started Friday. Two days earlier than it was scheduled. Ever since we’ve started these treatments, my cycle has been off. What are the odds that it used to be like clockwork and now it’s about as reliable as a New England snowstorm. Which basically means, it’s completely unpredictable. After texting my doctor throughout the day Friday, and hearing back today, tomorrow round three begins. We start with the baseline ultrasound tomorrow at 7:30am, and the commencement of Clomid on Tuesday morning. More ultrasounds this month. More bloodwork. More…more…more of everything because last month was SO off. 

I’m not prepared. I’m tired. I do not want to go through another month of aggravation, annoyance, and frustration. Despite my knowledge of essentially what is in our path, failure, there I’ll be tomorrow for a day 4 ultrasound. Again, for another month, my body is turned over to science. 

Originally when we started this nightmare, I’m done calling it a roller coaster, it isn’t. A roller coaster is exhilarating, after 45 to 60 seconds of insanity it ends. We are well, well beyond, 45 to 60 seconds of time. We are months in but it feels like years. Anyway back to this nightmare… We decided we would do three rounds of hormone treatments and IUIs. We are in our third month of treatment and we’ve only had one IUI, because the second cycle as I may remind you “failed.” Last night while eating icecream, I broached the topic, “what do we do after this? Should we go right to IVF? Do we do another round of drugs and hope to get to another IUI?”  To be quite frank, I do not know where to go after this. I need a mental break, but how does one break from something that is ALWAYS on their mind? My DH with nothing but patience and reassurance said, “we will do as many rounds of this as you want.”

Here’s what I want. A baby. None of this bullshit. No doctors. No bills. Not 3-4 ultrasounds on a weekly basis. But in order to “maybe” have a baby, we have to go through endless and heaping amounts of bullshit. I plaster that dumb vacant smile on my face because really, what the fuck else am I to do? 

Reality Sucker Punch

This will be short and sour. With a side of bitter. 

My ultrasound this morning showed that my follicles have shrunk. I knew something was wrong before anything was said. The ultrasound took three times as long as it had. Then there was a lot of “pull that one, go to the next one, show me yesterday’s,” and a face that went from the Cheshire Cat monstrous grin to Peofessor Snape’s ever present frown. Did I mention that the new medical student that was observing is at least 5 months pregnant? That was a ______ site to see. You know me and my attitude well enough to fill in that blank accordingly. 

They are SMALLER today then they were yesterday. Which means, I’ve already ovulated, and it literally happened within the last 24 hours from my 6:45am ultrasound yesterday. I’m informed that I am to go for bloodwork immediately, and that the labs would be rushed. I’m also informed that depending on the lab results, DH and I are on standby for a potential IUI…today. This potential IUI would have been dependent upon the bloodwork. 

Everything this entire cycle was basically miscalculated, and my cycle is “not normal” according to my doctor, and my body “isn’t really responding the way it should be.” If I’m too far into ovulating, “this round is a bust,” a direct quote from my doctor who seemed stupefied that the two follicles were smaller. Funny how quickly his damn tune changed from Tuesday and Wednesday. Meanwhile I sit there on the table repeating my new mantra, “do not cry. Do not cry here. No crying. No crying in the office.” So I sat there with a tight smile and curtly said “ok” and “alright” to every statement that was made. 

Has anyone ever pulled a nutty in the doctors office? I was maybe a second or two away from sobbing hysterically or screaming at him. Round two was a waste. A literal take your money and light a match to it waste. I took pills for no reason, had three ultrasounds for no reason, dropped $100 on an injection I now wont and can’t even use, and went POSTAL on people all day today. I begrudgingly went for the bloodwork. Cry the entire time I am driving to the lab. Compose myself to get pricked and drained all prior to 7:50am. Cry the entire drive to my office.  Muddled my way through the day and my work. Currently, it’s 6:28pm and my doctor still doesn’t have my results. So much for that “rush” and the urgency to get me to a lab this morning. Great to know that this isn’t life or death situation. 

Before I left his office to get my blood sucked, he was kind enough to let me know that next month when we are “back at it again,” everything will be changed. The medicine, the dosage, the timing of my ultrasounds, and I will be going for blood draws basically every other day. Also that once changes are made “it’s really a learning curve to see how you’ll respond, and it’s typically not successful the first time we change it up.” Well that’s an overwhelming amount of reassurance provided by the specialist in this field. Seriously buddy, just do not speak. Keep your mouth shut. Silence is golden, but someone missed that memo. 

If I wanted someone to tell me “you’ll fail at this too,” I easily could have delivered the speech to myself. It’s only been years that I’ve had to perfect it, and it would have been much more eloquent than what you delivered. Between the lines that were spewed  Tuesday and Wednesday and these beauties from this morning, I’m really starting to question everything. 
You know when you just have a feeling, and it’s one you’d go to Vegas and bet your life savings on? (This is coming from someone who doesn’t even gamble.) Here’s that feeling which I’m betting is my reality: I will never have or carry my own child. 
Boils down to this: infertility 2, us 0.

F Stands For…

Fuck it. Not a flippant one, an anger driven and emotionally charged fuck it.

Sunday morning of a long holiday weekend should be delightful. Put on your sad pants people, it’s not delightful. 

1. Did my OPK (I know cut the acronym game out already- ovulation predictor kit) and it detected “no surge.” Fancy fucking way of saying you are NOT ovulating. 
2. Open my Facebook app…SURPRISE! There’s a pregnancy announcement. 
3. Scroll down…my friend (not really, but someone I went to college with,) is pregnant with her 700th baby (not really but I’ve lost count,) took a selfie in the middle of the night while she was eating icecream and complaining about how “uncomfortable she is.”

You think POAS (peeing on a stick) and getting “not pregnant” is bad…trust me it is 5 millions time worse when you POAS and you find out you aren’t even ovulating! So now my body isn’t even doing what it is supposed to be doing. Can’t wait to do another one of those tests tomorrow. 

———————————-

Brace yourselves. I’m about to go on an epic rant. Expletives will be used. Lots and lots of expletives.

I fucking hate every single minute of this “journey.” Let’s call it what it really is, a shitshow. On a journey you get to travel somewhere. We can’t even do that! Seriously, we can’t go away for a decent amount of time. Between the countless doctors appointments, having to order pills and start them on exact days of my cycle, the various times where bloodwork is needed on the fly, having a “collection” dropped off, and getting injections overnighted, the ONLY time we can go away would be when I have my period. Fuck that! Nothing like already feeling like a marshmallow and then having your period too, “let me go throw on my bikini” said no woman ever. Someone said that we should do a quick Caribbean vacation to relax. Really, do you live under a damn rock? Two words: zika virus. If you don’t know what it is look it up on Google. WHY does my body not do what it’s supposed to do, like ovulate when it’s “charted” to be ovulating. I hate the unknown and feeling like a yo-yo on a daily basis. And last but definitely not least, I am SO over the transvaginal ultrasounds, enough already. Know why I really hate all of this? Because everyone keeps telling me keep your eyes on the end of all of this. Which is such a load of bullshit. 

What if four months from now (the notion of going through this four months from now makes me want to crawl out of my skin,) I decide that I (me, solely me,) can not handle another fucking minute of this insanity and that I’m DONE. Where’s the baby? There isn’t one. 

What if we will never be able to have a baby? Seriously, though. Let’s think about that. Really…think about it, because I know people that have done treatments for YEARS and still don’t have a child. Where’s their baby? There isn’t one.

What if I decide that I really don’t have it in me to adopt? Because the more I think about it, the more close minded I am to the idea, but I’m countlessly reminded that’s also an option. (One with a $30-$45k price tag) Where’s the baby when I say I don’t want to adopt? There isn’t one.

The real bitch about infertility is there is NO guarantee about a baby. There’s a hopeful promise. Which shouldn’t even be a promise because it’s not a guarantee. Any other time you’re shelling out thousands of dollars you GET something; whether it be a car, a house, a new handbag, a pet, or whatever else, you have a tangible item. The only guarantees in infertility until you “maybe have a baby” are misery, heartache, discomfort, empty bank accounts, and an unparalleled anger towards everything. 

So fuck you infertility…
…fuck you pregnancy announcements.

…fuck you who “accidentally” got pregnant.

…fuck the upcoming baby showers. 

…fuck you to my body which can’t do anything right. 

…fuck you to those that “struggled for a few months” to get pregnant.

…fuck you to those that are going on vacation. 
…fuck.it.all…