Now We Are Six

Six of seven eggs mature, and all six fertilized!

Succotash, you surprise me. That's two more than last time. And in theory, that delicious me-slurry they're stewing you in should help you hang on til Sunday.

Sunday is the day. We go on the most important, most memorable Easter egg hunt of all time.

Me and my stupid hopes all up now.

Seven

Hi Succotash.

I'm home. A bit woozy. A bit high. Some pain, but at least this time I was expecting it, and your would-be aunt made sure I had some drugs just in case, so I am no longer afraid of what's happening. Is pain more manageable when you expect it, or understand it? I don't know.

Anyway. I'm home. I'm a bit high. And we got seven eggs. Seven!

Honestly, I thought there was a good chance we'd only get three or four. Seven is a surprise.

Now, we wait. Today I will spend lying on the couch in a semi-drugged haze. Tomorrow they will call and tell us how many fertilized. They - you? - are presently hanging out in lab slurry made of my carefully harvested membranes and blood. Like the goo Neo wakes up in in the Matrix. Which is already a dated reference, and will essentially be to you as.... I was going to say Saturday Night Fever is to me, but that's not right, because that movie came out the year I was born. More accurate would be a movie that came out in 1968.

I'm too high to think of movies that came out in 1968 right now. Medium Cool? Let's call it Medium Cool.

Anyway.

I've done my part. Now it's up to you. Your job is to stew and divide. Stew and divide. Stew and divide. Luxuriate in the slurry. I worked hard to make that slurry for you, and so did several smug overpaid doctors. So enjoy it, okay?

And then on Sunday, you'll get to luxuriate in me.

That playful tone you detect in my blog entry is called "hope," Succotash. I've tried my best to keep it at bay, and intellectually I know the wiser course of action would be to hold it at arm's length. Or further - leg's length. I'm just so unaccustomed to hearing serendipitous good news. This might be the very first time, since we started this project, that it's happened.

Onward

Well, Succotash, we're still in the game. Five follicles going, of which three are in the same ballpark, one is larger, and one is smaller. Another smaller one still which they aren't counting for some reason, but I see it there plain as day on the ultrasound. Yesterday when scanned by Dr. Big Guns I asked if they were sure to address every follicle. He promised me they would.

"Wring em out," I said.

It's been a week of strange coincidences. The acupuncturist standing in for my usual one remembers me from college. Then in the waiting room today a woman recognizes me from having met through a mutual friend. Then as the nurse draws targets on my haunches for the trigger shot I will likely have to give myself later, she tells me that another nurse recognized me from writing. I was her favorite author and she was star struck. This is gratifying information, I suppose, though a bit surreal to receive while one's pants are lowered and someone is drawing on one's rear end with a marker.

Almost certainly triggering tonight. Then egg retrieval Thursday. I am being very assiduous about my bowel movements Succotash, because last time the constipation wrought by egg retrieval surgery was both painful and horrifying. I'm heading it off at the pass this time. Stool softeners. Magnesium. I've even laid in a supply of prune juice.

Prune juice, Succotash. See what I'm willing to do for you?

Now your job is to grow. And then, if we get that far, to hang on.

Still Going

I'm starting to be able to feel them in there. I'm guessing we'll trigger tomorrow, which would mean retrieval on Tuesday.

I don't know.

I'm not optimistic. I have glimmers of it, against my better judgement.

Then, of course, the big decision will be whether or not I can handle this again.

Well.

We'll see.

More scans tomorrow morning. My forty-first birthday.

Bullshit

Four follicles, Succotash. I mean, what the fuck kind of turnout is that? That's pathetic.

Some other little small ones though. The girls on the internet seem to think it's possible that the little ones can wake up in time. I hope so. Or else, what's the point?

Anyway, the cycle isn't cancelled. At least not at the moment.

We start our extra load of shots tomorrow.

And So It Begins

 Stims day 3, Night Sweat edition. I woke up in the middle of the night soaked. Dripping. I had to get up and towel off and change pajamas. My eyemask was soaked.

Also worrying, as Day 2 baseline ultrasound showed a follicle on the left that was already 8 mm. I asked if I was at risk for another dominant follicle cancelled cycle.

"We only worry if it's over 10," said attending, surprised as usual that I was asking questions at all.

Next scan not til Wednesday, but you know my prediction. You heard it here first, Succotash.

Though by all means, feel free to surprise me, you wily hypothetical person, you.

On an unrelated note, I had squirreled away surplus meds in flagrant violation of Federal law to give to a friend from high school who works in the arts, like me, but who has no insurance coverage. Do you have any idea how much these meds cost out of pocket? It's fucking staggering. It's many thousands of dollars. So I gave her my stash, and she's got a good five follicles going, possibly heading into retrieval on Wednesday.

If she's successful, I've made her promise her kid will come visit me in the home.

Monitoring

I am a ball of rage and despair, and that is why I am crying during blood draw.

"Are you okay?" asks nurse.

"No," I say. "Everything about this is terrible. This is a total nightmare and I won't want to be here."

Anyway. The guacamole has been sitting out too long. I'm starting to brown around the edges.

Probably starting stims tonight.

Lab person and nurse are nice about it, though as usual when I self-report an impression or sensation (in this case, "the estrogen is making me volatile") their response is to contradict me ("Weird! Most people say it makes them all lovey-dovey.").

To which I say "Nothing makes me all lovey-dovey."

Also there is someone observing the nurse, which I didn't consent to and which is never fully explained to me. I ask her if she is a student. She says no, she's just observing. I'm like, oh, so you could be anyone? A process server? A debt collector? Knox Harrington, the video artist?

"Yeah, but what are you doing here?" I ask.

"I'm a nurse," she says. No further explanation.

Stay tuned for next week, Succotash, when your would-be mother is involuntarily committed.

Day 1

The meds have arrived. I've put them all in the meds drawer.

And my period has arrived on time. I'm sitting at my desk now, wrapped in a mohair blanket like a 19th C invalid, telling myself the cramps don't hurt that much.

I'm lying.

Tomorrow morning, I will go in for a baseline ultrasound and blood work.

One more time.

We'll do it one more time, Succotash.

Cover Song

To the tune of "The Sweater Song" by Weezer

First monologue:

Oh hi there. Welcome. Here are some forms for you til fill out. How long you been trying? What? Five years? Oh. Well. The doctor will try to see you soon. Within three months, no longer.

chorus:
If you want to have a baby
That's too bad, cause you're way too old
It serves you right, you're too damn successful
Lying on the floor
Lying on the floor, your period's come!

So we need you to sign this release saying that nothing that happens to you is our fault. Also are you aware that each cycle costs fifteen thousand dollars? Good thing you put so much effort into your career, huh? Oh I know. Great. The doctor will see you now.

(chorus)

So I've looked at your chart, and I can confidently say you have at least a 20%... make that a 10%... make that a 5% chance of success. But won't it be worth it? Your life will finally have meaning. Now slide your butt down here and spread your legs and let's have another look.

Last chorus:
Wait, you wanted to have a baby?
Well that's too bad, you're too fucking old.
You should've worked less,
Been less ambitious.
Lying on the floor, Lying on the floor, your time is done!

Outro:
Have you tried supplements? What about melatonin? What about pineapple juice? What about yoga? You should try acupuncture, you SHOULD GO ON VACATION. MAYBE THIS WOULDN'T BE HAPPENING IF YOU COULD JUST FUCKING RELAX!

Estrogen Patch, On

The first baby step into the deep morass of IVF cycle #3, like I'm just boarding the plane that will eventually take me to another airport where I will catch another plane and fly far, far, far into the Southern Hemisphere where I will drive from the airport into the jungle until I come upon the raft that will take me deep into the heart of darkness, where Mr. Kurtz will be waiting for me to tell me that the transfer failed.

The Minister of Scraping, or How I Finally Got the Doctor to Shut the Fuck Up

Me: "I'm here to see the Minister of Scraping."

Front Desk (humorless): "What doctor are you here to see?"

Me: "Oh, fine."

Later, in exam room, I lie waiting, reading New York Magazine.

MoS: "Hello! I'm Dr. Whosis, chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chat-"

Me, interrupting: "Hey, do you mind if I just read my magazine while you do this?"

MoS (perplexed): "What? Uh. Sure?"

Me: "It's nothing personal. I just prefer to be checked out of my body while this is happening, and I'd like to read and use my brain."

MoS: "Do you want me to tell you what I'm doing before I do it?"

Me: "Nope."

MoS: "Okay."

I read my magazine. There's some pain but reading helps keep my mind off it

MoS: "All done. You may have some cramping and spotting, like a period, blah blah blah. Then we're going to yadda yadda yadda blah blah bullshit blah get you pregnant blah."

Me: "Got it. Thanks."

MoS: "That's maybe the longest I've ever had to be quiet."

Me: smiles politely, thinking, that appointment was fifteen minutes, max

Popped half an Oxy in the ladies' room on my way out, and am now home, with hot pad, feeling pretty good all things considered.

Also, word to the wise - on the consent form for this endometrial co-culture nonsense they pointed to two spots for me to initial like it was no big deal. They were consents for the procedure to be filmed (WTF?) and for a medical apparatus sales person to be present (WTF x 4?). I did not initial them, and you don't have to, either.

Slow Crank

Out of bed at 7 am, pulling on clothes, to discover the dog has soiled the dining room, which is a really strange development for him. I resolve to deal with it when I get back, and run outside into the bomb cyclone and hail a cab.

At the office, they mispronounce my name. Again. When they go to take the extra blood this time, I keep my eyes closed.

"Did you eat and drink?" they ask.

"I drank water," I say.

Prodding at my elbow. They seem to think I'm lying to them, but I'm not.

I get an Uber home as the rain turns to sleet. Back in the apartment I take off my shoes and pull out paper towels and cleaning supplies and I deal with the soiling in the dining room, worrying over the dog. He'd been so chipper yesterday. I don't even remember the last time he had an accident in the house. Did he try to wake us up? Did we not hear him?

I finally climb back in bed a little before 9. I resolve that I will close my eyes, just for a little while. I listen to the sleet against the windows. The dog wagged me hello and then went back to bed too. My husband didn't stir.

At 12:15 I finally awoke, confused, in a kind of jet lag. Everyone was still asleep.

Like we are resting up for the challenges ahead.