"Don't forget the $500 facility fee," a friendly email from the new clinic said. "This is the first I've heard of it," I responded. Assholes.
"Don't forget the 2K for PGS testing!" they also helpfully reminded me. "Cool, except I'm not doing it," I replied.
2K. For what?
Really. For what.
Thursday, January 31, 2019
Wednesday, January 30, 2019
Well That Was Quick
Triggering at midnight tonight for retrieval on Friday at noon. Breakneck speed. Six follicles going, three 12s, two 16s, and a whopper at 21. Unfreakingbelievable.
Taking a Ganirelix at 6, doxycycline after dinner, then trigger at midnight.
You know how much PGS testing costs? 2K just to think about it. Another 500 per embryo. Then off to some other lab for another 150 each. I decided not to do it. Fresh transfer. Throw 'em in and we'll see what happens.
Watching the remake of "The Taking of Pelham 123." It's fun imagining that a competent person works at the MTA.
Taking a Ganirelix at 6, doxycycline after dinner, then trigger at midnight.
You know how much PGS testing costs? 2K just to think about it. Another 500 per embryo. Then off to some other lab for another 150 each. I decided not to do it. Fresh transfer. Throw 'em in and we'll see what happens.
Watching the remake of "The Taking of Pelham 123." It's fun imagining that a competent person works at the MTA.
And Still More Awful
Nausea. And not the existential kind.
It's hard to know what's going on, as I just finished three days of antibiotics to get rid of a UTI, on top of these stim meds. But for whatever reason, today I feel sick, sick, sick. I haven't actually been sick, but I've also only managed coffee with milk and an egg white. And a fistful of supplements. Which I am now washing down with anti-anxiety tea.
I have canceled a work lunch.
Monitoring in an hour and a half.
I mean, on the up side, I haven't put on as much weight this week as I expected to. So. Not eating has its advantages, I guess?
I have some ramen soup to try after my appointment is over, when I have crawled home again. But the fatigue is something else again. I'm too tired to watch TV. How is that even possible?
A friend points out that I'm just feeling badly, and I shouldn't let my upsetness at feeling badly feel worse than feeling badly. Which is good advice, as he rightly identifies my discomfort and anger with feeling out of control of my body, and how I feel.
Also, I've lost a contact lens in my eye.
This isn't a very good blog entry, is it. Oh well. Too late now.
It's hard to know what's going on, as I just finished three days of antibiotics to get rid of a UTI, on top of these stim meds. But for whatever reason, today I feel sick, sick, sick. I haven't actually been sick, but I've also only managed coffee with milk and an egg white. And a fistful of supplements. Which I am now washing down with anti-anxiety tea.
I have canceled a work lunch.
Monitoring in an hour and a half.
I mean, on the up side, I haven't put on as much weight this week as I expected to. So. Not eating has its advantages, I guess?
I have some ramen soup to try after my appointment is over, when I have crawled home again. But the fatigue is something else again. I'm too tired to watch TV. How is that even possible?
A friend points out that I'm just feeling badly, and I shouldn't let my upsetness at feeling badly feel worse than feeling badly. Which is good advice, as he rightly identifies my discomfort and anger with feeling out of control of my body, and how I feel.
Also, I've lost a contact lens in my eye.
This isn't a very good blog entry, is it. Oh well. Too late now.
Monday, January 28, 2019
Awful
I feel terrible.
My ovaries actually hurt. And after pouncing on my husband with too much vigor, I am now powering through a UTI. So stim meds, plus antibiotics, plus so many supplements they actually make me kind of nauseated, equals one miserable bowl of guacamole.
Also the people upstairs are redoing their apartment, which this morning involved lots of hammering and a sawsall that sounded like they were doing dental work on a whale. So I'm at the library, which I love, but I just spotted another writer I know, and I'm trying to figure out how to avoid her because though she is wonderful, I simply do not have the mental and emotional energy to be all "Oh heeeeey! Hi! How ARE you? What are you working on? Provisional plans! Blah blah blah" which normally I am happy to do, as I legitimately like this person, but I mean, come on.
My ovaries hurt.
That is all.
My ovaries actually hurt. And after pouncing on my husband with too much vigor, I am now powering through a UTI. So stim meds, plus antibiotics, plus so many supplements they actually make me kind of nauseated, equals one miserable bowl of guacamole.
Also the people upstairs are redoing their apartment, which this morning involved lots of hammering and a sawsall that sounded like they were doing dental work on a whale. So I'm at the library, which I love, but I just spotted another writer I know, and I'm trying to figure out how to avoid her because though she is wonderful, I simply do not have the mental and emotional energy to be all "Oh heeeeey! Hi! How ARE you? What are you working on? Provisional plans! Blah blah blah" which normally I am happy to do, as I legitimately like this person, but I mean, come on.
My ovaries hurt.
That is all.
Friday, January 25, 2019
Horribleness
Stims, day 2, and I have become a monster. Volatile, emotional, full of anger and self-righteousness and then immediately shame. I cry in the shower, hating myself. I slink out of the apartment to the library where I can hide in my carrel and no one can see me and therefore no one can find out how wretched I truly am.
I cannot tell how much of a role the hormones are playing in this mental drama. I know they are playing *a* role. But I've certainly been horrible before, and not when doing IVF. It's possible that the hormones only thin the filter between my horrible self and its expression.
I cannot tell how much of a role the hormones are playing in this mental drama. I know they are playing *a* role. But I've certainly been horrible before, and not when doing IVF. It's possible that the hormones only thin the filter between my horrible self and its expression.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
In case you were wondering
Deprogramming with progesterone definitely has emotional side effects.
I am dragging. I woke up in a black and empty place. Which is odd, as nothing has changed, and everything is objectively good. I walked the dog and gave him breakfast. I'm seeing a friend later. I'm going to an exercise class. I'm going to do some work-related things that are interesting. There is, objectively speaking, zero reason for me to want to cry in the street while walking the dog. There is zero reason why I should feel abandoned, and unloved, and invisible when I have already heard from three different friends this morning for no particular reason.
I am overwhelmed by the mail.
I am offended by a neighbor's silence in the elevator.
I am horrified by my body.
I am sexually frustrated but too tired to do anything about it.
I am hungry but not in the mood to eat.
I can't decide whether it's worth it to shower.
The most galling part is, I know that none of this is real. I hate that I am subject to such arbitrary changes in my own self.
I think one of the hardest parts of this experience, at least for someone as controlling as I am, has been the utter and complete loss of control. Not only of the outcome, but of what happens inside my body, and even how I feel about it. The loss of control makes me angry, and then I want to take my anger out on the world. Fuck you, political moment in America, I want to scream. Fuck you, job. Fuck you weather, and my mother's incipient dementia, and that guy who always flirts with me just to get my attention and waste my time, and the window repair person who doesn't know anything about windows, and hiring committee for that academic job that I don't even want, and all other people who have my job and are better at it than I am. Fuck you, world that doesn't care about how I feel, because today I feel small, and insignificant, and terrible and trapped in my own humanity.
And it's all because of synthetic progesterone.
It's not even real.
I am dragging. I woke up in a black and empty place. Which is odd, as nothing has changed, and everything is objectively good. I walked the dog and gave him breakfast. I'm seeing a friend later. I'm going to an exercise class. I'm going to do some work-related things that are interesting. There is, objectively speaking, zero reason for me to want to cry in the street while walking the dog. There is zero reason why I should feel abandoned, and unloved, and invisible when I have already heard from three different friends this morning for no particular reason.
I am overwhelmed by the mail.
I am offended by a neighbor's silence in the elevator.
I am horrified by my body.
I am sexually frustrated but too tired to do anything about it.
I am hungry but not in the mood to eat.
I can't decide whether it's worth it to shower.
The most galling part is, I know that none of this is real. I hate that I am subject to such arbitrary changes in my own self.
I think one of the hardest parts of this experience, at least for someone as controlling as I am, has been the utter and complete loss of control. Not only of the outcome, but of what happens inside my body, and even how I feel about it. The loss of control makes me angry, and then I want to take my anger out on the world. Fuck you, political moment in America, I want to scream. Fuck you, job. Fuck you weather, and my mother's incipient dementia, and that guy who always flirts with me just to get my attention and waste my time, and the window repair person who doesn't know anything about windows, and hiring committee for that academic job that I don't even want, and all other people who have my job and are better at it than I am. Fuck you, world that doesn't care about how I feel, because today I feel small, and insignificant, and terrible and trapped in my own humanity.
And it's all because of synthetic progesterone.
It's not even real.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Growing Up
There comes a time in every infertile woman's life when she has to ask herself, is what I'm feeling a side effect of these drugs, or is this psychosomatic?
Right now, for instance. It's all of 8 pm, and I am in the greatest city in the world, and I was invited out to a thing with people I like at a place I've never been before. Did I go? No, I did not. I am home, in my apartment, with a Duraflame log going in the fireplace, eating ramen.
I am also in pajamas patterned with manatees. And a giant sweatshirt. I am alone, save for the indifferent attention of my dog, who after being informed that there was not in fact anything on the landing to bark at, has retired to the bedroom to nap and sulk in turn.
The truth is, I'm fucking exhausted. Which is ridiculous, as what did I do today? I got up, on the early side, but nothing crazy. I did house stuff. I went to a meeting. I did schmooze stuff. And then I was like, I can either go to this evening thing that will obviously be fun, or I can go home, shoot up my Ganirelix and take my progesterone pills, put on my pajamas, order ramen, and spend the evening on the floor by my fireplace alone talking to no one.
And that's what I did.
Is it the drugs? Or is it psychosomatic? Am I actually exhausted, or do I just imagine that I am?
Does it matter?
Right now, for instance. It's all of 8 pm, and I am in the greatest city in the world, and I was invited out to a thing with people I like at a place I've never been before. Did I go? No, I did not. I am home, in my apartment, with a Duraflame log going in the fireplace, eating ramen.
I am also in pajamas patterned with manatees. And a giant sweatshirt. I am alone, save for the indifferent attention of my dog, who after being informed that there was not in fact anything on the landing to bark at, has retired to the bedroom to nap and sulk in turn.
The truth is, I'm fucking exhausted. Which is ridiculous, as what did I do today? I got up, on the early side, but nothing crazy. I did house stuff. I went to a meeting. I did schmooze stuff. And then I was like, I can either go to this evening thing that will obviously be fun, or I can go home, shoot up my Ganirelix and take my progesterone pills, put on my pajamas, order ramen, and spend the evening on the floor by my fireplace alone talking to no one.
And that's what I did.
Is it the drugs? Or is it psychosomatic? Am I actually exhausted, or do I just imagine that I am?
Does it matter?
Friday, January 18, 2019
Step One
Today, friends, we have our baseline appointment for IVF attempt #5 at Dr. Small Guns, right around the corner.
What I have done:
1) Forwarded my medical records in a way easily stolen by ruffians
2) Started to menstruate
3) Made self a pedicure appointment for after the appointment
4) Complained to strangers on the internet about my failure to receive medication in a timely manner
5) Showered
What I have not done:
1) Sorted out medication problem with CVS, because when I called them, my jet lag made me call them two hours before they opened
2) Much of anything else
So. That's where things stand today. My jet lag gives this all a strange sense of unreality. Which might be a refreshing change.
What I have done:
1) Forwarded my medical records in a way easily stolen by ruffians
2) Started to menstruate
3) Made self a pedicure appointment for after the appointment
4) Complained to strangers on the internet about my failure to receive medication in a timely manner
5) Showered
What I have not done:
1) Sorted out medication problem with CVS, because when I called them, my jet lag made me call them two hours before they opened
2) Much of anything else
So. That's where things stand today. My jet lag gives this all a strange sense of unreality. Which might be a refreshing change.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
New Year, Same Hold Music
If you're wondering whether CVS Caremark specialty pharmacy is equipped to handle fertility patients who switch clinics, the answer, friends, is "Not as such." The nurse at Dr. Small Guns was most consternated when I informed her that CVS didn't have my scrip on file, and I had been able to get refills only from prestanding orders from Dr. Big Guns. One advantage of a smaller office, however, is the nurse rolls her eyes loudly enough that you can hear it over the phone, says "I'll talk to them and call you back," and then she actually DOES IT (WHAAAAT?) and discovers that the reason is I had three different profiles at CVS Caremark. One for each clinic I have visited, I presume.
So. Today's task - call back CVS Caremark and arrange for the delivery of whatever else I'm missing, to arrive at my apartment on January 17. My period was three days late this cycle, creating the usual frisson of possibility followed by somewhat crushing defeat, together with more wretched than usual cramps, but the good news about that is it means my next one shouldn't be due until the 20th. Which is good, as I'm out of the country from the 9th to the 16th.
Scheduling, Succotash. Infertility treatment has turned me into even more of a calendar psycho than I ever thought possible.
CVS has jazzy, upbeat hold music, which I have come to know intimately over the past two years. But their customer service people mean well. In my call with them on the 31st, as I arranged to refill all my available prescriptions and get more needles and pens and syringes and gauze and sharps boxes, not admitting that I was requesting all the extra stuff so that I could pass it on to strangers on the internet who have no insurance in the event that I do not need to use them, she concluded by asking if I have any questions for the pharmacist.
"Yeah," I said. "Why me?"
She didn't have an answer.
So. Today's task - call back CVS Caremark and arrange for the delivery of whatever else I'm missing, to arrive at my apartment on January 17. My period was three days late this cycle, creating the usual frisson of possibility followed by somewhat crushing defeat, together with more wretched than usual cramps, but the good news about that is it means my next one shouldn't be due until the 20th. Which is good, as I'm out of the country from the 9th to the 16th.
Scheduling, Succotash. Infertility treatment has turned me into even more of a calendar psycho than I ever thought possible.
CVS has jazzy, upbeat hold music, which I have come to know intimately over the past two years. But their customer service people mean well. In my call with them on the 31st, as I arranged to refill all my available prescriptions and get more needles and pens and syringes and gauze and sharps boxes, not admitting that I was requesting all the extra stuff so that I could pass it on to strangers on the internet who have no insurance in the event that I do not need to use them, she concluded by asking if I have any questions for the pharmacist.
"Yeah," I said. "Why me?"
She didn't have an answer.
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