Sunday, November 30, 2008
I went in for ultrasound and blood work today and I seem to be responding to the Follistim, as my dose was dropped for tonight by 75 units. Physically, I can feel something happening: have had abdominal twinginess, and today's aggressive ultrasound probing left me cramping on one side for most of the day.
I had vowed not to pay attention to the details of how things are developing, but my acupuncturist wants updates so she can adjust my treatments. So much for avoiding obsessing! I think they said they saw 2-3 on one side around 12 and 2 on the other side around 11, with several smaller ones. But it all happened so fast, I'm not sure. Oh well. I can never figure out exactly how what they see on ultrasound translates into what happens on retrieval day anyway. So am trying to pay attention enough to tell the acupuncturist while not getting caught up in any specific expected outcome.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
We are on a plane right now, headed south. She's resting beside me, and I'm sitting here pondering the “thanks” in thanksgiving. My boss sent everyone on our team a Thanksgiving email cataloguing all he appreciates about each of us. Very unusual (unprecedented, really). It got me thinking about what I am grateful for.
So, here is Will's Top 10 List of things I am thankful for:
10. Fairway Market. This purveyor has been deemed combat shopping central. However, it is an excellent place to practice mindfulness and get great deals on fresh everything. I like it better than Gourmet Garage and the like.
9. New York City just after a rain shower or during a snowstorm. The natural beauty of the city really comes out during these times, maybe due to the effect of light and quiet. During these times I am reminded of the vastness of all this city has to offer. It is as if the rain has cleaned off the sidewalks and streets and announced a new beginning.
8. A smile from a stranger. New York is often described as hectic and filled with aggressive, rude people. True, but there are more nice people than mean. When I am late to work, the security officer always greets me with a smile and “good morning doc!” This brings a smile to my face even when I am feeling harried.
7. Fulfilling and exciting career. I love my work and feel like it loves me. I give my best and receive back much more.
6. Personal growth and awareness. This past summer was “the perfect storm,” as one friend put it: I got a major job promotion, was reeling from my father's recent diagnosis with a terminal illness, and then we had two miscarriages almost back to back. To be honest, I was overwhelmed with it all, and the resulting crisis led me to reconsider my life. It caused me to realize that I had not dealt appropriately with stress, going far back in time, and it became clear that I would need to make major changes to maintain my sanity and my marriage. The past four months I have done a tremendous amount of work to better define my dreams and aspirations and get grounded. This has resulted in an improved marriage and a better, more confident self.
5. Health. At my work I see a lot of patients similar in age to me with debilitating diseases, both physical and mental. I try to remember to be grateful for both my and Mo's health each morning as we get up.
4. Safety. This is a bit amorphous, but safety means that Mo and I have enough emotional reserve to weather storms. We have learned a tremendous amount about each other, sometimes startling, but all good to share. We also have stable careers which is very reassuring during this economic downturn.
3. Friends. I have not nurtured my friendships as well as I should. I hope in the next few months to pay better attention to this area of my life and am grateful for the presence of friends in my life.
2. Family. They may drive me nuts at times, but when push comes to shove, my brothers and sister have always offered their support to me.
1. Mo. Even sitting here in this airplane seat beside me, Mo offers me unconditional love. I feel it, I see it, I know it. I am a lucky human being to be able to walk on this journey of life with her. I think we are going to have a lot of fun and fulfillment in our love together. And hopefully, we can share that fun and fulfilment with a family of our own.
What are you thankful for in your life?
Wanted to say a quick hello. I am thankful for many of the same things as Will - family, friends, my health (knock wood) , and of course Will. I am also thankful that we live in NYC and have the emotional and financial resources to be able to pursue our dream of having a family together.
But I also wanted to pipe in and say how grateful I am to have found the blog community. When Will and I started this, we saw it as sort of a couples' journal of our IVF process, and it is. But neither one of us anticipated how meaningful it would be to hear from others in our same position. So that is one more thing we are thankful for. We read each and every comment. And honestly, we've been extremely moved by all of your stories and support.
Monday, November 24, 2008
But with IVF, I cannot escape. Certain tests are dictated by our RE and others by my partner in crime, Mo. Deep down I want to be healthy, so the desire is also mine. And since Mo takes her shots and goes to her monitoring every day, I figure I can do my part too.
Which leads me to The Rocket.
My urologist wanted me to get my sperm DNA tested to be sure that a medication I'm taking is not affecting my swimmers. There is only one laboratory in the world that performs the test to detect damage in the DNA of sperm (aka sperm chromatin structure assay). And this lab is in - of all places - South Dakota.
To get my sample from New York to South Dakota, Fed Ex (for a cool $150) ships a sort-of-mushroom-shaped contraption that contains a white metal tank filled with dry ice. It is ridiculously bulky and even more ridiculously heavy - weighing probably 20 pounds. Mo and I took one look at it last cycle and christened it "The Rocket."
So when my urologist said I needed The Rocket again, I had it sent to my sister's apartment. Like I want my sister to know that I even have sperm! Sigh. But she has a doorman who will accept items like bulky steel rockets in the middle of the day. And Mo and I do not have a doorman (and with all we are spending on IVF, may never have a doorman).
When I heard The Rocket had arrived, I left work and headed to my sister's. I lugged The Rocket home and did my thing. The whole device is just...strange, with metal buckles, and pipettes, and whatnot. Adding to the effect is the fact that when you open The Rocket to put in the specimen, the dry ice inside emits a smokey fog. I felt like a mad scientist.
Next stop: Fed Ex. The curt woman behind the counter took one look at The Rocket, backed away, and said, "No way. I ain't taking that here. What is it?" I thought of being honest, but then decided that was probably a bad idea (plus, I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth). So I told her a partial truth: that the tank contained dry ice. She stood her ground. "Sorry. I can't help you. We do not take dangerous materials at this Fed Ex." Now, I know dry ice is not dangerous, but I realized this was a dead end.
This exchange was repeated at three different Fed Ex centers. Picture me, schlepping this insane metal mushroom all over Midtown Manhattan, turned away at shipping location after shipping location.
I was starting to get annoyed. I was starting to feel a little sorry for myself. I considered shouting, "It's SPERM! OK? SPERM! Maybe with a DNA problem BUT SPERM!!!!" But I decided that would not be so effective. Finally, I went to Fed Ex's NYC headquarters where the clerk didn't even blink an eye. She acted like my rocket was the most normal thing to ship. In fact, she told me that there had been another guy there minutes before with a rocket like mine.
So just like that, when I was about to give up, The Rocket was launched. I picture it flying over South Dakota right about now.
I think it's gonna be a long long time
Till touch down brings me round again to find
I'm not the man they think I am at home
Oh no no no I'm a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone
Mo starts stims Tuesday night. Wish us luck.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The fellow did the ultrasound today. The antral follicle count was "more than five, less than ten" on each ovary. Good enough for me.
She then thumbed through my records. "So your first cycle was a success but your second was not."
I gazed at her and said, "Our first cycle was also unsuccessful. "
The fellow looked down at her notes for a minute and then back at me for a minute and then seemed to decide not to say anything more. I knew what she was getting at with her comment, but I couldn't let the teaching moment go. Note to fellow: a baby with double aneuploidy who dies in the first trimester is not exactly what I would classify as a "success." Certainly not the kind of success that we're looking for.
The IVF nurse will call tonight and tell us what dosage of Follistim to use and whether I start today or not. There's some question since we'll be away Wednesday through Saturday for the holiday. And although we'll be in a major metropolitan area with a fantastic medical center, the nurse made it clear this morning that our IVF center doesn't really trust us using any other lab. So they may delay my start date.
We'll see...I'll keep you posted.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
But my husband Will…well, he seems to be going a different way. As I looked around our apartment this morning, I realized that in certain ways, Will is taking a more active stance toward this cycle than I am.
I hadn't put it together before, as Will doesn't talk about IVF so much per se. But he has been quietly doing a number of things that taken together are quite striking.
For example, he just bought some kind of wireless radio/Internet thingie (he calls it the Squeezebox, I call it the Squawkbox) that will allow us to access to/listen to music all over the apartment.
(Me: "That's nice, honey.")
And he has been keen on putting wiring into the closet in our foyer, with the idea that we can move the printer, modem, router, and various other mysterious flashing electronic devices out of the second bedroom and into this closet.
(Me: "Huh? OK, whatever. Sure, fine.")
He also has been taking boxes and files and picture frames from the second bedroom closet to his hospital office all week.
(Me: Didn't even notice, actually.)
And then last night, he became downright insistent about getting to IKEA today to buy a third bookshelf-cabinet to match the other two in our foyer because, he says, we have to get organized. We’re renting a car and leave in two hours. There was really no talking him out of it.
(Me: Hmm...we're already pretty organized...this seems strange, but...ok.)
I don’t know how I could have missed the accumulating signs, but suddenly this morning it hit me.
Will is NESTING. Male nesting perhaps, but still.
This is a side of him I've never seen before. He may not talk about things so much, but there's a lot going on in that head of his.
It’s pretty sweet, actually.
How does your husband cope with IF/IVF? How do you wish he would? And any husbands out there, how are you dealing with it all?
Friday, November 21, 2008
The acupuncture itself was strangely stimulating and relaxing. More...um...penetrating...than I thought it would be.
A little like this...(except I have much less hair on my legs):
It felt like she was putting the needles in along the nerve pathways in my feet, ankles, calves, thighs, wrist, face, and head. She remarked that I was not reacting at all to the placement of the needles and I told her that between IVF and lymphoma treatment, she was going to have a hard time fazing me. After she placed the needles, she covered me with a thin aluminum sheet, dimmed the lights, turned on some soft chanting music, and left for about a half an hour.
I felt relaxed and alert. Not sure if it will help with our IVF cycle, but it was actually fairly pleasant. She wants me to return twice a week once I start the stims. I'm supposed to see her again on Monday.
Those of you who've done acupuncture, what was your experience like? Do you think it helped?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Over the past few days, I've been trying to come to terms with what I think of it.
My rational side says the data is based on a relatively small number of women. And as NYU's Dr. Grifo points out, the risk of a problem is relatively small (even if increased). My husband Will echoed these lines of reasoning when we discussed the findings.
But then my other side (my Lupron-filled, emotional, crazier-by-the-day side) latches on to the research as one more thing to worry about (like I need one more thing).
In the dark of night I have even thought that maybe I am selfish to go to such great lengths to conceive a child (who based on this research might be more likely to have a birth defect). I think, if I were a better person, I would just adopt (and truth be told, we'd like to, but we'd also really like to have at least one biologically related child).
In the dark of night I also have other opposite but just-as-loony thoughts, like maybe I can convince our RE to put back one more embryo than he is planning to, and maybe then at least one will survive. Maybe if I stop eating Splenda and aspartame it will all be ok this time. Maybe acupuncture will do the trick. Maybe if I eat organic I'll get pregnant. Maybe munching that ice cream bar (ok, two ice cream bars) last night will mean I won't. Maybe these anxious thoughts will doom the cycle. Maybe maybe maybe. It's a vicious 3AM spiral.
IVF controls much of what is usually a mysterious process. All of this micro manipulation and monitoring make it tempting to start to think that if I just take this action or avoid that action, somehow I can influence the outcome. It also makes it tempting to think that if we don't get pregnant/lose another baby/have a baby with a problem, maybe there is something I could have done that would have prevented it. That maybe it is all my fault.
And then at some point, I catch myself, and say to myself firmly:
You are not in control. You are NOT in control. You've got great science on your side, but you cannot determine every part of the journey or every potential outcome. Relax. Go with the process.
Repeat as needed.
(which will likely be often)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Mo and I had shared the news of our first pregnancy with both of our families as soon as we saw the heartbeat on ultrasound. Unfortunately, this meant that a few weeks later, we also had the share the terrible news when we lost the pregnancy. After the miscarriage and D&C, I telephoned my mother to tell her. She was sympathetic and tried to be comforting for a moment, but she quickly added that in "her day" those things happened "all the time" and women often "didn't even know" they were pregnant and just thought they had had a late period. Fair enough on the facts, I suppose (although frankly it's hard to imagine what women were thinking when they had morning sickness and no period for over two months). But my mother was really missing the human side of the truth - that her son and new daughter-in-law were experiencing a devastating loss.
My mother repeated a version of this line of reasoning following the next miscarriage. At this point, her inability to tolerate her own discomfort enough to acknowledge our loss really started to sting. Mo was terribly hurt by my mother's behavior. And I was left feeling conflicted. I felt strongly protective of Mo and resonated deeply with her upset. And my mother's words felt like a dismissal of my need to be comforted as her grieving son. But I also felt an inexorable pull to defend and rationalize my mother's disappointing behavior.
The third time around, Mo and I didn't tell my parents we were pregnant or, subsequently, that we had miscarried yet again. Not telling wasn't that hard for me. But not having the support of the two people who have always given me unconditional love was very difficult. It was also very lonely.
Back to this morning. After my parents left, I realized that I need to be completely open with letting my parents know my feelings in as much detail as I can. At the same time, I have to accept that they may be incapable of meeting my needs in certain arenas.
Mo and I will discuss and decide together exactly what infertility/pregnancy/loss news to share. (We are NOT sharing, for example, that we are currently doing IVF).
I'm also realizing that I need to take a deep look inward at my own insecurities with letting my emotions show (a tendency whose origins are becoming clearer and clearer - Thanks, Mom!). I am learning that I can strongly - and vocally - disagree with my parents' inability to reach out in a meaningful way and at the same time not be judgemental of them as the people I love.
The apple does not fall far from the tree. But this is no excuse for not stretching beyond my own comfort zones. The fact is that I long ago grew into my own tree. It is time for me to prune the branches and declare what is mine. To take the shape of the man I want to be in my life and in my marriage.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Needless to say, I don't have positive associations to hot flashes, night sweats, and the general all-over-achiness I am currently feeling. I spent last night sweating, tossing and turning, waking up poor Will repeatedly.
In my groggy attempt at positive reframing around 3AM, I thought, "Well, at least I know it's not a placebo." That's the best I could come up with in the pre-dawn hours.
This morning, I reflected on my ability to "forget" the harder aspects of IVF. Call it some kind of protective mechanism, I suppose. For me, Lupron is one of the more physically unpleasant parts of the process (that and the dreaded PIO shots). Note to self: I will start to feel better once I start the stims. Another note to self: Take it one day at a time. Stay sane. You can do this.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wouldn't it be great if there was a Fertility Easy Button?
I'd say it's unrealistic, but then again, I know a number of thirtysomethings who seem to get pregnant at the drop of a hat...and stay pregnant. Like one who said, "Once you pee on a stick and you see that second line, you know your life will never be the same again."* Really? REALLY?! You have sex and two weeks later pee on a stick and just assume you will have a baby? And then you do?! Unimaginable to me.
Or the one who told me she decided to wait until a certain month, and then had sex and actually conceived a baby who is now almost a year old. This same woman then turned out to not only be uber-fertile but also to think that this was something to be taken for granted, and gushed to me, glowing with her accomplishment, "It seems like our bodies are just made for having babies, you know?"*
Forgive me, but I looked this second woman straight in the eye and said, "Not really...[pause for effect]...we're doing IVF...[more eye contact]." I then hated myself a little bit when I saw the crumpling realization of her faux pas spread across her face. Was I being mean, as Greeneggsnham recently worried she was when speaking to a similarly clueless person? Perhaps. But I was angry and also (rationalization alert) felt a need to try to educate her a little bit so she might avoid this mistake in the future.
But enough sour grapes. Our reality is that we are here, facing IVF #3, hoping this third time will be the charm. Should we get out the other side of this with a baby one day, we will be blessed not only with that child, but also with a deep appreciation of how incredible a privilege that is.
And while we understand viscerally that - at least for us - there is no Easy Button for fertility, there are certainly ways that the IVF process can be made easier or harder. How do I try to cope while cycling? I enjoy running and will keep it up until I start the stims. I'm eating healthy-ish and trying to get adequate sleep. As I said in my last post, I start acupuncture next week. And Will and I will do our best to keep the lighter moments of our relationship very much alive.
And what do I try to avoid in the spirit of not making this harder than it has to be? I try to avoid (ha ha ha ha) obsessing and (ha -snort!- ha) worrying. I try to stay in the moment and not get ahead of myself. Will is much better at not obsessing, not worrying, and staying in the moment, but then again, maybe it's easier when you're not jacked up on hormones and having an ultrasound probe thrust up your wahoo every other day.
I bet there are many other things that might help make things easier if only I could think of them.
So now I turn to you for your expertise. What strategies help you to weather your ups and downs, your anxieties, your what ifs, your hopes and fears? What have you learned makes the process harder than it has to be?
And back to the beginning of the post, what idiotic things have been said to you recently? And how did you respond?
Any and all thoughts are most welcome.
*actual quotes of friend and acquaintance
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I also surprised myself by booking my first acupuncture appointment for next week. I'm kind of a skeptic about non-western approaches to medicine as the research for and against seems equivocal. But I figured, it can't hurt. I want to make sure all my i's are dotted and t's are crossed.
Please please please let this cycle be the one. Wish us luck!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Is it that we are not engaged. . .or are we just afraid?
This leads me to ponder one of my greatest until-recently unspoken and self-ignored feelings - the sense of somehow being "left out" of the picture by IVF. I hate saying it, but truth be told the whole IVF process leaves me feeling a bit emasculated. I know it isn’t rational and certainly not externally imposed but somehow deep down I feel a little sidelined by IVF.
We started IVF as a solid two-person team. I am an MD working in academic medicine, so my work side liked the structure of IVF - you have a calendar detailing each step of the process. At the beginning, I was intent on coming to each appointment to tackle whatever challenge – blood draw, ultrasound, SIS, HSG, surgical procedure - that Mo faced. We would do it all together.
My enthusiasm dampened almost immediately. The hormones started kicking in quickly, making Mo's temperament…um…somewhat unpredictable. And my internal dialogue began to change: When Mo said, “I don't need you to come to today’s appointment,” I heard, “I’d rather go without you.” When Mo moaned quietly during a particularly grueling PIO injection, I’d start to think defensively, “It’s not MY fault that hurt so much!” As the days passed, I started to feel a seeping guilt that Mo had to go through the wringer every single day, while I was relatively unscathed by the process. I also started questioning just what my role really was.
And what IS my role, really in this whole IVF business? It comes down to my producing a single semen sample. I realize it’s an essential part of things, but it seems so…mechanistic. And so removed from me as a person.
In case you aren’t intimately familiar with the sperm collection process in IVF, let me walk you through my first time:
The morning started early with a careful scrubbing of the family jewels with Dial soap. Note to self: Make sure to use the cleanest towel!
I arrived at the hospital with Mo and found about six other couples in the waiting room. The women wore hospital gowns and those dreadful treaded ankle-high socks and the men wore the usual weekend uniform of T-shirts, jeans, and baseball caps. A vague tension filled the room - no one was really talking and everyone seemed particularly engrossed in old copies of the New Yorker. Each man got called (separately, Thank God) to deliver his sample.
The collection room was small and cold and sterile. A vinyl La-Z-Boy engulfed one corner and a TV hung on the opposite wall. Next to the lounger was a small table with a remote control and a stack of well- thumbed porn magazines. A small sliding window was set into the wall where I was supposed to put my completed specimen. I could hear the lab techs on the other side of their sliding window. Good God, they sounded so close!
I settled in to the lounger and carefully balanced the specimen cup next to me with the cap nearly unscrewed. Sorry to be graphic, but trying to coordinate that "moment we are all waiting for" is a bit of a challenge – it’s not like guys routinely catch their sperm in a Dixie cup at home. I turned on the TV and noticed a VCR (when was the last time I saw one of those?!). There was only one tape and by this time it was nearly at the end. I rewound it and pressed play.
The title was something like Rear Entry. Huh. The video itself was somehow both slightly boring AND slightly disturbing at the same time. And the soundtrack was pure 70s and blaring. I tried to concentrate on the task at hand…but I couldn’t help it, I started thinking
Can the lab techs just beyond the wall hear this terrible music?
What about the kind motherly nurse who showed me in?
What if I can't orgasm?
What if, what if, WHAT IF???
Thankfully, I was able to focus and - ahem - complete my assignment. I returned to the waiting room to be with Mo. They called her name and approximately 20 minutes later she was done, groggy and saying weird things because of the anesthesia, but OK. I tried to absorb the few things the nurse was telling us since I knew Mo would have some degree of amnesia. We took a cab home.
After the grueling two-week wait we found out that we were preggers!! I was thrilled. There was still much monitoring to go…days of Betas and ultrasounds and my part already long over.
And I really hate to admit it, but I started to feel that the team was shifting from
me and Mo
Mo and the RE.
This was not Mo's fault but my own insecurity and lack of insight. When we were released from the RE's domain to start a new chapter with our OB, Mo went to the first visit alone since I needed to be at work - she didn't really need me since we had just been to the RE earlier that week and the fetus had looked great – perfect size, perfect heartbeat - right?
But then I got a call from my secretary saying my wife had come to the hospital and was waiting in my office. When I got there, Mo was distraught - I knew what had happened as soon as I saw the look on her face. My heart sunk and my mind went blank. I felt hopeless and helpless. We talked in my office and then slowly walked across Central Park, comforting each other. I'll always remember that. We left each other near Strawberry Fields. We had lost our pregnancy but we had each other.
So what have I learned? I have learned that I need to involve myself in every step, both physically and emotionally. I have learned that I am not truly present if I limit my role to just being a support to Mo. I have learned that I need to be open about my own dreams, fears, and expectations so that we can truly be a team. Turning my emotional firewall off has been enormously helpful in connecting both with Mo and in increasing my ability to feel part of this crazy IVF process.
So now I turn to you readers:
Ladies, what advice do you have to help me be as present with Mo as possible… and dare I say it, not be so…hopelessly male…about this whole process?
And any male readers lurking out there, what have YOUR experiences of the IVF madness been?
Monday, November 10, 2008
Mo mentioned that yesterday marked one year since our first miscarriage. To be honest I would not have known that unless she told me. I felt ashamed when she reminded me, maybe because I think we should both be thinking the same thing.
This brought me to reflect on the entire year. It has been extremely tough on both of us, with plenty of surprises. As was alluded in our first post, we coped with our loses as well as major changes in our jobs in very different ways. While this was not the first time I saw my wife cry, it was the first time that I had absolutely no idea how to make it better (as if that was my job, to somehow cure the pain). This was also the first time that I felt such utter loss. It seemed quite logical at the time to have a drink when I came home to relax. Unfortunately one drink quickly became two and so on. This absolutely pathological coping mechanism had the insidious character of carpenter ants. At first it just seems like there are just one or two, but before you realize it, the entire structure is infiltrated, jeopardizing its very integrity. If there is a silver lining, I am fortunate to have such a loving and caring wife who quickly found the best help possible for me. And now I feel that I am a much better husband. Mo's response to my selfishness has been nothing short of a blessing. Not the way I would have chosen it, and certainly the last thing my wife wanted or needed to handle.
So, yes, this time feels much different than a year ago. We have grown a tremendous amount. What a steep learning curve for our first year of marriage! I feel in some way we escaped from a burning building only to realize that we - thankfully - still have each other. I am optimistic and quietly excited to re-enter the IVF arena with Mo. This time I will be with Mo in every way possible.
Thanks to everyone who has visited - and especially those who have left comments. Please keep coming back. Also, Mo found out late today that she will be starting Lupron suppression Wednesday. Her persistent telephone calls evidently wore down the insurance folks and the meds will arrive tomorrow. Somehow it all works out, even if she doesn't believe it will.
I had completely forgotten.
What a difference a year makes. A little over a year ago, Will and I were anxiously preoccupied with every detail of our first (and we were certain, last) IVF cycle. A little over a year ago, we were breathless with anticipation, buoyed with hope and confidence that scientific technology would make conception a breeze. A little over a year ago, there is no chance I would have "forgotten" to go in for a blood draw.
I realized after we posted last night that yesterday marked the one year anniversary of our entire world coming apart. Nov. 9, 2007 was the date of my D&C that marked the abrupt end of our first pregnancy. It is hard now to imagine the naivete, the head-over-heels eagerness we felt during that pregnancy. Our RE had warned us repeatedly "Don't get excited yet" so many times that I began asking at each ultrasound "Can we get excited now?" Finally he said yes and sent us off to the OB. We were flying high, filled with a sense of certainty that all would go as it should. That world came crashing down when the OB was unable to find the heartbeat and told us that the baby had died. It ushered in a new era in our relationship. One that left me weeping - big gasping animal-like sobs - for the next few weeks and that left Will also grieving, albeit more quietly, and unsure how to calm or comfort his sudden wreck of a wife.
It is striking to realize the vast emotional distance traveled between a year ago and today. Will and I are chastened, forever changed by our experience. Although I can't predict how I will react should I find myself pregnant again in the future, I know that our excitement will be greatly tempered by a visceral understanding of all that can go wrong, of the thousand treacherous miles that lay between conception and holding an actual live baby in our arms.
So I sat this morning in the RE's waiting area, a long rectangular room filled with well-heeled women that always reminds me of some kind of female airplane terminal, shaking my head that I had changed so much in a year.
And then I started wondering, could there be some upsides to this new way of being? Maybe it's not so bad that I "forgot" my blood draw, only remembering it as an afterthought this morning. I DID get there after all. And it's certainly easier on my nerves that I'm feeling more detached. We are having trouble with our insurance and it is unclear how long the pre-authorization process will take so that I can get the lupron I expect to start injecting on Wednesday. Is this causing me the faintest whiff of anxiety? Not really. I am just barely walking myself through the motions of following up - again - with the RE's insurance specialist. I figure something will work out. Or not.
Call it not sweating the small stuff or call it pathological numbness. But it's less of a roller coaster for sure.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Our story started normally enough. After dating for three years, we decided to get married. We knew we wanted to start a family quickly. We would both be 35 and Mo had had Hodgkin's lymphoma in her late twenties. We weren't sure about the impact the chemotherapy and multiple CT scans (we've now counted and she's had more than 30, plus numerous PET scans and gallium scans) might have on our fertility. We were so concerned that before we married, we made an appointment to be seen by one of New York's fabled reproductive endocrinologists. We didn't want to be making any decisions about life commitment without all the cards on the table. Everything checked out ok - low fsh, decent enough semen analysis - and the good doctor told us to get out there and try. Actually, he told us to start trying immediately. "We know Mo's ovaries took a hit from her treatments, we just don't know how much." We waited a bit - until we were several months before the wedding but close enough that we could conceivably semi-conceal a pregnancy bulge - and began trying in earnest.
After returning from our honeymoon in Africa we still weren't pregnant and had been trying for more than six months. We went to see another fabled fertility specialist, this time covered by our new insurance. He told us that Will's semen analysis was in fact NOT ok at all, and that he wasn't surprised we weren't pregnant since Will's morphology was less than 1% and his motility hovered around 20%. We could try IUI, the esteemed doctor said, but IVF would give us the best chance of having a baby. Being overly ambitious Manhattanites, we barreled ahead, naive and eager, straight to IVF.
After lots of lupron and follistim and HCG and oh-so-painful progesterone in oil, a ton of monitoring, and a fair amount of hand wringing and obsessing, we found out that we were pregnant! We tracked the betas and then the ultrasound pictures, and then got to see the baby's glorious heart beating just as fast as it should. We officially graduated from the RE's office and were sent to our trusty OB. This IVF process was not so bad, we decided, instantaneously forgetting about the anxious days and Mo's bruised buttocks, which by then was so sore she cried out during each progesterone injection. Unfortunately, when Mo got to her first OB appointment then next week, 9 wks along, we found out that the baby had died. Later, after a gruesome unanesthetized office D and C (we now STRONGLY recommend the OR to anyone who will listen) and several weeks of waiting, we learned that our little girl had Turner syndrome and Down syndrome. "Bad luck," our doctor said. "But very common. Most likely your next pregnancy will be fine." We were beyond devastated, and back to square one, minus the glow we had carried from our honeymoon.
While many of the family and close friends we had told about our pregnancy were sympathetic, we also got the "don't worry, miscarriage happens all the time" talk. As if we were twelve and had just struck out at the plate. This might not be that uncommon, but it wasn't even remotely similar to anything else in our lives that had gone "wrong" (although Mo's cancer came pretty close in the shocking and devastating deparment). This was different and the ache in our souls was deep. Will tried very hard to be hopeful. Mo was a wreck, filled with fearful visions that foreshadowed doom.
Hesitant and hopeful, we tried IVF #2 three months later in February. And we got....
But amazingly, a month after that, we were pregnant again, naturally. This felt like vindication, like some kind of cosmic do-over for the injustice that had come before. We tested the HCG levels ourselves (bonus of having an MD spouse) and saw the beta numbers doubling beautifully. We ever so anxiously waded through 7 wks of pregnancy until our OB would see us. And when he did, he breezed easily into the room. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Terrified!" we both quasi-barked at him, and he looked puzzled that we should be so concerned after our last pregnancy loss. Then he slid the ultrasound transducer inside Mo and started looking at the screen. His expression changed. He said that the yolk sac was enlarged and that the gestational sac was measuring two weeks behind. The pregnancy was not viable. "This is just bad luck, very common," he pronounced, leaving the room (hmmm...this was starting to sound familiar...). We opted for another D and C so that we could run genetics on the remains. Unfortunately, the lab lost the sample and we were left not knowing what happened.
And then shockingly, we found ourselves pregnant AGAIN a mere month later. We hadn't been trying but hadn't acted to prevent a pregnancy either. But this time the beta failed to rise appropriately and within a week, the pregnancy was deemed a chemical. When Mo miscarried a few days later, she brought the tissue in and we found out that the baby was a boy and that he had trisomy 16.
Since then we have struggled individually and as a couple to come to grips with all that this past year had wrought. We felt beaten down and gutted with grief. We struggled to learn how each of us mourned and grappled with life's most puzzling questions so very soon after marriage.
For Mo this meant running many miles a week, researching everything known about recurrent miscarriage and infertility, and eating occasional bowls of cookie batter for good measure. For Will this meant compartmentalizing his own feelings of loss and despair while simultaneously trying to cheer lead downhearted Mo, and unfortunately for a time meant surreptitiously quaffing enough vodka to make a Siberian proud.
Needless to say, we decided to take a break from our relentless babychasing, stabilize ourselves, and then move ahead. Five months - and many therapy sessions - later we are starting to laugh again, to feel that lightness in our steps. We are turning toward each other instead of isolating in our grief. We now know that we can face great challenges as a couple and get through them. We are humbled in our experiences in trying to begin a family.
With great trepidation and cautious hope, we are about to begin our third IVF attempt as we were told this would lessen the chances for another miscarriage. And believe us, we would do ANYTHING to avoid another one at this point. Mo will begin lupron next week and we plan to blog our way - sometimes one or the other of us, sometimes as a couple - through the journey this time.
Our apartment is filled with the detritus of our previous IVF attempts. A closet shelf filled to the brim with syringes, needles, alcohol swabs - a junkie's dream. Long forgotten, nearly empty vials of meds in the back of the refrigerator (bottom shelf behind the cocktail olives). Infertility and pregnancy books line Mo's closet shelves (hidden away so as not to reveal to guests the depths of our obsession). And, sadly, ultrasound snapshots of two of the three pregnancies that slipped from our lives, but not from our minds and hearts.
Perhaps hardest to let go are the prematurely laid plans for Sundays in the playground, vacations, and everyday joys of having a baby in our home. We are hopeful that one way or another, these dreams will eventually come true. This blog is an attempt to record our thoughts and impressions of the (in)fertility process - as they converge and diverge, Mars and Venus, on the road to parenthood.
Mo and Will
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