A Story About Poop

I don’t have much fertility news this morning, but there is a funny bathroom story that sort of tangentially involves babies so I’ll tell it.

This morning I pooped in my work bathroom (sorry if that’s TMI, but it’s essential for the story).  When I was done, I flushed and walked out.

My work bathroom has two stalls, and my coworker, Diane, comes out of the other stall right after I come out of mine.  My poop wasn’t smelly and Diane poops in the bathroom all the time (it’s true! she eats lots of fiber), so it wasn’t too embarrassing.

Diane is my age and has two young kids, so she often gives me dispatches from the world of parenthood.  Sometimes I respond with stories about my dog, sometimes I smile and nod, sometimes it doesn’t bother me, sometimes it feels like she’s rubbing salt in my wounds.  She thinks I'm happily childless, so it’s not her fault, plus I don’t think she has slept in about 3 years so I give her some leeway.

Anyway, we’re washing our hands next to each other and Diane is telling me about her latest cloth diaper drama.  Cloth diaper drama is definitely a smile and nod subject, and on an annoyance scale of 1-10 I’m probably at about a 6: I’m in a good mood because I’m starting shots today, but I’m not in the mood to discuss other people’s babies because I’m starting shots today. I’d like this conversation to be over, but I’m not going to be rude about it.

At this point, a third co-worker comes into the bathroom.  She walks into the stall I was just in, looks at the toilet, and exclaims, “Oh! Gross! Ew!” 

Now this is embarrassing.  I swear it wasn’t smelly.  And I swear I flushed.  I flushed, right?  Yes, I’m sure. Did I check to make sure nothing floated back up?  No, I don’t think I did.  Something must have floated back up.  Ew.  Diane knows I just came out of there.  Great, now I’m the crazy "my dog is my child" lady who leaves her poop floating in the toilet.  What a freak.

I’m about to say… something, I don’t know what, but my mouth is opening… when the third coworker says, “There’s a giant bug right in the middle of the floor! I’m not going in there!”

Embarrassment averted. Cloth diaper conversation over. Heart rate up.

Not a bad way to start the day.

Mothers Are Crazy

I had my baseline blood work and ultrasound this morning.  I have 13 follicles (the majority on my left ovary – let’s hope that means the little guy is going to make some magic this time), zero cysts (yippee!), and low hormone levels.

I’m officially good to get going; shots start Thursday.

After I left the appointment, I texted Henry and my mom “No cyst this time!” Really, that’s all there was to say about the appointment (especially because I was still about 7 hours from getting my blood test results).  Ten seconds later my phone rang, and it was my mom.

I tell my mom pretty much everything about my IVF.  Not necessarily what I’m feeling and thinking, but she’s up to date on my treatment plan, when my appointments are, etc.  I’ve answered every question she’s ever asked that is answerable and regularly volunteer information. She’s even seen me get a shot.  Honestly, she knows everything short of my actual hormone levels and drug doses.

But I think that she thinks there must be more that I’m not telling her, because she’s always trying to get more information out of me.  Part of the problem is that while I’ve accepted (or at least am trying to accept) that this is an unpredictable process that you have to take one day at a time and not speculate about, she’s not there yet.

Here’s how this morning’s conversation went:

Her: How’d your appointment go?

Me: Good! I don’t have a cyst!

Her: What does that mean?

Me: It means I don’t have to get a cyst drained, and I can start my shots on Thursday.

Her:: Oh.  Did you say that you were doing an ultrasound this morning?

Me: Yup, that’s how they saw that there wasn’t a cyst.

Her: Did they see the hydro?*

Me: He didn’t say and I didn’t ask, and right now it doesn’t really matter. But I’m assuming he would have said something if he did, so probably not. And I didn’t see it, and I’m getting better at reading the ultrasound.

Her: If they don’t see it, that’s good.

Me: Yeah but at this point it doesn’t really matter because it doesn’t change anything.

Her: Did they see your left ovary?

Me: Yeah, but they’ve seen it before, it’s just a matter of whether or not it makes eggs.

Her: Did he say whether it looks like it will make eggs this time?

Me: Mom, I really don’t think they can tell that from an ultrasound.  We’ll just have to wait and see.

Her:: Well what did he say?

Me: He didn’t say anything! He did the ultrasound and said “We should be good to get started” and that was it. There’s nothing to say yet.

Her: Oh, he would drive me crazy.
Me: Yeah, but that's just the way it is. They don't tell you anything except what you need to know.

Her: But they’re putting you on a higher dose of meds this time, right?

Me: [Thinking: OH MY GOD WE’VE GONE OVER THIS 50 TIMES] Yup!
Her: So that will help the left ovary, and you'll make more eggs, right?
Me: That's the hope.

Her: Did the doctor say whether you’ll have more mood swings this time since you’re on the higher dose?**

Me: No, mom, he really didn’t say anything else.  I don’t think they speculate.  And anyway, I think the side effects are different for everyone.  I’ve even heard of people who have different side effects each time.  So I don’t think they have any idea.

Her: Oh yeah, I guess they don’t want to set any expectations.

Me: Yeah.

*My mom is kind of obsessed with whether or not they see the hydro on ultrasound; she doesn’t want me to have the surgery and I think she thinks that if they don’t see it I won’t have it.
 **She also likes to talk about the fact that I’ll have mood swings from the meds, despite the fact that I didn’t have any mood effects last time.

And then we talked for a few minutes about how even though I told her that we were going to start telling more people as it made sense to, that doesn’t mean that SHE can go out and start telling my cousins and her friends.  She acted offended that I would even think she would do that (even though she totally would), and I had to reassure her that I didn’t think she would go against what I wanted, I just wasn’t sure if I was clear about what I wanted.

And then the conversation ended on this:

Her: Well I couldn’t tell anyone even if I wanted to.  Every time I think I understand all this, it turns out I don’t.

Me: [Banging my head against the wall]

I swear, my mom is a smart woman.  She just thinks there is more to this than there is.

Time to Tell

I think we’re going to have to start telling people about what’s going on.

You all know that even though I’ve been tempted to tell before, I’ve never been a big fan of this idea.  I don’t like people feeling sorry for me, I don’t want to have to answer questions when I’m not in the mood for it, and I don’t want people talking behind my back.

I always figured that if we could make it through the holidays without telling, we’d be home free.  I mean, every weekend over the holidays is packed with get-togethers, there’s always alcohol around, and you’re running into lots of nosy people you don’t normally see.  Seems ripe for some secret-spilling.  Meanwhile, February/March is an easy time to hide out: there are no major holidays, everyone stays in because the weather is gross, and you can say “I gave up drinking for Lent” (an excuse I’ve already used).  Should be easy to keep a secret.

So why am I feeling more pressure to tell now, in February, than I ever did in December?  Two words: summer plans.

I didn’t factor in the fact that in December, everyone else is so busy they don’t notice you.  You can’t come to their party?  You’re probably at another one.  You don’t have a drink?  Who cares, I’m opening presents.  In FEBRUARY though, everyone is bored and starts making plans for the summer.  And it’s hard to be noncommittal about plans that are being four months in advance.  What, you have something else already planned for June 22? 

It all started with an invitation from my friend Andi to join her at an amazing three-day music festival a couple hours from home.  I’ve never done the whole camp-at-a-concert thing before, so my first reaction was to say that yes, I definitely wanted to go.  And then, the tickets went on sale and it was time to either buy them or not.  When faced with the actual decision, I realized that at the time of the concert (late June) I’ll probably be in one of four states:

  

1. If I end up somehow managing to do a fresh transfer this time, and it works, I’ll be about 15 weeks pregnant.  Assuming everything is healthy and normal, that’s actually perfect – I’ll be past morning sickness and showing just enough to look cute in a sundress.  I could totally do a camping concert 15 weeks pregnant.

2. If we stick to the retrieval-freeze-surgery-FET plan, and it works, I’ll be 6-ish weeks pregnant.  From what I know of morning sickness, 6 weeks is not the time to camp out in the heat with a bunch of smelly hippies.  I could not do a camping concert at 6 weeks pregnant.

3. If I don’t get pregnant or timing works out differently than expect, I could be in the middle of some kind of cycle.  I postponed this cycle because of plans, but I’m getting antsy so that’s probably not going to happen again. I would not choose a concert over being available for monitoring, retrievals, transfers, etc, so if I’m in the middle of a cycle, I wouldn’t be able to go.

4. I could be not pregnant, and in the down time between cycles.  In this case I could go, but I probably won’t be very happy about it.

Since I need to keep my schedule open in the likely instance of case number 2 or 3, I had to tell Andi that I didn’t know for sure that I’d be able to go and I’d get my tickets later if they were still available.  Thankfully, Andi knew other people going and didn’t ask why, so that problem was solved (for now).  But that’s how everything is going to be until I get pregnant and have a clear idea of my timeline, and I’m tired of it.  I’m tired of seeming flakey for always leaving myself a loophole.  I’m tired of feeling like a bad friend who doesn’t want to make plans with anyone.  And I’m tired of feeling like my friendships aren’t as close because no one knows what’s really going on in my life.  At this point, I feel like all of this is stressing me out more than people knowing would.

So while we’re still not going to make any announcements, I’m giving myself (and Henry) permission to tell.  Next time I feel the urge to say something, I’m going to give into it. I’m not exactly how that will work (“I’m sorry I can’t commit to your beach weekend, but I need to be available for a transvaginal ultrasound”?), but I’ll figure it out.

Awesome GYN Visit (Part 2)

So now that you know all the history behind how I ended up in my particular OB/GYN’s office last Friday, I can finally tell you why the visit was so wonderful.

It didn’t start off too auspiciously.  While waiting in the exam room, I was psyching myself up to tell the doctor everything.  I wanted her to be up to date, especially since if I get the surgery she will be the one doing it.  I was also determined to, for once, not cry while discussing this infertility madness. I had met this doctor exactly once before and cried then, so I really wanted to keep my composure this time. “NO CRYING!!!!!” I was telling myself as she opened the door.

And then she walked in, and she is about 6 months pregnant.  God-fucking-dammit, I wasn’t emotionally prepared for THAT.  She said something normal like, “So last time I saw you, you were here for a pregnancy consult… not pregnant yet?” and I burst into tears. So much for not crying.

But after a minute or five I managed to get myself under control and tell her the whole story, up to and including the part where I might need her to remove one of my tubes.  She was really understanding and even offered to tentatively schedule the surgery for soon after my cycle so that I can waste as little time as possible (when I talked to her scheduler this ended up not really working out for complicated reasons on my end, but it was nice that she offered). I started to feel more positive.

And then, as our conversation was winding down and the exam was starting, she casually said, “When I had my IVF blah blah blah,” and my heart stopped with a little record screeching sound.  I mean, I knew from our first meeting that she had fertility issues, but IVF? She understands!  She used my doctor!!  And obviously it worked!!!!

I told her I didn’t realize she had IVF, and then for the next few minutes we weren’t doctor and patient, but girlfriends (at one point, while she had her finger up my vagina, very good girlfriends) chatting about how awful HSGs are, how easy the shots are, and how a frozen cycle compares to a fresh one.  For those few minutes I was SO HAPPY and felt about 500 pounds lighter.

[Aside: Can we all take a second to acknowledge how hard it must have been for her to be a FREAKING OB/GYN while she couldn’t get pregnant?  That’s on a whole other level than my Facebook complaints; I cringe just thinking about it.]

[Another aside: I’m pretty sure that this experience has proven to me that, somehow, I need to meet someone who either is going through this or has gone through it and at least have coffee with them.  Talking to her for those few minutes as if IVF were the most normal thing in the world did at least as much good for my emotional state as my counselor appointment earlier in the week.]

And then, as the visit was ending, I took a big chance: I asked her what she would do if she were me.  “What would you do if you were me?” is both the question I most want someone to answer and the one that’s hardest to get answered.  My doctor and nurse sidestep it whenever I ask, and no one else in my life (that I know of) knows anything about IVF other than what they’ve learned through me.  All I want is someone knowledgeable to give me some guidance, someone who has been through it to tell me I’m doing things right, someone who knows what it’s like to sympathize with my position. I held my breath waiting for her to answer.

“Well, it’s hard………” she said, and my heart sank. We were back to doctor-patient mode, and I was sure she wasn’t going to give me a firm answer because there is no right answer. “…. but I’d probably get the tube out, just to be sure it’s not causing a problem.”

Told you it was an awesome visit.

Awesome GYN Visit (Part 1)

I have to tell you guys about the awesome visit to the gynecologist I had last week.  (And yes, I am well aware that this might be the first time in history that the phrase “awesome visit to the gynecologist” has ever been used.)  But I’m going to tell you about it tomorrow, because first there’s a lot of background to get through.

See, to fully understand the awesomeness of this visit and how everything came together just right to make it happen, we have to go back in time to when I was 22, fresh out of college, and children were far from my mind.  I was looking for a gynecologist near me who would take my insurance, so I went to the Blue Cross website and picked someone at random.  It turned out that her office was nice, her nurses were friendly, and best of all, I liked her – she was unflappable, a little bit mannish, and of an indeterminate age that made her seem experienced without seeming old.  I stayed with her through several insurance changes and even came back to her during breaks from grad school.

But, like so many relationships, this one soured.  It happened, ironically, when I was recommending her to a friend who asked if I liked my gynecologist.  I Googled my doctor’s name so that I could send along a link, and there the paragraph was: “Dr. Roenneburg specializes in the treatment of urinary incontinence in women of all ages, as well as pelvic prolapse, pelvic reconstruction, fecal incontinence, and the special gynecologic needs of senior and handicapped women.”  And, since at that point Henry and I were starting to seriously discuss kids, something else stood out: nowhere on the page did it list her as an obstetrician.

It was like a scene from a movie – suddenly I realized that I was always the youngest person in the waiting room.  Suddenly I realized that my doctor always seemed happy to see me and my uncomplicated gynecological issues.  Suddenly I realized that I never saw any pregnant women in the office. 

Needless to say, I felt very awkward and self-conscious about the fact that I had been going to a doctor for incontinent old ladies for years.  But I still liked her, and I tend to feel irrationally loyal to people I like, so rather than just finding someone new I tried to gently bring it up at my next appointment.  “So, we’re thinking about getting pregnant soon. Should I start seeing an OB and is there anyone you would recommend?”  But my attempt at a break-up was thwarted when she assured me that she could do the pregnancy test in her office and then send me over to an OB.  Dammit.  As I left her office, I defeatedly made the appointment for my annual visit a year later.

In the meantime, though, I had done some Googling and found my dream OB/GYN office.  It was an all-woman practice, they had an office near my office, and they did their deliveries at the hospital near my house.  They seemed young and friendly.  At one point I even bravely made an appointment with them, but something came up and I had to cancel and never rescheduled.

So that pretty much brings us to when I was starting to worry about the fact that Henry and I hadn’t gotten pregnant yet.  I decided to call my doctor and see if I could move my annual visit up a month or two so that we could run the first round of tests asap.  When I called, however, I learned that my doctor had left the practice. I could switch guilt-free!  I quickly called my dream office to get an appointment.  They made a “pregnancy consult” appointment for me right away with one of their doctors, and I felt good about it.

When I went in about a month later, I loved the doctor – she was cute and energetic and positive even in the face of my tears.  But rather than ordering tests, she gave me a referral to the doctor who is now my RE, explaining that he could do more than she could.  “He helped me get pregnant,” she said.  So I left, a little bit frustrated that I had just spent $30 to be told it sounded like I was ovulating just fine, but at least with the name of her trusted RE in my hand.  I made an appointment for my annual visit with the same doctor, and that’s the appointment that I had last week.

I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

Hectic

Sorry I’ve been MIA… apparently all those plans I made for myself didn’t leave me a whole lot of time to write!  But I’m back from my weekends away, and the crazy week that went between them, and everything is suddenly coming up SOON.  All of my activities did really help the time go faster (less than a week left on birth control pills!), but it also had the unintended consequence of making my life feel a little hectic.  At the moment, I’m feeling out of control of….

My house – I can’t remember the last time we vacuumed, and our suitcases still aren’t unpacked.  My house just feels gross, and few things make me feel more stressed out than a gross house.

My diet – Two weekends in a row out of the house mean that I did not eat very healthily, and probably drank more alcohol than I should.  I feel like I haven’t had a vegetable in ages, and when I stepped on the scale this morning… ouch.

My looks – Ok, this one is really vain.  But all the dry winter air plus the stress plus my poor diet has me suddenly feeling like I look haggard.  I’m turning thirty this year and while I’ve never really cared about age before, out of nowhere I’m just feeling OLD.

My finances – Yet another thing that two weekends in a row away took a toll on.  In addition to vacation expenses, somehow we got hit with a lot of one-time bills this month (hello there, car insurance).  And even though my insurance mostly covers my IVF, there’s still a $700 co-pay and (hopefully) a $1,800 embryo freezing bill in my near future.

My non-IVF life – The dog needs to go to the vet.  I’ve been neglecting my duties in my neighborhood association.  A friend needs help with boy drama.  My mom is getting under my skin.  I’m behind at work.  Henry’s 35^th birthday is in a couple of weeks. Guess what I’m doing about these things? If you guessed “Feeling guilty, and not much else” you’d be right!

My mood – Combine all of the above, and I’m feeling a little scattered.  And “scattered” is NOT the way I want to feel going into an IVF cycle.

Thankfully, our hectic schedule slows down after tonight.  Now that I have some free time, Henry and I will clean, grocery shop, exercise, cook healthy meals (maybe even freeze some healthy meals in case we don’t feel like cooking during my cycle), relax, and check things off our to-do list.  The goal is to have wrestled control of my life back by the time I go in for my baseline appointment next Monday.  Hopefully, that will be enough to get me feeling positive and in command of my own destiny again.

Staying Busy

Even though I do communications for a living, I’m a math nerd at heart.  I love counting things, working out odds and percentages and lots of weird little numbers.  I think I do that because I’m impatient. I like seeing progress, and get antsy waiting for things to happen.  When you have boxes to check off, percentages to run through, every step is a step closer to the finish.

I breathed a sigh of relief when February started. I needed the break that January provided, and it went faster than expected, but I’ll probably always think of it as my month of waiting.  December 31, I learned that I wasn’t pregnant; February 1, my period showed undeniable signs that it was about to start.  The entire month of January was just thumb twiddling in between, and I don’t do well with that.

But since the start of my February meant the start of my period, it also meant the start of birth control pills, which I’ve been taking for a couple of nights now.  I feel so much better now, because from here on out, the waiting between now and my cycle is a predictable series of steps.  My birth control pills in their little plastic blisters might as well be an Advent calendar; every time I push one through the foil, I’m checking off another day.

In addition to the oh-so-satisfying counting down of the birth control pills (2 down, 19 to go - I'm almost 10 percent done!), I’ve set up all kinds of checkpoint activities for myself throughout the month of February. I’m really hoping to bounce from one activity to the next until I come out on the other side of this month, where my retrieval and maybe-transfer are.

February 4: Started birth control pills

February 8-10: Ski trip (one half of the reason I put this cycle off a month)

February 11: Counselor appointment

February 15: Appointment with my regular GYN

February 15-18: NYC for a wedding (the other half of the reason I put this cycle off a month)

February 21: FINALLY using the Groupon I bought for a massage ages ago to get a little pre-cycle stress relief

February 24: Couples massage class with Henry (yes, another Groupon… I get impulsive with deals when under stress)
February 24: Last birth control pill

February 25: Baseline ultrasound, a.k.a. getting reacquainted with my boyfriend the ultrasound wand

February 28: First shots

What can I say?  I’m happier when I’m busy.

Groundhog Day

Buckle up, we’re about to get started again – my period started on Saturday, a.k.a. February 2, a.k.a. Groundhog Day.

Because I’m a huge nerd and clearly everything has to have meaning, I tried to find the significance in the fact that my period started on Groundhog Day.  I mean, Groundhog Day typically means six more weeks of winter, and an IVF cycle tends to last about six weeks… maybe there’s only six more weeks in this bleak, dark season of my life?  And then I found out that the groundhog didn’t even see his shadow this year, which made me wonder if the universe is trying to tell me that this will be over sooner than I think?

And then I remembered the MOVIE Groundhog Day and it all made sense.

I’ve been trying to articulate to myself lately how infertility feels (not that anyone has asked; I just want to be ready), and it’s really hard.  It’s unlike any other feeling, and I don’t know if I could have understood how tortuous it is before this happened.  But in a weird way, Bill Murray in Groundhog Day comes as close as anything I’ve seen to showing what it feels like to be infertile.

That feeling that you’re repeating the same thing over and over and over and over? Yup.

That feeling that no matter what you do, it won’t make a damn bit of difference?  Yup.

That feeling that whatever you did, surely you don't deserve this hell?  Yup.

That feeling that you’re slowly going crazy, and no one around you seems to notice? Yup.

That feeling that there must be something you can do to change your fate, but you just don’t know what it is?  Yup.

If I have one quibble with the comparison, it’s that of course in the movie everyone else is repeating the same day, too, they just don’t know it.  In the infertility version of Groundhog Day, everyone else would get to move on; it would only be you that is stuck.

In the movie, Bill Murray’s character gets depressed.  I’m there right now.  He gets jaded and cynical.  Uh-huh, been there, too.  He takes up hobbies to kill time.  Totally done that.  He tries to kill himself.  Ok, maybe not that one.  But, of course, after being stuck in the same day for what IMDB tells me was about ten years, he finally gets it right and wakes up on February 3.  Hopefully it won't take ten years before I get to move on, too.