Thar she blows

Well, my lining measured 9 and showed a triple stripe, so we're off and running.  The first FET of my life will be next week, Tuesday May 9th.  That means....

Progesterone in Oil (PIO) injections start tonight.

Oh how I've put off thinking of this. I'm hoping that the build-up in my mind (and yes, I've been conjuring images of whales being harpooned) makes the shot feel like a pinch.

"Thar she blows" I said to Viking, waking up this morning.  We stayed up late last night watching freedom fertility injection videos.  Some couples just watch porn.  We watch women getting stabbed in the ass (excuse me, the upper quadrant of the buttock).  By really big needles.

Falling into the trap

The other day I was looking at the calendar and planning out the next few months' worth of Nibble dance rehearsals, performances, visits to my Mom and Dad.... and I fell into the trap. 

What if I have to self-administer PIO shots that weekend?

What if I'm knocked up and feeling gross when I'm summoned for Jury Duty at the end of May? (Of course, in my City, who doesn't feel gross sitting in Jury Duty)

Would I get to switch to suppositories by the time I'm set to enjoy a relaxing trip to PA?

Will I get to teach a few zumba classes at the end of the school year?

And on and on.

And then my rational brain kicks in and smacks me on the head and says, DA FUCK JUSTONEMORE.  Don't do this to yourself.  All of this is your brain fantasizing about another pregnancy and you know that is a terrible thing to set yourself up for.  Just keep stabbing yourself, go forth to your lining check tomorrow, and stop imagining a future.  Because the last time you imagined a healthy pregnancy, you ended up ready to check yourself into the nearest psych ward.

Local infertiles just got even unluckier

I read the news yesterday that Dr. K, the only RE I ever saw locally with a shred of compassion, died at age 61.

Dr. K performed my last D&C on Good Friday, 2015.  She honored my request to have it done under ultrasounds guidance, as per the Asherman's A-lister way.  The scarring never returned.

She was a huge booster of fertility preservation for cancer patients too. 
Oh man, my heart is heavy.  Had her clinic allowed satellite monitoring, I would have absolutely cycled with her.  Trust me, I begged them.  Her clinic had a donor egg program that was strictly anonymous, and therefore a no- go for us.  But besides the irritation of lengthy travel, it would have been nice to have this angel in my corner.

I often told local women to go see her, despite being affiliated with a health system that doesn't have the best SART stats for IVF.  Her clinic took on the worst patients, unlike Babies Guaranteed - who kicked me to the curb the minute my FSH jacked up.  She offered kindness and hope to me when I was at my lowest.

Rest in Peace Dr. K. 

Whatever happens the Nibble is the best

This cycle has been surprising to me in getting me to think more deeply about my relationship with my daughter.  Now eight, she's in a word, incredible.  A Harry Potter-reading, dancing, singing tornado of smiles cut by the usual tantrums.  She's a joy.  For reals.

It's weird putting yourself through the torture of an IVF cycle and potential pregnancy - that you know will be joyless - when your house is already filled with a fuckton of joy.  You step back and look at yourself and go "why did I sign up for this again?"

We never set out to give her a sibling per se.  As an only child myself, I've always been pretty confident that she would be fine as an only child too.  Based on how I've seen her interact with younger kids, I think she'd get quite the kick out of life being a big sister to another baby in the household, but good god it's not like I want her to have to experience the responsibilities of motherhood at such a young age.

I carry so much grief and trauma from the past five years.  I am fairly certain that whatever the future holds, I'll still be a walking basket case in need of a lot of  self-indulgence and dance classes.  If I am ever lucky to mother another baby I'm sure I will still be heading straight to my therapist.

But it's interesting....This whole donor egg experience is so high stakes - the cash laid out, the injections, the gloom - and yet, at the end of the day, I do know we will be fine.  We have the Nibble. I believe she's the only tethering me to sanity in this sea of craziness. 

Stabbiest.

You know, I knew that IVF drugs would suck, but I had no idea that roaming around the grocery store that I don't usually shop at, and not finding the shredded Parmesan that I ordinarily like to buy, would make me burst into tears.

Jesus.

And the weight gain.  I perused about 50 blog entries about the weight gain, so there's no need for me to add to the litany of anecdotal research on the topic.  But can I just say FUCK ME.  This is ridiculous.  Who eats about 1300-1400 calories a day and gains three pounds in two weeks?  This insane person who evidently cries all the time, that's who.

I keep telling myself if this FET doesn't work well, it's ok, I have three more PGS-screened embryos on ice.  But fuck me, I can't even bring my brain there right now.  I mean, sure I am expecting this whole thing to not only fail, but fail spectacularly.... like maybe I will get a BFP and carry another doomed baby for 10 weeks.  That seems like something that would happen to me.

The only thing in my experience that eliminates these negative feelings is dancing.  A particularly ass-shaking zumba class, or even better a ballet class where I'm turning fast across the floor.  Those things get me out of my head.  And I will have those crutches for about two more weeks.

Which makes the coming weeks even more ominous.  I've been told in no uncertain terms, no zumba after transfer.  And with some uncertainty, no ballet.  Well I don't meditate.  And yoga?  No.  I've never had an edorfin rush in my life from yoga, it's not about to start now.  Walking.  I can walk to oblivion and yeah, I'm sure no one ever thinks about life or dead babies when they're walking.

Sheesh.

stabbier

Injecting yourself surruptitously in your parents' bathroom isn't as hard as it may seem.  Turn on the shower, take a deep breath, swipe the needle, the lupron container and your abdomen with an alcohol swab... carefully measure the syringe.... plunge that fucker into your lower abdomen and say a prayer of thanks that you aren't using the harpoon like needle of a PIO injection.

But maintaining your composure on lupron, well, that's another matter entirely.  Your eyes water all the time (thank god the pollen count is high on this early spring week). 

Then you find yourself on a message thread about your facebook feed.  Remember how three years ago today you were involved in a high-profile, exhilerating campaign that resulted in improving the lives of thousands of people?  One that you were key to developing?  Oh, you didn't want to remember this week?  Could it be that you miscarried for the third consecutive time this week?  Yeah, that must be it.

The stakes are so much higher now.  We've spent so much money, I am stabbing myself on a nightly basis and feeling a little like an angry lunatic.  And there is still a very high chance that it won't work.  Any of it.  That a micrroscopic, likely genetically normal embryo will be implanted into my uterus OF DOOM in a few weeks time, and it will still die.

Sigh.  Fucking lupron.

stabby

Well, we've now done a few nights of the (relatively easy) lupron injections.  Yeah, for the uninitated in IVF, these are like the easiest injections you will ever do, the needles are pretty small, like insulin needles.  I can't say I'm jumping for joy with happiness about how I am feeling on leuprolide - there's a reason I've heard it referred to as "the Devil" by women on babycenter.  Yeah, I feel a little on edge right now, but I suppose life could be much worse.  I could be on progesterone injections... oh snap, just a few weeks until then.  Let me get back to ignoring how shitty lupron injections are.

I'm headed to NYC for a few days with the nibble and without the viking on Saturday night, so I get to hide in the bathroom and stab myself with (the albeit tiny) needles for four nights in a row.  Nothing but fun times ahead.

It's not helping that work is insane right now.  Nonstop for both Viking and myself.  I was hoping to take Niblet on an outing to DC tomorrow to meet up with a pack of family members who are in town but I have to cancel because there just isn't enough time in the day.  And she did spend all last weekend with said family (side note, my husband's side resembles the Children of the Corn). I know there will be tears, but you know what kid, mama's under a teensy little bit of stress right now, so maybe we can both hold it together, ok?