Enough Already!

The Transfer

Sunday evening, I left a message with Dr. Harvard’s office that I wanted him to call me back Monday morning as I had no intention of showing up for an 11:30 transfer before talking to him. 

Cindy called me instead; “You have three (3) eight cell embryos left, transfer will be today”.  I asked why Dr. Harvard, his highness, did not call me back as I had asked and was told he was busy seeing patients.  I asked her what grade the embryos were and was told that 2 were grade 1 (the best) and one was grade 2, with a small fragmentation. 

The remaining 7 embryos arrested development at the 2 cell stage.  So out of 21 eggs, I had 3 eight cell embryos left on day 3.  Not the results I would have expected.  After having done research all Sunday evening on blastocycst transfers, I discovered that the critical determination as to whether they would try for a blastocyst transfer was how many eight cell embryos there were on day 3. 

One clinic stated that if there were less than 4 on day 3, it rules out a blastocyst transfer and does a day three transfer.  The reasoning is that they are only going to transfer X number so if the number of embryos left on day 3 is X, there is no reason to wait for natural selection to rule in the strongest, most viable embryos.  Have to go with what you got at that point. 

So with 3 embryos left, there was no reason to wait.  My chances were not going to get any better by waiting to do a blastocyst transfer.  I was still very mad and very disappointed that 11 of the eggs that were ICSI’d were basically ruined by the lab as far as I’m concerned.  Cindy said the eggs may have been fragile.  I decided that was a fight for another day; the day after I get a BFN (big fat negative) on my pregnancy test.  I’m praying with all my being that that day NEVER comes. 

I started drinking water at 10:30 to make sure I had a full bladder for the transfer at 11:30 because I had to wait over an hour when they did the mock transfer earlier because my bladder was not full at the appointed time. 

After squirming in my seat in the waiting room for 30 minutes, I was taken back.  My mother came with me.  She was taking picture of me with her cell phone and reading recipes to me from a magazine intermittently while we waited another 45 minutes for his highness to show up.  I had to keep emptying my bladder a little at a time b/c it would get too full while I was waiting for his highness. 

Finally, his highness showed up.  He told me that the standard of care as of October 2004 was to transfer only 2 embryos but he gave me the option of transferring 3.  Since I only had 3 left, since the other 4 had arrested, since 11 didn’t fertilize with ICSI for whatever reason, since I only have a 10% risk of having triplets (actually, more like 6% when you multiply the 60% rate of success with a 10% risk of triplets), and since my odds of success were increased by 10 to 15%, we transferred all three. 

But of course, I keep focusing on the 6% risk of triplets and the 40% risk of failure instead of the 54% chance of a singleton or twins.  I truly am a piece of work sometimes.  Send positive vibes my way please and breathe some life into my hope addict!  Where is that bitch when I need her most?!!!

The Brat Test

I had to get up at 4:45 a.m. to make my 8:10 cattle call on Southwest Airlines to fly to Phoenix for my next closing on the multi-family senior housing project.  I figured out that Bugsy was sent to me to be my gentle purring wake up angel.  Every morning around 6:00 he snuggles up to my face purring and gently needing the bedding.  This morning, he woke me up around 4:30.  It is such a soft and pleasant way to be coaxed out of my sleeping stupor. 

I took my bath and the lumbered into the kitchen.  Thankfully, Harvey was still fast asleep in his chair in the living room.  I tried to be quiet and not wake him.  No such luck.  Within minutes he was awake and observing me as I made my morning tea.    So he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, watching me make tea, and when the event is over, I decide I’ll have to go around the other side of the kitchen, through the dining room, and down the hall to get back to my bedroom b/c Harvey is blocking the exit to the hallway. 

The minute I whip out the other side of the kitchen, he exits into the hallway again impeding my exodus.  Now if this is your husband, you can just tell him to get the fuck  out of your way (which I’ve been known to do in situations like this).  But when its your husband’s 75+ year old father, one must be patient. And patience at 5:15 in the morning is a tall order for me indeed. 

I manage to get dressed on time and out the door by 6:30.  I easily made it to the airport in time to check my bags and play strip search with the airport security personnel.  But after last night’s fiasco with Harvey letting Fat Tony out, I was nervous that I did not have visual confirmation that the kittens were safely inside when I left. 

So while standing in the long line at the security checkpoint, I decided to call the in-laws to get a head count.  The phone rang, and rang, and rang for about 15 times with no answer.  Now Harvey is a man with lightening speed reflexes when answering the phone when my mother calls and I don’t want to talk to her, when my crazy uncle calls and I don’t want to talk to him, when my friend Kim calls, etc…

Maybe I can understand him answering the phone when we are not there; but when we are? What the fuck is up with that? But I digress.  For my call the phone goes unanswered.  So I telephone my husband’s cell and tell him to call and check on the kittens.  His call they answer.  For my call, Harvey couldn’t find the phone that is resting squarely on the kitchen counter where it always is. 

So I arrive at my gate and board the plane.  Ugghhhh, its crowded up front and I have no intention of being jammed in the middle seat again so I spy some seats in the back and hot foot it down there.  The flight attendant announces that we are not completely full, but almost.  And then everyone is aboard the plane and seated and there is not 1 but 2 empty seats next to me!!!! I have a whole row to myself!  I feel somehow the equilibrium in my universe has been restored.  ¾ of a seat on the flight to San Francisco, 3 whole seats on the fight to Phoenix. 

Then this couple and their 2 year old (“little miss I’m Not Happy”) make their way down to the back of the plane where I am comfortably resting and sit a couple of rows back from me.  Then little miss I’m Not Happy begins her intermittent wailing for no apparent reason that I can discern.  Are they poking her with needles?

Then she would stop.  And just as I start to feel that the tirade has ended and relax, she would pipe up again.  She was actually doing this as I was typing to update this blog in the 6+ hours I flight time I had on the trip.

And you know, it’s always all about me.  Somehow, this turns into a test in my mind.  G-d is testing me to see my tolerance level for dealing with a difficult child in a difficult situation.  Again, I am the victim of my own perpetration.  In my insane mind, it’s not just a screaming, annoying 2-year old; it is my own personal test of worthiness…(b/c we all know that crack heads make good mothers and only worthy people are rewarded with children). 

And I’m failing the test, b/c I’ve had just about had enough of that shit already!   

The Cycle of Life

Having nailed down my egg donor and getting my pocket picked in the process, I was ready to start my donor egg cycle.  So October 2^nd  rolled around and I got my period, THE period, the period that would mark the beginning of my donor egg cycle.  It started (the cycle, not the period) with a trip to the Dr. Harvard’s office on October 6.  On that day I was given a baseline ultrasound and about 5 pages of precise instructions.  I was instructed to begin taking Aygestin (my favorite – NOT) that evening and to swallow 4 Zithromax the next morning – ALL AT ONCE.  B/c my husband tends to be on the tender side, he was prescribed Amoxicillan to be taken twice a day for 2 weeks. 

Apparently this is necessary to make sure that we are both STD free b/c like most couples in infertility treatment, we spend our nights and weekends frequenting prostitutes and engaging in unsafe sex.  Actually, like most infertile couples, we only engage in infrequent sex, the result of so many years of having compulsory sex dictated by a positive result on an OPK pee stick. 

I put off taking the Zithromax, knowing the stomach upset that just one of those little acid bombs could do to my digestive system.  But after putting this off for almost 2 weeks, I bit the bullet and swallowed all 4 with a hardy breakfast.  Two hours into the day my stomach was feeling fine.  “Hmmmm…” I thought to myself, “maybe nothing will happen.”  Wrong. 

Let me put it this way, Zithromax is better at curing constipation than Ex-lax or any other brand of over the counter remedy that you might find at you local grocer.  The medication liquefied my insides.  If you were occupying the stall next to me, you would have thought I was going number 1, as they say, instead of number 2.

I continued the Aygestin until November 1, growing angrier and more bloated by the day.  Finally toward the end, I woke up to a particularly gray day, which is typical in St. Louis.  Buster the cat was mad at me b/c I’d had him shaved b/c he was matted.  So to get me back he took to hiding and adopted an overall pissy attitude whenever it was he cared to surface.  For about the 3^rd morning in a row, he was nowhere to be found.  After conducting a search the LAPD would be proud of, I left the house feeling sorry for myself. 

As I was driving to work, there was this old couple in front of me, slowly creeping along, when in a hormonal fueled rage I thought to myself “I ought to just floor it and ram this car right into those old fucks” when out of the corner of my eye I saw a police car in my rear view mirror. 

Needless to say, that put that fire right out.  But by then, it was clear that I’d had enough of the Aygestin – already. 

My Amazing Race

or My own little piece of Hell on earth – you decide....

Contestants: 1 (Me)

Day: 8 dpo

Teams (Me) must travel from St. Louis to Cincinnati for a job intereview on Friday, July 30, while at the same time try and implant a morula in her uterus in hopes of an ensuing pregnancy. But before departing, a series of roadblocks must be navigated. Teams (Me) wake up on Thursday morning at the crack of dawn (5:30 a.m. which is early if you are not a farmer) eager to take on the challenges that lay ahead.

Roadblock #1: clean disgusting cat litter. Not only is this challenge particularly disgusting since said litter has not been attended to for a solid week, but further complicated by the fact that one of the contestants (Me) may be pregnant. I arm myself with gloves and a dust mask. Said dust mask causes my glasses to fog up every time I breathe out. I make a mental note that cat litter must be attended to more frequently than weekly.

Roadblock #2: load 2 wild beasts (Molly the Basset Hound and Bruiser the Chow) into SAAB and depart for Kennelwood Dog Hotel. Since Molly’s legs are too short for her to just hop up into the car, I must hoist this 65 lb. dog into the back seat. This challenge is further complicated by the fact that I am trying to simultaneously implant my morula and know that heavy lifting is contraindicated to successful implantation. Resolved to self that that would be the extent of my physical exertion for the remainder of the trip (what’s that? do I hear the heavens opening with hysterical laughter?)

Roadblock #3: unload said beasts and check them into doggy hotel. I arrived at the dog hotel early and b/c it was cool out, I wisely left said beasts in the car while I handled the task of checking in. It was a smart move that ended up backfiring. When I entered the “lobby” of the dog hotel, there were no other dogs present. After straightening out the details of checking in (Note to self: change last name to that of my husband’s to avoid further confusion about our “kids”), other dogs began arriving for doggy daycare (and no, I’m not kidding about that).

I remarked with a little irritation that the plastic collar that one of the attendants was prepared to strap around Bruiser’s neck was too small. She disagreed and brusquely told me “don’t worry, it will fit”. “Hmmm…” I thought to myself “she’d make an excellent ultrasound tech – she’s already got the attitude part down”.

I enlisted the help of one of the other attendants to help me unload Molly and Bruiser and get them into the doggy hotel. Bruiser charged out of the vehicle intent on shredding the other arriving patrons of the establishment but was hindered by the thin flexy leash to which I had him tethered. So he instead raced around me in circles challenging the strength of the flexy leash. Molly, who is usually well behaved under these circumstances, broke free from the attendant and in a very unlike Basset Hound manner (but very much in a Chow like manner – Bruiser is her mentor), attempted to flee the scene. Briefly, while trying get control of Bruiser, I saw Molly being held by the ruff of her neck while the attendant was trying to get her collar back on.

We were quite the spectacle amongst all of the other well-trained patrons as we attempted to enter the doggy hotel. Suffice it to say that we stuck out like the Clampets in Beverly Hills; or more like a biker gang at a stylish golf tournament (Oy Vey – who let in the riff raff?)

Roadblock #4: After subduing the wild beasts, I left the doggy hotel covered in dog hair and arrived at home base around 9:00 a.m. The next challenge was to give my 19 year old cat subcutaneous IV fluids by myself. Only one of the team members (Me) could perform this roadblock b/c my veterinary assistant (my husband) works on location in Cincinnati. I marveled at the amount of strength and resolve my 4.8 lb., 19-year-old cat with kidney disease still had as I attempted to stick the needle under her skin and inject said fluids. But, at 140 lbs. with a flight leaving in 3 hours, she was no match for me and I managed to administer said fluids in spite of her heroic efforts to deter me.

So, at 9:30 a.m., I still had appx. 1 hour to fix myself up, pack, and depart for the airport to make my flight that was scheduled to leave @ 12:20 p.m. I was off at 10:30 a.m. sharp. The airport is only 15 minutes away – USUALLY.

Roadblock #5: Literally, there was a roadblock. As I attempted to merge onto 170, traffic was literally moving at a slow crawl. “Are they evacuating the City?” I asked myself. No, there was some sort of spill on the highway about 2 miles down the road.

I made it to the airport check in by 11:00 a.m. and still had 1 hour and 20 minutes before the flight was to leave. I was beginning to think that it was going to take that much time seeing how slowly the line I’m was in was moving. So I was standing in line for 10 minutes and I started to get this uncomfortable feeling. “What is it? What did I leave behind?”

Roadblock #6: I had a brilliant plan for traveling. I would wear my suit jacket on the plane so it would not get wrinkled in my suitcase since I could not count on the hotel having a 24-hour dry cleaning service. And as I stood there pondering what I had in fact left behind, I soon visualized my suit jacket hanging on the inside hook on the door to my closet.

Now this is where it really got dicey. The teams (Me) had to make a strategic decision.

Option #1: Stay in line, leave for Cincinnati and spend the evening shopping for a new suit. No, I will look like an idiot at the interview b/c I am too short and fat for off the rack jackets (I just had the one I bought altered to fit my short arm length – my butt used to be too big and my shoulders too small, now my waist is too thick and my arms are too short).

Option #2: Stay in slow moving line, check your luggage, and then race home to get the jacket. No, plane and luggage might leave without me.

Option #3: Leave line that is taking fucking forever, race home, get the jacket and say 100 silent prayers that you make it back in time.

Option #4: Drive to Cincinnati if G-d does not answer payers.

I got out of the slow moving line and raced back home. Amazingly, I made it back to my house by 11:22 a.m. It was like one of those video games where you are racing through traffic only this was my real life.

I grabbed the jacket and ran back to my car and was off for the airport. I had an advantage on the return trip. B/c of my early morning run to the kennel, I discovered a short cut to Page Avenue from my house, which connects to highway 170 just past the Roadblock #5. I got back in the Delta check in line at 11:40 a.m.; I still had 40 minutes to make it through the line and through security. Sounds like enough time?

11:52 a.m., finally it was my turn to check in. I was told that I was 2 minutes late to check baggage. (Note for any of you inexperienced travelers: You must check in 30 minutes before your flight time if you want to check baggage.) But I only had 2 small bags that I could carryon AND I was told that I could “pink ticket” them at the gate. (Another note for any of you inexperienced travelers: “Pink Ticket” means you give your luggage to the flight personnel at the plane and they stow it away for you underneath the plane.)

I raced through security as fast as I could w/o being suspected of being a terrorist and made it to the gate by 12:15 p.m. I got on the plane only to find out that the air conditioner on the plane was broken.

There I was in my new suit jacket, sweating like a fucking pig. I thought to myself: “The jacket won’t be wrinkled; it will just smell like B.O.” Fabulous. “She looks very professional but did you get a whiff of that B.O.?” I imagined the human resources woman that I’ve never met remark.

And that, gentle readers, was: Enough Already!

My Imagination – 12 DPO

My imagination is really running away with me. Do I feel unusually tired? Maybe its the progesterone I’m taking. Maybe I’m pregnant. Maybe I’m out of my mind; yeah, that’s more like it.

Per my Yahoo Pregnancy Calendar, tomorrow is time to take that home pregnancy test. I actually thought about buying one on my way home. But something has changed. My addiction to peeing on a stick seems to have been beat into submission by my fear of once again seeing that BFN (Big Fat Negative).

In some way, I feel as if I’ve gotten one over on the gods of infertility if I save that $15 or so and get my period instead as confirmation of my non-pregnant status. That’ll show those rat bastards! I may not be pregnant (again) but I’m not out $15 to boot!

Last time I got my “full flow” period on Friday – exactly 2 weeks and 2 days after my last IUI – right after I took a blood pregnancy test at the doctor’s office. How’s that for timing?

Sometimes you just have to laugh...

Someone found my blog with these search terms: follicles success repronex – ivf.

Guess she didn’t find what she was looking for! No follicles around here, certainly no success, and no ivf…at least until I win the lottery…

Even on American Chopper?

For the most part, I quit watching the Discovery Health channel (which should more appropriately be called the “Birth and Delivery” channel) except when I’m feeling particularly masochistic.

So last night, my husband I tune into “American Chopper” a documentary show profiling Orange County Choppers, a family run business located in Rock Tavern, N.Y., that builds custom choppers. (I know, strange show for a Jewish couple to be watching – we’re not exactly biker type people). But you would think that the content of this show would not contain anything that I find personally offensive as say…a pregnant woman, someone giving birth…etc.

Last night’s episode was Episode 13: Mikey’s Bike 2: “Setbacks, stress and sibling rivalry threaten to derail the Blues Bike project. But Mikey has a more pressing problem: passing his motorcycle driver’s test (premiered: Aug. 18, 2003)”

Harmless…or so you’d think, until the surprise ending: The Teutul Clan motor to the hospital to greet the arrival of the newest member of the family, a new baby boy for Paul Sr.'s son Danny, another biker bundle of joy…Congratulations...

I swear, if I were to tune into Golden Girls it would be an episode about post-menopausal Blanch getting pregnant. Or how about these….

Happy Days: Marion (aka Mrs. C) announces the happy news that she is pregnant and there will be a new addition to the Cunningham clan.

The Brady Bunch: Alice breaks the new to the Brady’s that she’ll be retiring in 9 months to be a stay at home mom…yup, that’s right, she and Sam the butcher are expecting twins!

Andy Griffith: Aunt Bee has a fling with an old boyfriend and accidentally gets knocked up. Whoops!

I can no longer even watch King of Queens because Leah Remini, the actress who plays Carrie, is pregnant in real life. At first I was secretly pleased to see that she appeared to be getting fat on the show (you know, G-d if you can’t make me thin, then please make all my friends fat)…But I should know better…most fat women I come across these days are…pregnant.

And to that I say: ENOUGH ALREADY!!!

My Hope Addict is in Recovery

I talked to my hope addict today (we haven't been speaking much since the cyst). She tells me she is in a 12 step recovery program. She’s got a sponsor, a home group, and is working the steps. As part of her 9th step she wanted to make an “amends” to me. She said she was sorry for abandoning me when I needed her most and promised to stay in touch. Enough? Ehhhh….we’ll see.

My Negative Attitude Addict, well she's is very active in her dis-ease. And to that I say: ENOUGH ALREADY!!!

Speechless

Speechless. I've left everyone who reads this blog utterly speechless.

I can hear (hear?) it now: "shhhhhhh....don't bother the crazy woman...just let her rant..."

And rant on I do: ENOUGH ALREADY!!!

Horrorscopes

Horoscopes. I read my horoscope obsessively now. I’ve always read it now and again, but now I read it in a different way. I try to read “into it”. I read it and compare it to the day of my cycle to determine if this one will be a good one or a bad one. Its almost if one day I expect it to say:

"You will have 3 great follicles on your right ovary and 1 on the left. You will not surge early this time nor will you, for god sakes, have to trigger on Friday evening leaving you with the Saturday and Monday IUI option that you know in your heart of hearts will be poorly timed. Things are looking up for you dear Capricorn, finally!"

Sick. Sick. Sick. I know. And disturbingly enough, I’m also having a love hate relationship with an online magic 8 ball that keeps giving me all the wrong (wrong?) answers like these:

Will I get pregnant this month? “My reply is HELL NO”

Will I get pregnant this year? “Don’t count on it”

Will I ever have a healthy baby? “Better not to tell you now lest ye go screaming from the room looking for a rope to hang thyself with”

And to that I say: ENOUGH ALREADY!!!