So, I’m having my husband call the doctor’s office to try to get some information out of them. This makes me feel like a bad feminist and a bad adult, but I’m clearly not having much luck getting information out of people, and I don’t know how much longer I can maintain my weak grip on sanity if I don’t have some kind of blueprint.
The problem right now is that they’re monitoring me every other day — like really, every other day, as in I have to go in on Sunday to get a scan — and no one will give me an idea of how long that’s going to go on.
To be fair, I only really tried to ask once. I asked the nurse how long the monitoring phase — i.e., the transvaginal ultrasound phase — would last and she said, “Well, we’ll probably want to do a lot of monitoring.” Continue reading
So, I had my first monitoring appointment yesterday since the Clomid. I have two potential lead follicles that look good, and my hormones are heading in the right direction. All good news.
Not-so-good: the continuing need for frequent transvaginal ultrasounds. Man, do I hate these fuckers. They are the worst. I’d like to personally administer one to every Republican congressman who’s ever suggested making them mandatory for women seeking abortions. We’ll find a place for the wand, if they don’t have a vagina handy.
The worst, this last time, was that I got all situated on the table, sans pants and with my feet in the stirrups, modesty sheet in place, only for the doctor to announce that the system didn’t have my records queued up, so he’d need to go speak to the front desk. Continue reading
Here’s how crazy I am: I felt nauseated and was almost certain I was seeing spots … before I took the Clomid. I’ve been so nervous about side effects, I started imagining them well before I took the first pill. Continue reading
I’ve been feeling a little depressed lately about how much of this whole infertility struggle is on me.
Don’t get me wrong: my husband is supportive and as involved as he can be. Plus, you know, there’s the whole having to masturbate outside the privacy of his own home thing, which I imagine most men are carefully taught not to do, starting at a very young age.
But still, all of the medical risk and most of the aggravation are on my side. I realized that right at the start, of course, because I’d been trying to get pregnant for years, which naturally involves a lot of thinking that one might be pregnant, and scanning the ol’ body for signs of same. (And the signs are all gross: swelling, nausea, nipple changes, etc.)
But it really struck me how unfair all this is when we sat down with our reproductive endocrinologist to make a plan. Continue reading
I have eggs. Maybe even good ones. This is big news.
The hormone panels were a little inconclusive. My AMH levels were good … so good that my doctor was suspicious, especially when my FSH levels showed possibly diminished ovarian reserve.
The transvaginal ultrasound, which is like a regular ultrasound, only from the inside out, using a sort of robot dildo to take the pictures, showed healthy ovaries and several follicles, however, which means that we can’t count out the ol’ egg basket yet. Continue reading
Mr. ‘Face and I share a Google calendar. We do this because his job is shift-based, and mine is freelance, and otherwise, we’d never have any idea of what was coming up or where we were supposed to be. So it was with some amusement that I recently spotted the following entry in the calendar:
Tuesday: Dr. Whackit (call Monday to confirm)
Because I am a sensitive spouse, I immediately asked him about it. Continue reading
I don’t know what it is about dealing with infertiles, but people really seem to want to tell us that we should adopt. Never mind that adopting isn’t easy, inexpensive, or right for everyone. In most people’s minds, it’s as simple as trotting down to the orphanage and picking out little orphan Annie.
Even people who know better will suggest that adoption is the way to go. A really good friend of mine, one of the single nicest, most intuitive, and most emotionally intelligent people I know, recently suggested adoption to me in the most horrifying way I can imagine.
“Don’t close the door,” she said. “I could see you, in 10 years or so, really falling in love with an older child and being so happy you opened your home to them.”
“Did I do something to upset you?” I asked. “Because I don’t know why you’d say something like that to me otherwise.” Continue reading