We Interrupt This Blog

(Pardon the private message.)

Brother K and/or Fiancée W: I know you're reading the blog. Show yourself.

And then think twice whether or not you really want to read all these intimate details about me. I mean, it only seems fair you should share also. But then again, I'm not sure I want to know.

2,163 Worries and Joys

All weekend, friends and family we saw kept smiling at us, hugging me gently as if I would break. Being excited. And I felt like Miranda on that one episode of Sex and the City, where she has to feign excitement about having a boy. I smiled, but felt nervous. I didn't want anyone to be really juiced up yet. Truth be told, I've been restraining myself.

I mean, after all, what symptoms do I have? None. No nausea, no cravings, nothing. Everything normal so far. People keep asking me, "How do you feel?" in an anxious little whisper. "Like myself." It's the best I can do. I'm more tired, but I feel like me. One morning I thought I was feeling a little sick, and then realized I took my prenatal on an empty stomach. Once I ate a piece of toast, I was okay. I slept a little in the afternoon yesterday, which is atypical, but other than that, I'm just me. I also swam, which I had a feeling my RE would nix if I asked (and I did today, and I was right, he nixed it), but I did it anyway. It was freaking 90 some degrees, my parents have a pool, and I'll be damned if I wasn't getting in it.

This morning, I woke up and was tired one hour after I woke up. That's a sign, right? But maybe it's just a sign that I'm lazy, not pregnant. We went to the RE, where of course everyone smiled at more, and I love everyone in that office, so I had to smile back, but so nervous. So so nervous.

After the blood draw, we went to the mall to drop off my stupid car at Sears. And then of course I decided we needed a soaker hose for the new landscaping we put in over the weekend. And then Partner needed more mascara, and then I decided I should get a little pressie for my friend Lynne's new baby [Mazel Tov!], and I started crying in Children's Place. I actually started to get excited. I held Partner's hand very tightly. Why do baby clothes make me cry? I want them all so badly. We paused outside every baby shop in the mall. Gymboree. Baby Gap. We stood and clasped hands. "I'll shop in Baby Gap," Partner said to me. Her eyes-- they were bold with excitement. My partner has some beautiful eyes.

Then the waiting. And at five to four, five minutes before the clinic closed, I still hadn't heard anything. I emailed off to Pamplemousse, my sister in crime, with my woes. I told her the clinic always calls early with good numbers and leaves the bad number calls until later in the day. I was convinced the numbers had plummeted. No one wanted to call and tell me. It's a little like applying to college: the thick packet means you're in. The thin letter means you're out. Take this and theorize from there: early=good, and late=bad.

Apparently this theory is flawed. I figured out earlier today that doubling and doubling again would mean I needed to be at least 1352. This number seems unreachable. I would never be able to reach it.

Again, flawed theory resting on flawed theory. Since the number is 2,163.

Son of pup. I think I might be pregnant.

Ultrasound: Next Tuesday, 12:45

The Old Switcherooni

I spent the night at my parents house last night. It was extraordinarily nice. My mom was making some baked shrimp dish with fennel and feta and when I expressed concern about the double f-f, she made me a special version for me. When we first started this whole trying to conceive journey, I was cavalier. I was going to eat anything. Climb ladders. Do heavy lifting. Since it hasn't been easy to get to the positive beta, and with each failed cycle, I've become more cautious. Sure, everything I've read says go ahead with the fennel, but avoid the oil or seed. I'll just avoid the whole plant, thank you very much. As for those ladders or lifting? Yeah. Right. (I still think I'll eat blue veiny cheese though. I can't be expected to give manhattans and cheese.)

I also got to have a whole bed to myself, and as some people know, I have a proclivity for sleeping like an X. I love to sleep like an X. And my parents have a ceiling fan. It was all good.

The hurdles came this morning when my poor mother had to do the PIO (progesterone in oil) shot. If you aren't familiar with the shot, it's a long needle. Intramuscular. Ouch. And it's scary. I remember when Partner and I started all this monkey business. The first IM shot was daunting, to say the least. I think we both cried a little. So my mom, with no training, had to do the shot and she did spectacular. There was a lot of talk about whether or not she'd need a little shot of vodka before doing it, but she managed free and sober. Later at lunch, she did order a healthy glass of red wine.

Then I went for my repeat beta at the main hub of clinic. It was more crowded than I'd ever seen it. I talked to a rookie who was dying to pee and let her know everything that would happen, including my favorite-not-so favorite part of getting to pee while lying on the table in the OR. She seemed like she could be a woman of my heart, because while she was repulsed by the idea, she alternatively loved the idea. I did tell her if she had to go that bad, she should let a little out. She was a sweetheart and even though I'll (hopefully) never see her again, my fingers are crossed for her.

Finally, my mom and I went to lunch at "the club," where cell phones are expressly verboten. I carried mine in brazenly. Even though it was only about 1:30, and that was far too early for the clinic to call with repeat beta numbers, I thought it would behoove me to have the phone anyway. And my suspicion was rewarded, because I did get the call as we sat on the patio.

272-- That's what the nurse told me. 272. I was happy, mind you, but still worried. It didn't quite double. And after the last cycle, I was a little worried we were starting to march down the same path of not-quite doubling, not quite-doubling, stagnation, and finally failure. I know! 272 is still a good number, and it almost there. I got the requisite "Don't-worry-we-look-for-doubling-every-48-to-72-hours" talk. I tried to convince myself. I then called Partner, flaunting the no mobile rules even more. In my book, this constituted an emergency. She was pleased with 272 also, but I could hear a little worry in her voice also.

Later I sat in the parking lot of Costco and talked to youngest brother N for a good long while. It put me off schedule, so when I finally got off the horn, I raced into Costco without my phone. Stupid. Never, ever go anywhere without your phone when you are cycling. Even if you think you already know your beta number. Because when I got back to the car, I had missed four-- four!-- phone calls. I was only in there for 20 minutes! (Quickest Costco trip ever, and yet I still managed to fondle the baby clothes.)

First missed call? RE office. Second, third, and fourth calls respectively? Partner.

Who freaked out? Me. And who to call first? RE clinic had technically closed 35 minutes prior, so I decided Partner. Who promptly gave me a lecture about why didn't I have my phone because what if it was an emergency and I said in one breath "Is it an emergency because I just went into Costco and there were four missed calls and the clinic was one of them and did they call you and is everything okay?"

"They messed up our beta number," she said to me, and I felt my heart drop. "They switched things around by accident."

"Ohmygodohmygod." I said. I was driving by this point and felt myself get dizzy. I thought perhaps I should pull over. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it good or bad?"

"272 was your progesterone number" she said. "The correct beta number is 338."

And then I yelled FUCK so loudly people in cars stopped next to me looked at the car. I pumped the air like a 14 year kid. I nearly wept. I've done it. Doubled. More than doubled. The afternoon suddenly seemed that much brighter.

I'm telling you-- Can it get any better today? It's Friday, my house windows are open, the cat is lying like a noodle in the doorway, Partner cleaned the house this morning, friends are coming over for dinner, Olu Dara is playing on the stereo, and my fucking beta number actually doubled.

The Daily Three

When I was a kid and my gramma was still alive, she loved to play the daily three. If something good happened with three numbers that day, those were the numbers she played. Sometimes it was her address. Sometimes it was my address. Sometimes she'd pick the numbers, sometimes I get to pick them. She'd often send me into the drugstore alone with the dollar to play the numbers. Simpler times, eh? Because now they'd never let a kid buy any kind of lottery ticket. Maybe in some smallish towns, but not where I grew up. I'd sidle up the counter, announce my three numbers, and tell the agent to "box 'em" (which means you can win if they appear in any order).

So I think I'll go buy a ticket. Tell 'em to box the numbers. Which are: One-Four-Seven.

147

It's Tuesday

And what in SAM HILL was I thinking?

I could have had the beta today and I gave it up, willingly?

I almost want to run over the RE office right now, but I also want to never have the beta so I can go on deluding myself that I might be pregnant.

Because I've been having cramps all weekend. Bad'uns. And cramps mean one of two things: 1. I'm not pregnant or 2. I'm pregnant.

I can't believe I could have the beta and I'm not doing it. I reiterate: what in the world could I have possibly been thinking???

Random Thoughts

A few things:

1. Clarification: Ultimately my decision to postpone the beta was selfish. When I find out if I am or if I amn't pregnant, I want it to be my time. I don't want to share with PS. I also don't want to incur any kind of competition like vibes to any of it.

2. Heavenly: Right now, drinking a perfect cuppa builder's tea with Boland's cream biscuits. I love Bolands. I could eat the whole damn package. I am limiting myself to two.

3. Hilarious: Partner and I were in stitches last night watching this. Does anyone else in the world still remember who Hoffa was? You know you you're from Michigan when Hoffa rumors make the leading news headline. When I was in high school, the scuttlebutt was that Hoffa was buried in the endzone of our football field. I bet eight of ten SE Michigan high schools had the same rumor.

4. Playing with Fire: That's me. If I'm pregnant, I'm already breaking the rules. Last night I ate soft cheese. Goat cheese. Nothing bad has happened to me today. It's unreasonable to expect me to give up manhattans, dirty vodka martinis, vodka gimlets, and soft cheese. I draw the line somewhere. Give me cheese.

5. Finally: The painters are gone. Now all I have to do is pluck up the "borrow" nerve and ask for a not-so wee loan from my parents.

To Go With the Flow

The pregnancy test is Tuesday.

Or is it?

Don't get your knickers in a twist here; nothing has happened. Here's the deal: Partner's sister has passed her bar exam. This isn't news to you, I know, since I announced this happy news a few weeks ago. It was a long time coming... So it's a celebration.

A little history now. PS (Partner's Sister) and I have had a not-so glorious past. When I started dating Partner, she and PS were living together. My partner, if you haven't gathered this yet, is a generous soul. They were living in a large apartment where Partner paid the rent, but PS was in the biggest bedroom, the one with the bathroom attached. There was one assigned parking spot under the carport. PS always got this spot too. All of this grated on me, perhaps because I am the consummate Libra. Partner was trying to be supportive while PS was in her first year of law school. In fact, don't think it was PS who just took these liberties: Partner offered them to her, encouraging her to attend law school and indicating she would support PS while in school. I couldn't understand. Or wouldn't. And this started us down a rocky path. Some of it my fault. Some of it her fault. We had a few little arguments before I moved in with Partner, but it was okay. A tenuous line of okay, but okay.

Things changed when we all started living together. The first house that Partner built was chock full o'lesbians when it first went up. There was Partner, Lodger 1, Lodger 2, PS, and me (on weekends only.) When I moved in, one lodger was long gone by then. And just like I had trouble living in a house with my mother, I had trouble living with PS. It all culminated one night in a huge fight where she essentially told Partner to choose between me or her. I was furious, prepping for a dinner guest. PS was standing on one side of the kitchen bar, and I was on the other side. I pointed at her with the knife, merely because I was holding it at the time, and said, "Fuck you. I love your sister and I would never ever put her in the position of choosing you or me." And then I left the house, got in my friend's car who had just pulled up, and told her to "Just drive." By the time I came back, PS was gone. She didn't return until we left town for Toronto-- Came in and moved out. None of us talked for months. Holidays were a total joy.

But over the years things have cooled down. I almost didn't want to relate any of this because we are in a beautiful place now. First of all, it helps that we aren't living together anymore. Second, I think PS knows that I really do love Partner, and I know that she really loves Partner too. I came into Partner's life after she and PS had gotten very close. I know that PS really considered Partner her only close family, and I'm sure I was very threatening. I've also been able to put down some judgment that I fully admit I carried. PS and I had very different lives, and I had to engage in some more serious empathy, not just surface level stuff. All of it has helped, and I'm at a place where I finally feel like I can be very honest with her, and well, maybe I'm even feeling family love for her too. (Shit. I'm crying now. I better be freaking pregnant with these emotions.) Also, even though PS and have had different lives, we are alike in many ways. We're both pretty strong willed women.

This bar thing is a big deal for PS. She's pretty much said she doesn't want to have kids, so that's all our purview for this side of the family. So when we can celebrate big things in her life, we just need to do it.

I don't want to overshadow her day with our pregnancy test. I debated back and forth about it. Could I get the news and not tell? Probably. But if I'm not pregnant, pretty much I'm just going to want to wail into the pillow for a few hours, not whoop it up at the brewery. If I am pregnant, I'm going to want to tell, and that might just overshadow this very important day for PS.

So today when the 12 year old called us to tell us no embryos survived to make it to the big freeze (big surprise), I rescheduled the pregnancy test. To Wednesday. One more day won't kill me, will it?

Will it?

(Oh, and an IVF secret? There's only so many secrets. There aren't so many secrets when you blog consistently about all this. Okay, here's one: Part of the reason we're selling our house a year before the next one will be done is because of the debt associated with IVF. )

Small Wee Update

Amy has told me that this needs to be done, the update, on the two week wait whether I have something to say or not. Believe me, I've got stuff to say. I'm all a-buzz internally about bio-ethics, something I can't get anyone to talk with me about-- specifically when it comes to the flu vaccine.

But since I don't have time to really talk about that right now, I'll update on the mundane details of how I feel: like shit. My stomach has gone all gross and burn-y. I was up numerous times last night convincing myself I had a acute pancreatitis, somehow brought on by the stupid steroids. I am so tired from not sleeping last night, I actually fell asleep at the architect's office this morning. Talk about mortifying.

Dr. BusyBusyBusy says stop taking the baby aspirin, which I am more than happy to do. My E2 came back, low, and I should start taking it four times a day. The nurse we love says it's not anything to worry about, but come on, of course I'm going to worry.

And there's that small part of me that hopes I fell asleep at the architects because I am pregnant, not just tired. I never sleep in the middle of the day unless I am sick. Really. It's a hard and fast fact. The last time I slept in the middle of the day was the last cycle when I was pregnant. And then even though my stomach is killing me, if this is some early sign of pregnancy, I'll take that too.

We have one week officially to go before beta. And I really am not going to do any hpt's this time. I swear it.

Things to Amuse Yourself While Your Bladder Is Completely Full

1. Put on the surgical cap and model different styles for your partner-- try to find the most flattering way: ears in? ears out? half and half?

2. Impress nurses by injecting yourself with painful Lovenox shot.

3. When nurse comes to get you for transfer, and puts the blanket over your shoulders, do a little twirl and announce, "It's IVF haute couture." No one laughs but your partner. You think you are hilarious.

4. Dance up and down with the "finger" dance when you hear the people in the next pod say they are trying for the SIXTH. (It doesn't seem fair, does it?) Try and remember your theory of wanting to understand people for wherever they are. It doesn't work. Do the finger dance again.

5. Laugh with your partner about the "IVF secret of the day." When you tell her the secret, she asks if there are any more secrets than those two.

6. Decide there is nothing else to do since all this laughing and movement is making the pee desire worse-- Sit tight.

____________________

We transferred three-- Dr. BBB said they were gorgeous. I am feeling really good.

IVF secret of the day: Once I examined a piece of tiny piece of toilet paper in the bowl and wondered if it was embryo that came out. Don't laugh too hard at this. This was a hard secret to tell.

Now go and kiss Pamplemousse for me and wish her luck. She's up next. Tomorrow!!

7, 6, 5, 4.....

Just a wee update: We started with seven. One was immature; we had six. Five of the six fertilized. And we're doing a three day transfer tomorrow.

I'm taking the ridiculous methylpredinose now, which makes me a peeing machine, and brings back all those diabetes fears from months before.

I'm ambivalent about the three-day. I know some clinics do it as a matter of course, but Dr. BusyBusyBusy has always noted that he likes to see which little blobs look the most hearty. Hence, the five transfer as the modus operandi. Whatever it is, it's all something different than usual and maybe that has positive ramifications in the end. And shit, if it's positive in the end, I'll do what I need to do.

Tomorrow...

Wherever You Go, There You Are

I am a firm believer in "you are where you are." This means you can't berate your own problems because someone has it worse than you do. Someone always has it worse. It's important to remember that, but not make yourself feel any worse than you already do. It's a guilt ploy we do to ourselves. Important to remember, but not to discount. See Moxie's post today (which was beautiful); she illustrated what I am saying wonderfully. She was in labor and in pain, thinking of other women's conditions of labor, but never discounting her own.

It's like when we were teenagers mooing about and (some) adults would make snarky comments about how we didn't know how good we had it. Of course we didn't! We could only know what we knew. It was horrible when an adult did that. So discounting of what was a real experience to us at the time. Of course, I look back at some of the things I was upset about as a teen, I do have to have a chuckle now, but at the time, it was my life. I didn't need anyone to trivialize it.

But even though I believe strongly in this, I still guilt myself with every opportunity I can get. I'm in a bad mood today also. Can I attribute this to progesterone? I want to try and take all the problems anyone tells me about and treat them with empathy. Especially my friends or my family. When my mom complains about something in her vacation home, I try not to quip, "You're lucky you've got a vacation home!" and instead I want to respond with care and love. It's just where she is, and she wants it to be right. How can I fault that? I can't. I want to be understanding of my friends with small children, and when one sends an email about how tired she is because her seven-week old is not sleeping through the night, I don't snap back, but try instead to understand she's tired and that's real to her at that moment. Very real. Or when one of my dearest friends is sick of being pregnant, I try to think about how it feels to have a baby pressing down into my pubic bone-- how uncomfortable she must feel. I don't even like when my underwear aren't situated exactly right, or a there's crumb in the bed, even one crumb in the bed annoys me to the nth degree, so a whole baby pressing like that must be awful. But then I crumple after I get off the phone after trying to be as supportive as I know how to be, because even though it doesn't exactly sound pleasant, I want it so bad. All of it. I want the vacation house, the kid crying in the night, and a baby nearing its due date pressing in my pelvis. When it all happens for me, I'm sure I'm going to bitch and complain too. And when I do, I hope I have some friends and family who can listen and empathize-- not tell me how lucky I am to begin with.

Because the fact of the matter is that I know I'm lucky. This morning as I was ironing, I was thinking about our commitment ceremony. I was thinking about how after I told my mom about Partner, which was essentially 'coming out', things were rough in my house. Tense, one might say. My mom walks every morning with a group of her good friends. I thought about how she walked with them for a long time before ever telling them about me and Partner. These were friends who always liked me, tried to fix me up with men they knew, so telling them must have been scary for her. Would they be homophobic? Would they disapprove? Not one of them. They were all there at our ceremony cutting the rug all night long. I had family fly in from both coasts. I had friends come from Europe-- one came for the weekend only. It makes me a little teary to think about all the love that we are cushioned with. Because we are really cushioned with friends and family who most of the time respond with love and empathy, and we try to do the same. It's pretty awesome when you start to really think about it, dig around in it. And I was thinking these things as I was ironing the "autumn" tablecloth for the dining room table in the (too big) house we own. Just that simple act-- that I have a table cloth for the autumn, that I have a dining room table, that we own this beautiful house-- all underscore the comforts I have.

And I keep my eye on those wonderful things about our life-- the family and friends and the times we share-- I do. But some days I want to hole up and not listen to anyone. Not a soul. I just want to cry about not having my geraniums, or how slow the painters are painting, or the stress of this stupid IVF, or the fact that I want to be in South Carolina with my mom-- and I just want to cry about it all and not feel guilty about how I'm being a total baby when I know all along how lovely my life really is.

I'll never do it because ultimately that perspective will stay with me, and I think that's good. Sometimes I just battle the selfish Katie. I guess I'm battling her today. It's not so easy.

_____
IVF secret of the day: We call our anon donor "Thor"-- partly because of his mythical status, but also because his profile-- WOW.

Seventh Heaven

I guess the stern voice worked because Dr. BusyBusyBusy rearranged his schedule and did the procedure anyway. We never even had to talk with him-- the 12 year old managed the whole thing. I like to think his conscious got to him! After we've thrown thousands of dollars at him over the past year, so it only seemed right in that shallow capitalist entitlement way.

Seven eggs retrieved-- one less than usual-- which one could be disappointed with, but personally I feel like because it's something different this time, perhaps that means something different in the end. It's a story even if you don't believe it.

Dr. BBB mentioned something about a three day transfer, so it could be Friday or it could be Sunday. I'm hoping a little for Sunday because on Saturday night we have a dozen or so Episcopalian lesbians coming over to dine. If I can't cook, I'll be barking orders from the couch, and as appealing as that may sound, I'd rather be in control in the kitchen myself.

To help pass the time now that we're officially in the waiting period, I thought I'd try to come up with little known secrets about Katie and Partner's IVF cycles (or otherwise if I can't come up with anything scintillating about IVF). Number one secret: Last cycle we transferred three blasts, not two, which is what I told everyone except for one person, who was not my mother.

And This Is Today

Yesterday we drove up to the "main" clinic so Partner could have her ultrasound with Dr. BusyBusyBusy who was doing some surgeries there. We did this based on a mutual decision, but mostly led by Dr. BBB, who felt more comfortable doing the ultrasound than leaving it with a nurse because, as we've all established, the anatomical insides of my dear girl are not quite the usual.

He was happy with the follicles, told us to take one more dose of Ganarelix and trigger her at 10:30. We did all of the above.

As we drove away from the clinic, we commented on how much more calm we both felt this cycle, probably because we saw Dr. BBB more than the nurses. Quite clearly we trust Dr. BBB and have a good rapport with him.

Then today, I got a voicemail from the 12 year old letting me know that Dr. BusyBusyBusy will not! be able! to do Partner's surgery! tomorrow! (because he's got another surgery scheduled at another location.) Instead his associate will do the surgery.




Okay, and Dr. Associate seems like a nice guy, that's true. He did one ultrasound on Partner during the first cycle. But he's the one who did the hsg; that makes him a little like the Angel of Death to us, since he is the one that announced Partner could not carry children.

I do not want Dr. Associate to do the surgery. I want Dr. BBB. I have called the office and told them to have him call me. As. Soon. As. Possible. To say I feel like we have a lot riding on this is an understatement. Don't forget: This is the last time we're doing it this way. My ever logical partner has pointed out that if this doesn't work, it doesn't mean we won't have kids. I know this. I do. But I still sputter. I still feel so invested. Just because we have some tries with IUI after this doesn't mean I don't want this work. I love to think about Partner's little eggs inside me. I can't even go on about this more than that right now, partly because I am work, and partly because I am still on the verge of a crying jag.

There's no turning back. Partner is triggered. We'll have to go forward no matter what, but I'm not happy. Not happy at all.

What do you think? Is this acceptable? What would you do?

This Was Yesterday

A baby vodka martini on the side porch in the sun with a book. Home alone. Then another drink with Partner to watch the Derby, which was great while it lasted even though not one of my picks was win, place, or show. The garage was clean. We were happy and light. (Yes, that's pickled spicy okra in my drink, and if you haven't tried it, you should.) There was bbq for dinner. And stored up shows on the TiVo for later.

Today, even though it's beautiful outside, we are not as happy and light. We started that way on our trek to the church of reproductivity. The doctor was pleasant and hopeful. He said we'll trigger Partner tonight and retrieve, possibly, six to seven eggs on Tuesday.

And then we went out for breakfast where we probably talked about the "business" too much for a Sunday morning in springtime.

And then we went to Costco, and things derailed. I coudn't buy geraniums for the porch because we "don't have money" to do that. And then I felt a hot flash of annoyance. And then Partner disappeared, only to reappear pushing a $47.00 "moving kit" with boxes and markers and sundry items. It will be helpful. Wheares my geraniums won't be, I know, but still... Since we have lived together I have gotten geranium pots every summer. The smell reminds me of my grandmother who also kept geraniums all around her house. And then I tried not to cry. And then I did cry in the car. And then I told myself to cop on, because really we're all healthy and walking around, which is more than some of my friends are doing right now. So I stopped crying and looked up into the blue sky. We're still quiet here. I think tired. Sick of shots. Needing a drink later on this evening, but realizing I drank the rest of the vodka with my mini-martini yesterday and there's no sweet vermouth for a manhattan and I'm too lazy to stop at the store for either.

I'm not good with change, like moving. And the painters are coming, which is an indeliable sign that soon enough the house will go on to the multi-listing. (Right now it's just an "exclusive" listing with one agency.) And people are going to troop through the house.

But hopefully this feeling I have will pass away quickly because it really actually is exciting that we're triggering Partner tonight and next week at this time, I'll be flopping around on my bedrest. Life is good-- It's okay even though I can't have my geraniums.

Picking

I was going to ask your help here with these two colors, but you can hardly tell the difference in this photo between the them, and anyway I've made up my mind. We're going with the one on the right. I'm still worried it's dark. So anyway, I guess I'm still asking... The painters come tomorrow. At 9:00 am.

Surging

We're moving ahead, and it was really nothing to be scared of in the end. Just a little surging estrogen and two big bad follicles that are perhaps intimadating the other smaller ones. Dr. BusyBusyBusy himself had troubles locating the right ovary today, so now we're praying that ovary will move into visible range before Tuesday, since that's the estimated retrieval date...

I'm knackered, friends, otherwise I'd write more. This Lovenox is really kicking my arse.

The best news we got today, and we'd like to take it as an omen of further good things to come, is that Partner's sister passed the bar! Cheer loudly! We've had our differences, but this couldn't have happened at a better time and I am thrilled for her. Absolutely thrilled to bits. But I have to take a nap because I think we're celebrating tonight.

Thursday Says

It's time for more ultrasounds! And blood draws! Once again, the 12-year old could not find Partner's veins. I can't really find fault with this because Partner has some pretty damn difficult veins. I also have to hand it to her for giving it the old college try every time. I'm not sure I'd be up for it.

Ultrasounds looked fine for both of us. Partner is still on for about ten follicles and my uterus is already past the ever-important nine-mark. Dr BBB said he didn't really need to see Partner again until Sunday morning.

I then showed Dr. BusyBusyBusy my bruises and his reaction? A sharp intake of breath, quickly followed by a more collected response, which alternately is and isn't the reaction you want from the doctor sometimes. He said my bruising was a little more intense than usual, sent me for the blood tests, but also thought my dad probably didn't understand how I was getting the Lovenox and how it differs from a hip replacement patient. The likelihood of HIT? Not much. But we knew that already.

Then we went on with our merry little day. And suddenly at about 4:00, the 12 year nurse called us. Dr. BusyBusyBusy wants to see us tomorrow. No, she doesn't know why. He didn't tell her. I ask, "So it must have been something with the blood results?" She affirms this, but still won't tell us anything more. "So, do we just have to come back to see Dr. BusyBusyBusy again, or do we need to come in for blood too?" Yes, blood too.

And then as soon as our friend who was at the house during this phone call left, Partner cried. And I sent her upstairs to relax.

Have I mentioned how much I hate this?

Why I Love Talking to My Dad: Part Two

Part One was here.

Part Two: Last night
I called my dad on Sunday night to find out if I could have a drink while taking the Lovenox. It so happens that knee and hip replacement patients take Lovenox fairly frequently, and since my dad does that kind of work, I figured he'd have some experience with the delightful drug. He wasn't at home, nor did he call me back, so I did what any good cocktail connoisseur would do: I had a drink anyway. First I thought, "red wine" because red wine can't hurt anyone, right? But ultimately I did have the manhattan because what can a little CC do really?

In the meantime while waiting for my dad to call me back, I saw Dr. BBB and asked him about the "glass of wine" and he said it was alright as long as it was good wine. So I knew that it was okay that I had already been imbibing.

But last night my dad and I finally talked. I asked him about his experience with Lovenox, and as I suspected, he does prescribe it to patients. "Do all your patients bruise heavily?" I queried, because my legs are lumpy and black and blue. Sometimes, he said: "It is a blood thinner." Then he asked, "Have you had your three day and five day blood tests yet? Did your doctor take a blood count before starting you on the Lovenox?" No, no, and no. Apparently he thinks this is folly. Utter folly. I should have had a count before starting on the drug and according to him, be carefully monitored the entire time I am on Lovenox.

I am not being monitored.

Then he said, "You should ask your doctor about HIT: Heparin Induced Thrombocytopenia." Okay... And then he added, "You know, what you're doing is not without its risks." And I said, waving my hands in the air, "Oh! I know!" Some might say I said it with a jaunty air. Almost cavalier. And then we hung up. And then I came up and consulted Dr. Google.

And can I just say? Shit.

One Week Later

We're tired. So tired. And it's not just IVF, but that has something to do with it. The Lovenox is making me a giant walking bruise. I'm sick of needles and shots and really ready to get Partner in for the harvest. Today she showed us ten follicles-- 10!-- at the ultrasound Dr. BusyBusyBusy performed. We went in for the blood letting and he got there early-- so early in fact there were no patients scheduled for another hour. He told us he'd do the ultrasound then so we didn't have to come back later. I indicated my appreciation for this and his response was, "Oh, you guys are always so nice, it's a pleasure."

What's your first reaction when someone tells you something like this? Is it, "Ah, being nice pays off in the end!" or "Oh, he noticed?" or "How pleasant it is that my doctor respects my time too"? Not if you are me. If you are me your first response to this is "Oh. Shit." Nice? We're nice? We scheduled the whole appointment to complain about the 12 year old nurse, and now our nice quotient was going to plummet. We'd be getting no more favors from the old doc after he heard my bitch fest, but luckily for us, it didn't even get that far. Partner made the mere mention that the 12 year old had some problems last week, and Dr. BusyBusyBusy made a concerned face and jumped in noting that Partner's innards were somewhat difficult and we should just come for our ultrasounds in the afternoon so he could see us directly. Great, and we all smiled, and he can continue thinking we're nice. It's true we'll have to pay more for the experienced wanding skills he brings to the table, but I'm ready to do that. I have a lot of trust and confidence in the good doctor, and if I have to pay more to stress less, I'll do it.

Because I stress quite easily. Have you noticed?

So far we're on track, but will know more Thursday. Procedure week is next week. How did that happen again?

Other than that, we're exhausted because our stupid cat Maya escaped last night. We both awoke with a start when we heard Eli (my boy) mewing like he was in some pain. And we both jumped up out of bed-- once out of the room, we could see him sitting at the sidelight of the front door. Usually this means there is an unknown cat on the other side of the glass, and Eli wants to let this interloper know to get-the-fuck-off-his-porch. But last night's meow was different. I tore down the steps and the cat on the porch took off. "That's not the usual cat," I said to Partner. And she said, "Where's Maya?" Our sleuthing revealed that there were only two cats in the house, and that the screen in the dining room was pushed out. Maya had gone on walkabout. Maya is, to say the least, a little wild. Thus we waited, with the front door wide open and the back screen door open as well. She'd come back, on her own time. This is an odd experience to sit with the door wide open at 3:00 am when usually we are paranoid about closed doors because of cats that might like to dart outdoors. Last summer Maya did the same thing, but it was the daytime. She came back home, strolling through the front door after it got dark. Partner's postulation was that Maya would come back sooner now since it was already dark! She came home again, alright, but-- at 4:30, the little minx, and we went back to bed. Tired we are today.

And now we're trying to clean the office, which is so not a fun task. Because we're selling our house. But that's another post.