my husband has always fondly called me his super sleeper.
back when I was on medication that made me very sleepy in the evenings, I could sleep for hours on end, a typical night's sleep lasting an average of 12 hours. I love naps, and rarely turn down an opportunity to take one, especially with a favorite blanket in a sunny patch, much like a cat. when my husband and I are visiting a couple that are good friends of ours in Virginia, it is a tradition that the wives take a daily nap while the boys watch soccer. sleep, cozy covers and laziness in general are things of great value to me, to sum it up.
I don't sleep as well these days, but it's for a good reason; there are three tiny human beings inside me, and they can't tell time yet, so a dance party in my belly at 2 a.m. is perfectly acceptable. I have never been upset about it, in fact, I relish the squirmy feeling, and worry when everything is still. I often have my "Terms of Endearment" moments, where I as the worrisome new mom poke and prod and talk to my belly until I feel one or more of them move.
I've noticed my children moving more since I was put on bedrest over a week ago. A routine ultrasound revealed my cervix was funneling; basically the tightly drawn tunnel or birth canal was widening at the top to create a funnel shape, buckling down under the pressure of three growing babies and their amniotic fluid, in a womb that was smaller than average due to an anomaly of shape that I've had since birth. I underwent surgery the next day, and was prescribed strict bed rest upon being released.
Being cozy in bed all day sounded like a great deal to a super sleeper. But I quickly realized what that entailed and it's been a very interesting challenge coping with it. Hence, a day in the life of a bed rester
My day can start as early as 2 a.m. That's when I have to arouse from a sound slumber to take an anti-contraction medication that needs to be paired with food and drink. I sleepily slap around to find my cell phone, blaring Holst's "The Planets" as my alarm, then use the lit-up screen as a guide to locate a Nutrigrain bar. I cringe every time with the crinkling sound it makes as I open it, the noise paired with the silence sounding like a land mine going off, certain I will wake my sleeping husband. I choose the bar because I can eat it fast, and it doesn't make noise when I eat it. I fumble around and double check, due to the dark and my drowsiness, to make sure I have the right pill bottle out of several that sit at the bedside table, checking the labels, the texture and color of the pill, then slurp it down with plenty of water. Sighing, I plunk my head down, adjust the pillow under my belly, and attempt to fall back asleep.
7 a.m. my alarm goes off again. I have to take my thyroid pill now, because the anti-contraction medication has to be taken with food every 6 hours, and I'm due for another in an hour's time. The thyroid pill has to be taken on an empty stomach, 30-60 minutes before eating, so I sip some water so the tiny, dry stubborn pill will slide down. Some days it is amazing that I get what feels like hours of sleep in the time between this pill and my next one in a hour's time.
By the 8:00 alarm, it is time for the anti-contraction pill and another Nutrigrain bar, and my husband is much more aware of his surroundings, and this alarm usually (unfortunately) wakes him up. He tosses and turns a bit, finds a new position, and is soon snoring again. I'm about 75% awake at this time, so usually I take the time between the pill and when he wakes at 9 to watch him sleep peacefully, his snores in sync with that of our labradoodle's. If I can't get a stellar night's sleep, it is comforting at least to see my loved ones getting some much needed rest. My husband will need it, as he is not just the bread winner and sole person making income, but also one of my most relied upon and devoted care-takers.
Upon waking up himself, he grabs an assortment of new comfy clothes for me to change into, to make me feel refreshed, especially on non-shower days. He pulls off the evil pressure socks that squeeze my legs all day, like some kind of python hosiery, so I can air my skin off and have a break. I'm not supposed to be more than 2 hours without them, but this is one rule we frequently break, and it has spared me greatly of losing my sanity. He asks me what I want for breakfast, checking to make sure I have enough water in my giant hospital mug and my medication for breakfast is within reach.
When he returns, I scoop up my clothes to put on while using the bathroom. Here is where I emphasize the strategy that goes into my bedrest routine. Because being upright (standing, sitting up straight in a chair, being propped mostly upright in bed, and walking) is a state to be limited to, as it puts pressure on my cervix, we were encouraged to create and utilize every strategy we could think of to keep this to a minimum.
Without going into much detail, I do a lot more now on the toilet than the obvious. I keep my pink hairbrush on the counter next to me to brush my often tangled hair that spends so much time resting on pillows. I pull on new clothes and take off old clothes there prior to the finely timed routine of taking a shower (hubby, meanwhile, runs the water and gets my shower chair, towels and soaps in place, as yes, I even shower sitting down). I often bypass the sink when I am done, pausing as briefly as possible to squirt a dose of hand sanitizer from a bottle next to my bed into my palm before rolling carefully back onto the mattress. Standing at the sink waiting for the hot water to kick in so I can wash my hands takes more time (and is more wasteful) than I am comfortable with, so I am grateful for instant hand sanitizers. This one in particular has actually mended my hands of the frequent washing they have endured in these past 5 months due to the constant bathroom trips.
I time things so that while I am on a bathroom break (which is the only time aside from leaving for a doctor's appointment or taking a shower break that I am allowed to be out of bed and walking around) that hubby will make the bed and arrange the precisely placed mound of pillows that I'll use to sit up just enough to eat breakfast without getting heartburn. Making the bed is something we've never done in the whole time my husband and I have known each other, yet when you spend so much time in it, sitting on top of the sheets as opposed to being wrapped in them separates day from night more precisely, and I'm only under them if I take a nap.
From there, my events of the day include Netflix, Hulu, watching movies on my laptop, fiddling on the computer, crochet, popping pills from everything from antacids to insulin to vitamins, and shooting the breeze with either my husband or my mother-in-law, who has also come to stay with us, and tends to me when my husband is at work. I hate to ask people for anything, but my day is peppered with requests of them from anything of food brought from downstairs, to reaching items that aren't immediately and conveniently accessible from my trodden down path between the bathroom and the bed.
Bedrest is not as comfy as I first thought it to be. They say you can't have too much of a good thing, but , when your view is limited to what you see out the window, the bedroom and the bathroom, it can get a little depressing. More so is the fact that I only use the stairs so I can leave the house for doctor's appointments, which are once a week, which means I get to be in the outside world for a few hours in that week. Often I am so thrilled to be out in the open air, and seeing what's going around outside the realm of my bed that my car sickness doesn't bother me on the way across town to our appointment. Sometimes I can even muster a stop at Panera's so hubby can run in and get me something special for breakfast. But often, trips home are uncomfortable being reclined in the passenger's seat, and I am eager, for once, to crawl into bed and sleep for awhile.
The hardest part of bedrest is the guilt I feel whenever my hips ache, and I have to maneuver my heavy belly to switch sides for relief, or when the lack of fresh air gets me down, or when I would love to go downstairs just for a change of scenery and make my food the way I want it and get it when I want it, instead of relying so heavily on the people I love. I feel guilt because it makes me feel ungrateful for the miracle inside of me that I have wanted for so long.
It is all worth it, this brief period, really a blip in my life, that I am limited, for the three wiggle worms I lovingly talk to. Every day I am here means they have a better chance of blessing my life by being their mother. I'll nap to that.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Quick post, this mama is tired!
Latest pictures (as of yesterday) of the munchkins three, top and bottom are of the twins, singleton in the middle :) They all looked like they were doing jazzercise in my tummy, I about cried seeing them wiggle around. The singleton looked like he/she had the hiccups, and was sucking his/her thumb (which I read they can actually do by 14 weeks, crazy!
Love our new doctor too, he was calm, sweet and very professional, one of those fantastic physicians who answers all but two of the long list of questions you had in your head before arriving without having to ask, and gave us lots of opportunities to ask more during our chat, in which he put everything in non-scary, easy-to-understand terminology. We've got a good one! Ironically, when we first walked into the office, they had these big collages of pictures of babies they have delivered at the clinic, first one I saw in that whole sea of photos was my doctor proudly holding a set of triplets. Good omen, methinks :)
So I'm following Dr. B's advice, especially his policy of "no wiggin' out" :) He was nothing but compassionate about my anxiety, and put me at ease, and if he puts me at ease, that's saying something!
Okay, going to hit the hay! Enjoy the photos, I'll keep y'all posted!
Love, Mallory
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Thursday, August 15, 2013
My nest has eggs and an internet connection
It's been forever people. Or so it seems. Really just a few months. How is it possible that so much has happened in that amount of time? Don't wish to bore with details, and so here is everyone's favorite quick and easy to read form of writing: the list (/timeline):
1. Month of May; got comfortable poking myself in various places with various lengths of all-very scary looking syringes. Set up our dining room table to prep shots, and it looked like I'd gone into the drug dealing biz.
2. June 5th, I had 29 eggs (I think? can't remember exact number?) removed. 17 were mature enough to be inseminated. Relaxed (ha!) at home, phone always close by for every-other-day updates on how many eggs were still good for implantation.
3. June 10th, the best two were selected and placed back in me, and we got a packet of our little blastocysts. They're so cute when they'e microscopic!
4. Following week, went in for a pregnancy test, and it was positive! Wow!
5. July 2nd, we went in for our first ultrasound, and saw two small black "blobs". It was twins. It was also a good thing I was laying down. Excitement ensues, and we celebrate that night with dinner and non-alcoholic champagne with family.
6. July 3rd, developed all the scary symptoms that appeared to indicate, without doubt, that I was having a miscarriage. Received instruction to strict bed red and extra shots until I could be seen right after the holiday.
7. July 5th, went in to the clinic with a heavy heart, completely unsure of what to expect.
But they were still there. And they had invited a friend. Or rather, made one up. One of the twins had split in two, and there were three flashing heartbeats on the screen. Triplets. Biggest surprise of my life. Best blessing of my life. And I just lay there on the table, the doctor's detailing of this high risk pregnancy blurring into the background, mixed with my own dumbfounded, repetitive babble of "Three? THREE? Wow! What a surprise! Three? Really? WOW!" visions of my husband with the biggest grin on his face that I've ever seen laughing through tears becoming harder to see as my own eyes filled with tears of relief, and just a little bit of panic, but it's to be expected when you learn you're carrying three babies. THREE? Wow!
SINCE THEN:
I've been doing my best to stay positive. It's something that's much easier said than done. The triplets are high risk, as the twins still share a placenta and sac (though a membrane has formed to separate them a little). They haven't given Mommy any more reasons to worry, as they grow larger and larger each time I see them on the ultrasound screen, ever the overachievers displaying their tiny flickering heartbeats just a few days after I thought there were only two (and nothing could be seen beyond a little black sac). A few ultrasounds ago, they all had strong heartbeats that brought their mama to tears.
I'm in my 13th week now. My RE was pleased with my progress and is passing me on to a perinatologist, an OBGYN specializing in high-risk pregnancies. We are by no means out of the woods, but knowing how precious and fleeting life and its' blessings can be, I'm trying my best to enjoy each day of being a "sacred vessel", waiting eagerly for the day that I can hold my children, praying I'll be given the opportunity and honor to do so, when the time is right.
1. Month of May; got comfortable poking myself in various places with various lengths of all-very scary looking syringes. Set up our dining room table to prep shots, and it looked like I'd gone into the drug dealing biz.
2. June 5th, I had 29 eggs (I think? can't remember exact number?) removed. 17 were mature enough to be inseminated. Relaxed (ha!) at home, phone always close by for every-other-day updates on how many eggs were still good for implantation.
3. June 10th, the best two were selected and placed back in me, and we got a packet of our little blastocysts. They're so cute when they'e microscopic!
4. Following week, went in for a pregnancy test, and it was positive! Wow!
5. July 2nd, we went in for our first ultrasound, and saw two small black "blobs". It was twins. It was also a good thing I was laying down. Excitement ensues, and we celebrate that night with dinner and non-alcoholic champagne with family.
6. July 3rd, developed all the scary symptoms that appeared to indicate, without doubt, that I was having a miscarriage. Received instruction to strict bed red and extra shots until I could be seen right after the holiday.
7. July 5th, went in to the clinic with a heavy heart, completely unsure of what to expect.
But they were still there. And they had invited a friend. Or rather, made one up. One of the twins had split in two, and there were three flashing heartbeats on the screen. Triplets. Biggest surprise of my life. Best blessing of my life. And I just lay there on the table, the doctor's detailing of this high risk pregnancy blurring into the background, mixed with my own dumbfounded, repetitive babble of "Three? THREE? Wow! What a surprise! Three? Really? WOW!" visions of my husband with the biggest grin on his face that I've ever seen laughing through tears becoming harder to see as my own eyes filled with tears of relief, and just a little bit of panic, but it's to be expected when you learn you're carrying three babies. THREE? Wow!
SINCE THEN:
I've been doing my best to stay positive. It's something that's much easier said than done. The triplets are high risk, as the twins still share a placenta and sac (though a membrane has formed to separate them a little). They haven't given Mommy any more reasons to worry, as they grow larger and larger each time I see them on the ultrasound screen, ever the overachievers displaying their tiny flickering heartbeats just a few days after I thought there were only two (and nothing could be seen beyond a little black sac). A few ultrasounds ago, they all had strong heartbeats that brought their mama to tears.
I'm in my 13th week now. My RE was pleased with my progress and is passing me on to a perinatologist, an OBGYN specializing in high-risk pregnancies. We are by no means out of the woods, but knowing how precious and fleeting life and its' blessings can be, I'm trying my best to enjoy each day of being a "sacred vessel", waiting eagerly for the day that I can hold my children, praying I'll be given the opportunity and honor to do so, when the time is right.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Prayers for pregnancy
Hey all! I'm going to keep this post short and sweet, as it is late and I am probably gonna head to bed soon, but I felt in my heart like I wanted to share briefly the news we've received about IVF.
My husband and I have worked up a schedule for IVF and we're starting treatment THIS MONTH.
Schedule of "events"
Shots: May 24th-June 4th
Egg aspiration: June 5th
Egg transfer: June 10th
Dates are tentative, as my cycle will determine the true course of events, but this is a pretty good estimate.
I suppose what really compelled me to write this is because I am scared. And excited. And nervous. All three to an overwhelming degree. I am fighting my fear of surgery again, as well as trying to avoid the nagging concern that this treatment won't be successful. I don't know what all the risks are. I am worried about more babies resulting than I can carry safely for everyone involved.
What I would love is prayers, that I stay safe and healthy during the process, that we may be blessed at last with a baby, and that the pregnancy is full-term and successful.
I will keep you guys posted on things as they happen!
My husband and I have worked up a schedule for IVF and we're starting treatment THIS MONTH.
Schedule of "events"
Shots: May 24th-June 4th
Egg aspiration: June 5th
Egg transfer: June 10th
Dates are tentative, as my cycle will determine the true course of events, but this is a pretty good estimate.
I suppose what really compelled me to write this is because I am scared. And excited. And nervous. All three to an overwhelming degree. I am fighting my fear of surgery again, as well as trying to avoid the nagging concern that this treatment won't be successful. I don't know what all the risks are. I am worried about more babies resulting than I can carry safely for everyone involved.
What I would love is prayers, that I stay safe and healthy during the process, that we may be blessed at last with a baby, and that the pregnancy is full-term and successful.
I will keep you guys posted on things as they happen!
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
It's official...
I got a long-awaited call from my RE herself yesterday. 7-10 business days is sure a long time to wait, especially on Day 9.
Drumroll please ..................... come April-May, we will be starting our first IVF treatment.
Much to our surprise, my husband's test results were not as good as the first ones back when we first got started with our RE. She found it would be most successful if we did IVF, as the quantity, quality and mobility of the sperm was lower from last time.
It was hard to hear. I felt awful for my husband, as he said he would have a hard time dealing with an inability to give me children naturally. We held each other, and I said to him, over and over, that it didn't matter if we had assistance getting pregnant. It didn't matter if we adopted children to grow our family. It didn't matter if it ended up being just him and I (and our fuzzy labradoodle baby). I loved him, he was no less a man for this, he was no less of a wonderful, beautiful spouse to me.
We're both nervous about treatment. About how it will affect our marriage, our day-to-day. There was so much to talk about. How to work our schedule around frequent visits to the doctor's office (he works nights, and sleeps during the day, so this might be tricky), who would keep an eye on me for the 24 hours after egg retrieval surgery, how much it would cost and what to do about the expenses (what would insurance cover? what were our options with treatment? how many times were we willing to do this before calling it quits?) And for sure the biggest question of all, how many eggs would we decide to have implanted?
My RE had told me that my husband and I should discuss reduction, should the procedure result in more children than planned. I knew what my thoughts were. I was relieved to hear my husband thought the same thing.
Reduction wasn't an option.
The idea of traveling to the nearest big city, to have a needle inserted into my pregnant belly, and randomly pierce the heart of one (or more) of our children with medication that would stop the beating, how could we do that? We realized and understood why some people had to, but to just pick which of our children would die was unfathomable to us.
So we had to REALLY think hard about how many eggs we wanted implanted.
It's a difficult, almost impossible gamble with fate and money. Paying so much for a procedure, and knowing that eggs implanted didn't always successfully grow, we wanted a least a few to increase our chances that we would have even one child. If we chose to pick the quantity of 3 or 4 eggs, maybe only one would make it. Twins would be completely fine. Triplets, even quadruplets, we would handle, if my small uterus (which still had an invading septum taking up some space) would allow it. But any of those eggs, maybe even all of them (rare, but who knows?) could split in two or even (VERY rare) into thirds. Then the well being of all involved would be at a serious risk. Then there would be no choice but to reduce, or experience the heartache of children within me struggling, and maybe losing, their chance to live.
I trusted and fully believed that my very skilled doctor was not going to allow this to happen. Through her expertise, she knew how to balance everything, from amount of sperm to fertility medication to eggs implanted, to prevent too many babies from developing.
I only say too many babies because I know that there would be a high risk that some of them would not make it. Lord, if my body could safely accommodate 10, I would still be the happiest (and largest) pregnant woman, and the most thrilled (even if sleep deprived) mother around (and round for that matter.) They would be my children, blessed little boys and girls created with God's grace and between myself and the man I loved, our greatest accomplishments. We would find a way.
So now, more waiting. When you undergo fertility treatment, there is a lot of this thing called waiting. For the menstrual cycle to start, to begin the one month of birth control to prime the body, to start injections, to harvest the eggs, to let them mature, to implant, and to take that test to see if there is another round of waiting in store, or if you'll simply be waiting those 9 months to have that baby placed into your arms for the first time, at long last.
Waiting was fine with us. Though no amount of it fully prepares you for the rigorous obstacles of fertility treatment, we needed time to absorb all that was going to happen. To focus on loving each other and enjoying each others company while it was still just the two of us. You never know what you're getting into with this. We did know that it was worthwhile. It was worth the wait.
Drumroll please ..................... come April-May, we will be starting our first IVF treatment.
Much to our surprise, my husband's test results were not as good as the first ones back when we first got started with our RE. She found it would be most successful if we did IVF, as the quantity, quality and mobility of the sperm was lower from last time.
It was hard to hear. I felt awful for my husband, as he said he would have a hard time dealing with an inability to give me children naturally. We held each other, and I said to him, over and over, that it didn't matter if we had assistance getting pregnant. It didn't matter if we adopted children to grow our family. It didn't matter if it ended up being just him and I (and our fuzzy labradoodle baby). I loved him, he was no less a man for this, he was no less of a wonderful, beautiful spouse to me.
We're both nervous about treatment. About how it will affect our marriage, our day-to-day. There was so much to talk about. How to work our schedule around frequent visits to the doctor's office (he works nights, and sleeps during the day, so this might be tricky), who would keep an eye on me for the 24 hours after egg retrieval surgery, how much it would cost and what to do about the expenses (what would insurance cover? what were our options with treatment? how many times were we willing to do this before calling it quits?) And for sure the biggest question of all, how many eggs would we decide to have implanted?
My RE had told me that my husband and I should discuss reduction, should the procedure result in more children than planned. I knew what my thoughts were. I was relieved to hear my husband thought the same thing.
Reduction wasn't an option.
The idea of traveling to the nearest big city, to have a needle inserted into my pregnant belly, and randomly pierce the heart of one (or more) of our children with medication that would stop the beating, how could we do that? We realized and understood why some people had to, but to just pick which of our children would die was unfathomable to us.
So we had to REALLY think hard about how many eggs we wanted implanted.
It's a difficult, almost impossible gamble with fate and money. Paying so much for a procedure, and knowing that eggs implanted didn't always successfully grow, we wanted a least a few to increase our chances that we would have even one child. If we chose to pick the quantity of 3 or 4 eggs, maybe only one would make it. Twins would be completely fine. Triplets, even quadruplets, we would handle, if my small uterus (which still had an invading septum taking up some space) would allow it. But any of those eggs, maybe even all of them (rare, but who knows?) could split in two or even (VERY rare) into thirds. Then the well being of all involved would be at a serious risk. Then there would be no choice but to reduce, or experience the heartache of children within me struggling, and maybe losing, their chance to live.
I trusted and fully believed that my very skilled doctor was not going to allow this to happen. Through her expertise, she knew how to balance everything, from amount of sperm to fertility medication to eggs implanted, to prevent too many babies from developing.
I only say too many babies because I know that there would be a high risk that some of them would not make it. Lord, if my body could safely accommodate 10, I would still be the happiest (and largest) pregnant woman, and the most thrilled (even if sleep deprived) mother around (and round for that matter.) They would be my children, blessed little boys and girls created with God's grace and between myself and the man I loved, our greatest accomplishments. We would find a way.
So now, more waiting. When you undergo fertility treatment, there is a lot of this thing called waiting. For the menstrual cycle to start, to begin the one month of birth control to prime the body, to start injections, to harvest the eggs, to let them mature, to implant, and to take that test to see if there is another round of waiting in store, or if you'll simply be waiting those 9 months to have that baby placed into your arms for the first time, at long last.
Waiting was fine with us. Though no amount of it fully prepares you for the rigorous obstacles of fertility treatment, we needed time to absorb all that was going to happen. To focus on loving each other and enjoying each others company while it was still just the two of us. You never know what you're getting into with this. We did know that it was worthwhile. It was worth the wait.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Oh goody
*Note: REALLY long post, sorry for the novel!*
Last week, I took my injections class.
Last week, I took my injections class.
Entering the building that housed my RE's office, I felt the lingering unpleasant memories of the uncomfortable procedures I had had done there.
Not once, but twice, I had had my uterus filled with dyed water to check for abnormalities, turning it into a reproductive water balloon. I had felt what must be like a child growing inside of me, if it had done so at warp speed. Cramps? YES. It was very unpleasant. The first one had determined I had a uterine septum, a growth hanging from the top of the uterus, that had to go via surgery to make room for munchkins. Simply explained (and a bit of a tongue twister) there was not enough "room in my womb".
Thankfully, the 2nd water test (I call it this because I don't recall the name, I only recall that when I did, I didn't like the sound of it, so it's for the best) after an equally difficult-for-me-emotionally but entirely successful surgery, showed I wouldn't have to do either surgery nor water test again. Whew! Relief, right? But I sensed that that was not the end of my wonderful experiences at the RE. Oh no, the real fun was just starting.
I pressed the elevator button, and despite having, in only a few minutes, mentally relived those painful experiences, I felt a surge of determination upon me, synchronized with the buzzing of an approaching elevator. I was, after so much hesitation, fear, and discomfort, actually prepping for my race to motherhood (corny? yes, but I'll make my point!)
The diagnosis of my PCOS, the altering and addition of medications to stabilize my body, my surgery, testing both hubby and myself, these were the equivalent acts of a runner loading up on carbs, (ironically, my diet was the opposite, darn pre-diabetic PCOS) the conditioning practice runs, the good night sleep before the big race, the stretching of the body prior to taking off. Just like a runner who had checked off all her pre-race essentials, I was ready to run through the extremes of testing, IUI/IVF procedures, scans, but first and intermittently throughout my race, there would be injections.
Yeah! Remember when I said the real fun was just starting? Injections is that wonderful, fun, can-you-tell-I'm-desperately-sarcastic? part of this race.
I arrive at the appropriate floor, and state to the secretary my name and purpose of standing before her. I immediately see beyond her on the counter, a cluster of white paper bags. Was one of those for me?
Sure enough, she searches through the little sea of white to locate one, which she hands to me. I felt like a little kid again, given a goody bag of treats at a party. Interesting party, as I knew none of the guests, there were no decorations or cake, and I'm pretty sure the nurse wasn't going to dress up like a clown for our amusement.
Looking into the bag, I thought "if this were seen as an actual party, it would sure be a questionable one". Inside, there was a bright red sharps container, a syringe, a tiny bottle of fluid with a silver cap, a disposable cup, and a stapled-shut brown paper bag, which I later learned was full of extra syringes. If handed such a assortment arriving at any other gathering, I would have dropped it and made a mad dash for the car. But no, the reality of my situation came flooding back, washing over my silly amusing party analogy, with the discovery of a pamphlet on self-administering fertility injections, explaining IUI/IVF, and the lovely menu of drugs to choose from, with accompanying costs. Oh yeah. THAT'S why I was here.
Further digging into the bag after settling down in the waiting room, I found one last thing, a slip of paper with my "plan"on it. I felt a chill of anxiety reading it "One vial a day, could change after semen analysis." Was I starting this right away? At the moment, I didn't know what that brown paper bag contained, and in horror, my mind raced agonizing whether or not it contained my prescription shots. My doctor, while the best in town, and a person I trusted with my life more than anyone else for coping with infertility, wasn't exactly the one to take things slow. Quite the perfectionist and competitor, it had felt like she had grabbed my hand and pulled me into taking the fertility treatment plunge, down the dark, scary, syringe-filled abyss we go. It was only because of my cowardliness and God's timing that she hadn't had the opportunity to knock me up. Starting me on meds as soon (and sooner than I was comfortable with) as possible was not unlike her.
Was I really ready for this? What did it entail? As other women, some with spouses, some with friends, some alone, trickled into the waiting room, with white bags matching mine, I wished my husband was with me. He was at home, awaiting our first pieces of furniture we had not bought used, nor been given for free, but had purchased brand new. Our house was going to look so grown up, and much less like a bachelor pad (most of our furnishings were from his pre-marriage days). We were becoming adults more than ever, and as I sat here, I realized more and more that I was taking a giant leap into the next phase of our adult lives; becoming parents.
A short woman with glasses and sleek brown hair came into the waiting room "If you're here for the injections class, follow me, please."
We followed into a small conference room, a projection screen displaying a large picture of what I assumed was the VERY beginning of a baby, a microscopic cluster of multiplying cells. Ever the eager student, I took a seat in the front row. Another young woman who had also come by herself sat beside me. I wondered what her story was? Or for that matter, what was the story of any of the women here? It was none of my business, of course, but I had to ponder if any of them were in the same position my husband and I were in. It would be wonderful to not feel so alone in our particular situation (more likely than not though, infertility situations can be like snowflakes, each one unique from the others).
I contemplated starting off a conversation with the woman beside me, beginning with a compliment on her cute, oversized green purse, but the short woman who had ushered us here took her place and began to talk about what was to be covered in class. The embryologist would begin with a brief explanation of what went on in the lab, "behind the scenes". Heavy, and bespectacled like the short lady, she seemed nervous and always out of breath, speaking of each little step in the quest we were about to embark on; down to when we'd visit the office for test and screenings, the processes made to either insert washed sperm into the uterus after controlled ovulation (IUI) or of harvesting, fertilizing, and administering eggs back into the uterus (IVF), and even the fact that we'd repeat our information to insure the sperm being injected into us or our eggs was, in fact, that of our significant other's or the correct donor (can't stress the importance of that!) She showed us a series of slides depicting healthy versus unhealthy eggs after fertilization for IVF, assuring us that only the best quality eggs would be used for implantation. Seeing how at any time, an egg could be dismissed as being unfit for implantation made me realize what a miracle pregnancy was; an error could happen at any time in these early stages, a pregnancy discontinued, often without the woman knowing it, and yet there were babies everywhere; especially and painfully true in my perspective, having ached for a baby of my own for so long.
The embryologist finished her speech, then handed it off to the short woman, a nurse as it turned out, who explained in detail the variety of shots. The syringe in our white goody bags was for practice, the little vial of fluid was saline, and we would be practicing the delicate art of preparing the syringe with medication. The syringe given to us was a terrifying 2 inches in length, and my heart felt like it sank to the building's basement when she said this was the needle we'd be sticking into our own tushes.
I stared at the sharp silver instrument, glistening menacingly in the dim light of the classroom. NO! Surely there was another option? I was a classic case of butterfingers, frequently stabbing myself with a smaller, less menacing needle when I sewed together crochet projects, or with head and eye pins when making jewelry, my fingers and hands dotted with red pock marks. Hell no was I going to shove a needle into my ass.
Still, I followed along, helplessly a few steps behind, as the nurse swiftly instructed us to sanitize our instruments, now uncap the little vial, and in a smooth motion and with syringe at an angle in vial, suction up the liquid. Turn the syringe upside-down, and tap gently to remove bubbles, pushing on plunger slightly to remove air. Now move it over to hover above the little disposable cup, and again, with a smooth-but-quick push of the plunger, inject the medication.
I was still trying to get a large, stubborn bubble, lazily sitting on the bottom of my upturned syringe, to float to the top, discretely tapping it with an anxious index finger. People were starting to stare, in amusement or pity, I didn't know which. The nurse smiled at me sympathetically, and I felt my face flush. "Come on you stupid bubble", I coaxed, and as if persuaded by insult, it begrudgingly rose to the top. I pushed on the plunger just a little to attempt to release it from it's tiny prison, surely serving it a favor to return to its fellow air brethren, but a fountain of fluid spluttered out, the bubble remaining in the syringe. This was NOT working out.
In an attempt to keep up, I deposited the fluid into the little cup then DAMNIT! In the movement of inspecting it for leftover fluid, I nicked myself square in the palm of the hand, a tiny blossom of blood quickly surfacing. No, this was DEFINITELY not working out.
Then the nurse interrupted our practice to show us our other option of injectable medication. I watched with increasing interest as she modeled the highly preferable injection pen; pre-mixed, just turn the dial for the currect dose, SMALL needle, and into the thigh, easy as pie. Wow! I prayed for this option, otherwise, I was going to be 10x more in a world of hurt and awkward discomfort. Was it pricier? Of course, easier things were often more expensive, but would it be worth it. TOTALLY.
The nurse passed out all the medication options that we might by fate use to conceive our children, and I examined the boxes, with their long list of directions and risks in tiny print. Cautions stating that my ovaries may become overstimulated from this medication, a rare but dangerous condition, that that medication would burn upon application, the importance of application at the exact same time every day, maybe more than once a day, based on the severity of our infertility issues, the percentage of success of conception in my hands.
The class closed so pupils could inquire about private questions. If there had been a contest on who could ask the most questions, I definitely won. With much disapointment, I learned that since I had had two long, but consistent menstrual cycles, we might not get started until late next month (if I continued to have cycles on my own), as treatment had to begin at the start of a cycle.
Yes, I understand that is a very short time to wait, and even a total of just over a year that I've waited seems like a blink to some women who have waited 3, 5 or 7 plus years for a child. I felt guilty for complaining that it's only taken this long, knowing these women have been suffering in child-less silence for much longer. Thanks to my awesome, persistent doctors, I have covered so much ground over a year, progress that can take years and years for others to achieve. I am chomping at the bit to be a mother, despite the little, faithful voice in my head that says that God's plan and timing are the very best for me, keeping in store something more wonderful than my wildest dreams.
As I write this, I am (im)patiently waiting for a call from the doctor's office, which will reveal the results of my husband's test results, which will in turn determine my fertility treatment fate. Will I be using those syringe in my goodie bag, or the much less scary injectable pen? Would I undergo IUI or IVF? And a LONG way down the road: would it be successful? Would I be posting the good news with an accompanying ultrasound or positive pregnancy test on FB, announcing our pregnancy to thrilled family members, ring in 2014 with our own baby New Year? Who knows. I pray for the patience to have faith, keep calm, and wait.
A short woman with glasses and sleek brown hair came into the waiting room "If you're here for the injections class, follow me, please."
We followed into a small conference room, a projection screen displaying a large picture of what I assumed was the VERY beginning of a baby, a microscopic cluster of multiplying cells. Ever the eager student, I took a seat in the front row. Another young woman who had also come by herself sat beside me. I wondered what her story was? Or for that matter, what was the story of any of the women here? It was none of my business, of course, but I had to ponder if any of them were in the same position my husband and I were in. It would be wonderful to not feel so alone in our particular situation (more likely than not though, infertility situations can be like snowflakes, each one unique from the others).
I contemplated starting off a conversation with the woman beside me, beginning with a compliment on her cute, oversized green purse, but the short woman who had ushered us here took her place and began to talk about what was to be covered in class. The embryologist would begin with a brief explanation of what went on in the lab, "behind the scenes". Heavy, and bespectacled like the short lady, she seemed nervous and always out of breath, speaking of each little step in the quest we were about to embark on; down to when we'd visit the office for test and screenings, the processes made to either insert washed sperm into the uterus after controlled ovulation (IUI) or of harvesting, fertilizing, and administering eggs back into the uterus (IVF), and even the fact that we'd repeat our information to insure the sperm being injected into us or our eggs was, in fact, that of our significant other's or the correct donor (can't stress the importance of that!) She showed us a series of slides depicting healthy versus unhealthy eggs after fertilization for IVF, assuring us that only the best quality eggs would be used for implantation. Seeing how at any time, an egg could be dismissed as being unfit for implantation made me realize what a miracle pregnancy was; an error could happen at any time in these early stages, a pregnancy discontinued, often without the woman knowing it, and yet there were babies everywhere; especially and painfully true in my perspective, having ached for a baby of my own for so long.
The embryologist finished her speech, then handed it off to the short woman, a nurse as it turned out, who explained in detail the variety of shots. The syringe in our white goody bags was for practice, the little vial of fluid was saline, and we would be practicing the delicate art of preparing the syringe with medication. The syringe given to us was a terrifying 2 inches in length, and my heart felt like it sank to the building's basement when she said this was the needle we'd be sticking into our own tushes.
I stared at the sharp silver instrument, glistening menacingly in the dim light of the classroom. NO! Surely there was another option? I was a classic case of butterfingers, frequently stabbing myself with a smaller, less menacing needle when I sewed together crochet projects, or with head and eye pins when making jewelry, my fingers and hands dotted with red pock marks. Hell no was I going to shove a needle into my ass.
Still, I followed along, helplessly a few steps behind, as the nurse swiftly instructed us to sanitize our instruments, now uncap the little vial, and in a smooth motion and with syringe at an angle in vial, suction up the liquid. Turn the syringe upside-down, and tap gently to remove bubbles, pushing on plunger slightly to remove air. Now move it over to hover above the little disposable cup, and again, with a smooth-but-quick push of the plunger, inject the medication.
I was still trying to get a large, stubborn bubble, lazily sitting on the bottom of my upturned syringe, to float to the top, discretely tapping it with an anxious index finger. People were starting to stare, in amusement or pity, I didn't know which. The nurse smiled at me sympathetically, and I felt my face flush. "Come on you stupid bubble", I coaxed, and as if persuaded by insult, it begrudgingly rose to the top. I pushed on the plunger just a little to attempt to release it from it's tiny prison, surely serving it a favor to return to its fellow air brethren, but a fountain of fluid spluttered out, the bubble remaining in the syringe. This was NOT working out.
In an attempt to keep up, I deposited the fluid into the little cup then DAMNIT! In the movement of inspecting it for leftover fluid, I nicked myself square in the palm of the hand, a tiny blossom of blood quickly surfacing. No, this was DEFINITELY not working out.
Then the nurse interrupted our practice to show us our other option of injectable medication. I watched with increasing interest as she modeled the highly preferable injection pen; pre-mixed, just turn the dial for the currect dose, SMALL needle, and into the thigh, easy as pie. Wow! I prayed for this option, otherwise, I was going to be 10x more in a world of hurt and awkward discomfort. Was it pricier? Of course, easier things were often more expensive, but would it be worth it. TOTALLY.
The nurse passed out all the medication options that we might by fate use to conceive our children, and I examined the boxes, with their long list of directions and risks in tiny print. Cautions stating that my ovaries may become overstimulated from this medication, a rare but dangerous condition, that that medication would burn upon application, the importance of application at the exact same time every day, maybe more than once a day, based on the severity of our infertility issues, the percentage of success of conception in my hands.
The class closed so pupils could inquire about private questions. If there had been a contest on who could ask the most questions, I definitely won. With much disapointment, I learned that since I had had two long, but consistent menstrual cycles, we might not get started until late next month (if I continued to have cycles on my own), as treatment had to begin at the start of a cycle.
Yes, I understand that is a very short time to wait, and even a total of just over a year that I've waited seems like a blink to some women who have waited 3, 5 or 7 plus years for a child. I felt guilty for complaining that it's only taken this long, knowing these women have been suffering in child-less silence for much longer. Thanks to my awesome, persistent doctors, I have covered so much ground over a year, progress that can take years and years for others to achieve. I am chomping at the bit to be a mother, despite the little, faithful voice in my head that says that God's plan and timing are the very best for me, keeping in store something more wonderful than my wildest dreams.
As I write this, I am (im)patiently waiting for a call from the doctor's office, which will reveal the results of my husband's test results, which will in turn determine my fertility treatment fate. Will I be using those syringe in my goodie bag, or the much less scary injectable pen? Would I undergo IUI or IVF? And a LONG way down the road: would it be successful? Would I be posting the good news with an accompanying ultrasound or positive pregnancy test on FB, announcing our pregnancy to thrilled family members, ring in 2014 with our own baby New Year? Who knows. I pray for the patience to have faith, keep calm, and wait.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Taking the plunge
A plunge of a ovulation drug -filled needle .... into my thigh (hopefully the thigh and not my rear) that is. Yay?
After much waiting, praying and hesitation (and frustration I'm sure on my doctor's end of things) my husband and I are taking the plunge to try out fertility treatments.
The hesitation wasn't just due to the heebie jeebies of self-administering a very scary needle into my flesh (although that was a BIG hesitation). My doctor's clinic, a very dedicated one with an above average success rate, was asking for a tall order of me should I choose the assisted fertility route; involving coming into the office every few days to scan and see if I was laying any eggs yet, as well as checking hormone levels and such. Being employed at a school in which I was heavily relied upon for one-on-one supervision with a severely behavior-disordered student, I didn't have the luxury of missing work for that. Though I was itching like a toddler with chicken pox to have a baby and be a mom, I settled with the fact that I would have to simply wait till summer vacation for all that.
Then the student I worked with pulled a pair of scissors and attempted to stab me. This, on a day that was already heavily dark and depressing, December 14th, the day 26 precious lives in Newtown, Connecticut were sent to heaven too soon. In a constant state of sobbing, runny-nosed misery over the combination of the magnitude of school violence on others, and, to a much lesser degree, myself, I resigned from my job on the spot, and went home to mourn alongside my country.
It wasn't long before the guilty feeling of staying home while others were working began eating away at me, and I applied for several jobs. I wasn't very optimistic, feeling like I had burned a few bridges already with the two districts closest to me. I was rejected a few times, and even had a last minute interview with the district I had resigned from the month before. Applying blush to my flushed from excitement face for the interview that day, I thought aloud about whether it would be such a bad thing if I didn't get the job. Perhaps this was the moment that God was saving for me to really delve into this fertility matter. I decided the results of the interview process would be a win-win; either I got a job I would love finally working in an elementary school setting, or I would receive the chance and blessing to be aggressive with this pregnancy business.
Well, as you have gathered from what I wrote to this point, the interview, while pleasant and successful to a point, did not earn me a position at the school. While the disappointment weighed on me heavily, I took it as a sign to dial up my doctor's office.
Yes, February 5th at 2:00. Injections class. I'll be there. Sounds great, see you then.
Yes, hubby will come in the next day for another semen analysis. 12:30 p.m. is perfect, thanks.
Maybe I'm delusional about how painful and awkward it will be driving my own hand to stab myself with a needle (the pictures I've seen online, a delicately manicured hand grabbing a roll of skin to plunge a needle into, for some strange reason doesn't seem so terrifying) but I am not so fearful about giving myself shots. Of course, I'm sure the class will scare me to no end with it's probable listing of side-effects and risks associated with such a practice, especially if I don't do it exactly right. Being a hypochondriac and having a husband who works overnight (I have a fear of becoming sick while alone at night) I have briefly considered staying with my folks an hour away so they will be people around if I fuck up one of my pointy applications, or need to be sent to the hospital for life-threatening symptoms I have been good not to research in a panic on WebMD, so I'm not yet aware of them, but there's no guarantees that I won't break down and do it eventually.
The fact is this; actually having a baby, as I can only imagine having never been pregnant, is no walk in the park. It is messy, excruciatingly painful, profoundly personal, and often terrifying. For too many people, like me, those wonderful descriptions start from the very beginning of the making of baby; injections and tests and scans and creepy instruments driven up one's hoo-hah, surgery-like procedures, pain, discomfort, and you might not even get a baby out of it all. At least with labor, you have a sweet chubby newborn to look forward to. Some women hop on this ride hoping it takes them where they need to go, and it drops them off, not in the beautifully oasis-like land of babies, diapers and late night feedings, but in the Barren desert; lonely, depressing, fruitless, and you have to navigate your way back to civilization and try again, hoping not to get lost this time. You're not the one driving though, but on a Grey Hound bus driven by fate or God Himself, pick your belief, and you have no control beyond stepping onboard and hoping for the best.
The reality of my situation: in two weeks time, I could be boarding that bus. My shaky hands anxiously shoving ovulation drugs into my body are the bumps on the road, with periods of smooth driving under the confident, reassuring hand of my cold-but-brilliant doctor gliding an ultrasound probe around in search of eggs. I fall asleep, dwelled into a state of twilight as she preforms the surgical tasks of either IUI or IVF, and what seems like weeks later (and is). the bus stops, and that pregnancy test states what my next destination will be; motherhood, or another round of this game. Thanks for playing, try again.
Much like a rookie, I am, despite being a very pessimistic person, overly confident that this process will be successful. It makes me feel ridiculous, the ladies I have bumped into on fertility support sites who claim they've been "ttc" (trying to conceive) for 3, 5, 7 years all experiencing what I'm about to, snickering "Boy is this kid naive! Don't hold your breath, girlfriend". Maybe it's because my doctor is so insanely self-confident in her ability to get me pregnant that she only says "When we get you pregnant", with no "if" in sight. Maybe I just have renewed faith in my own body's ability to preform womanly duties, as I write this, I just finished my 2nd unassisted menstrual cycle.
Maybe I am determined as ever to get to my desired destination of pregnancy. A force almost of a supernatural and unnatural to a cowardly me has risen up, and I am brave all of a sudden, prepared to fight this war against infertility with guns blazing, shrieking a battle cry, not fully knowing what I'm getting myself into, but willing to capture the flag of the enemy, or in this case, my child withheld from me for too long. He or she is waiting.
I'm ready.
After much waiting, praying and hesitation (and frustration I'm sure on my doctor's end of things) my husband and I are taking the plunge to try out fertility treatments.
The hesitation wasn't just due to the heebie jeebies of self-administering a very scary needle into my flesh (although that was a BIG hesitation). My doctor's clinic, a very dedicated one with an above average success rate, was asking for a tall order of me should I choose the assisted fertility route; involving coming into the office every few days to scan and see if I was laying any eggs yet, as well as checking hormone levels and such. Being employed at a school in which I was heavily relied upon for one-on-one supervision with a severely behavior-disordered student, I didn't have the luxury of missing work for that. Though I was itching like a toddler with chicken pox to have a baby and be a mom, I settled with the fact that I would have to simply wait till summer vacation for all that.
Then the student I worked with pulled a pair of scissors and attempted to stab me. This, on a day that was already heavily dark and depressing, December 14th, the day 26 precious lives in Newtown, Connecticut were sent to heaven too soon. In a constant state of sobbing, runny-nosed misery over the combination of the magnitude of school violence on others, and, to a much lesser degree, myself, I resigned from my job on the spot, and went home to mourn alongside my country.
It wasn't long before the guilty feeling of staying home while others were working began eating away at me, and I applied for several jobs. I wasn't very optimistic, feeling like I had burned a few bridges already with the two districts closest to me. I was rejected a few times, and even had a last minute interview with the district I had resigned from the month before. Applying blush to my flushed from excitement face for the interview that day, I thought aloud about whether it would be such a bad thing if I didn't get the job. Perhaps this was the moment that God was saving for me to really delve into this fertility matter. I decided the results of the interview process would be a win-win; either I got a job I would love finally working in an elementary school setting, or I would receive the chance and blessing to be aggressive with this pregnancy business.
Well, as you have gathered from what I wrote to this point, the interview, while pleasant and successful to a point, did not earn me a position at the school. While the disappointment weighed on me heavily, I took it as a sign to dial up my doctor's office.
Yes, February 5th at 2:00. Injections class. I'll be there. Sounds great, see you then.
Yes, hubby will come in the next day for another semen analysis. 12:30 p.m. is perfect, thanks.
Maybe I'm delusional about how painful and awkward it will be driving my own hand to stab myself with a needle (the pictures I've seen online, a delicately manicured hand grabbing a roll of skin to plunge a needle into, for some strange reason doesn't seem so terrifying) but I am not so fearful about giving myself shots. Of course, I'm sure the class will scare me to no end with it's probable listing of side-effects and risks associated with such a practice, especially if I don't do it exactly right. Being a hypochondriac and having a husband who works overnight (I have a fear of becoming sick while alone at night) I have briefly considered staying with my folks an hour away so they will be people around if I fuck up one of my pointy applications, or need to be sent to the hospital for life-threatening symptoms I have been good not to research in a panic on WebMD, so I'm not yet aware of them, but there's no guarantees that I won't break down and do it eventually.
The fact is this; actually having a baby, as I can only imagine having never been pregnant, is no walk in the park. It is messy, excruciatingly painful, profoundly personal, and often terrifying. For too many people, like me, those wonderful descriptions start from the very beginning of the making of baby; injections and tests and scans and creepy instruments driven up one's hoo-hah, surgery-like procedures, pain, discomfort, and you might not even get a baby out of it all. At least with labor, you have a sweet chubby newborn to look forward to. Some women hop on this ride hoping it takes them where they need to go, and it drops them off, not in the beautifully oasis-like land of babies, diapers and late night feedings, but in the Barren desert; lonely, depressing, fruitless, and you have to navigate your way back to civilization and try again, hoping not to get lost this time. You're not the one driving though, but on a Grey Hound bus driven by fate or God Himself, pick your belief, and you have no control beyond stepping onboard and hoping for the best.
The reality of my situation: in two weeks time, I could be boarding that bus. My shaky hands anxiously shoving ovulation drugs into my body are the bumps on the road, with periods of smooth driving under the confident, reassuring hand of my cold-but-brilliant doctor gliding an ultrasound probe around in search of eggs. I fall asleep, dwelled into a state of twilight as she preforms the surgical tasks of either IUI or IVF, and what seems like weeks later (and is). the bus stops, and that pregnancy test states what my next destination will be; motherhood, or another round of this game. Thanks for playing, try again.
Much like a rookie, I am, despite being a very pessimistic person, overly confident that this process will be successful. It makes me feel ridiculous, the ladies I have bumped into on fertility support sites who claim they've been "ttc" (trying to conceive) for 3, 5, 7 years all experiencing what I'm about to, snickering "Boy is this kid naive! Don't hold your breath, girlfriend". Maybe it's because my doctor is so insanely self-confident in her ability to get me pregnant that she only says "When we get you pregnant", with no "if" in sight. Maybe I just have renewed faith in my own body's ability to preform womanly duties, as I write this, I just finished my 2nd unassisted menstrual cycle.
Maybe I am determined as ever to get to my desired destination of pregnancy. A force almost of a supernatural and unnatural to a cowardly me has risen up, and I am brave all of a sudden, prepared to fight this war against infertility with guns blazing, shrieking a battle cry, not fully knowing what I'm getting myself into, but willing to capture the flag of the enemy, or in this case, my child withheld from me for too long. He or she is waiting.
I'm ready.
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