Well, This is Awkward

I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to write this.  It’s just too cliched for words, especially after my last few posts.  It’s too cliched for my history.  It’s too cliched for a Lifetime movie. And yet.

Via Creative Commons by Kaptain Kobold

It appears that I am pregnant.  And, it happened naturally, without drugs, money, swarthy men in green suits or plastic hair covers.  Mr. X knocked me up the old fashioned way. Holy BFP Batman.

I haven’t been charting because that’s too much like trying.  I have been paying attention, however, especially now that since Rex was born, the girls bark every month on cue at ovulation time.  It wasn’t hard to convince Mr. X for some sexy time mentioning that it was also optimal time for a party in my girl parts between our various gametes.  But, we never thought it would work.  I mean, come on.  It took us 5 years to have Rex!

But, two weeks ago, I decided to take a test just in case because I had an evening of drinking and gaming planned with my lady friends and I wanted to know that I was in the clear. I used one of those new fangled digital tests and put it down to get dressed while the hourglass went back and forth in the window.  I came back to look and lo and freaking behold was the one word: pregnant.

I didn’t believe the test to be honest.  I don’t get pregnant on my own.  I called Mr. X, shared the news with him and we both said a few, “hmmms” and “reallys” and “interestings” before moving on to other topics of the day.  As is my nature, I did google the false positive rate of this particular test and was intrigued enough to go out and buy some different tests … which also turned up positive.

Figuring I’d get this all sorted out, I made an appointment with my OB’s office – the same one I had been in not the week before for lady part probing – and got some blood taken.  At 11dpo, beta was 88 and progesterone was 46.  At least my infertility trials taught me enough to know that these were good numbers.  I had a repeat test at 17dpo and beta was 1337, for a doubling time of 36 hours.  We moved to Defcon 4 and set an appointment for an ultrasound on March 26.  I’m already getting nervous, but the emotional and financial investment is not nearly as high as it was with our previous pregnancies.

Since then and during the new two week wait, I’ve been having the usual bloating, queasiness, boob tenderness (although how much of that is me mashing them into oblivion to ensure that they are still tender is unknown), tiredness and pooch showing of my previous pregnancies.  A 5w4d, I’ve already bloated out of my favorite jeans and have taken to wearing flowy dresses.  I’ve cut out booze, caffeine and unpasteurized things.  I’m still acting like a pregnant lady, on the off chance that this sticks.

Both Mr. X and I are thrilled that we were able to do this on our own, but recognize that it’s still so very early in the game.  Still, if Bebe 2.0 were to come out of this, we would be very happy, indeed.  It would be icing on our already large, sweet and savory cake.  Bonus points if Bebe 2.0 arrived on November 5.  Do they make baby-size Guy Fawkes masks?

There Is No Try

I saw the Lady Parts Doctor in October for my annual exam.  I passed  (I studied hard) but not before she quizzed me on important topics such as how much I drink, whether I smoke and of course, my birth control habits.

She didn’t ask whether I was using any birth control.  She asked what form I was using.  I just had to roll my eyes a little at silly Lady Parts Doctor.   She just assumed that I was on birth control because otherwise, I would be poppin’ out those babies like a rabbit.  She assumed that I was normal,  bless her heart.

I was honest.  I told her I wasn’t using any birth control*. I stopped filling the birth control prescription in August.  “So, you’re trying,” she stated, not questioned.  “Not exactly,” I said.  “If something happens, great, if it doesn’t great.”

“In my book, if you aren’t preventing, you’re trying,” she countered.  Touche, Lady Parts Doctor! You got me there! Ha, ha, not really.  I’m still not trying, no matter what magical powers you think Mr. X’s sperm have or how many stories you may have heard of infertile ladies getting knocked up the old fashioned way after Baby No. 1.  (Yes, I know some of these ladies, and no, I do not think I will be one of them. And that is just fine with me.)

We’re not “trying”, Lady Parts Doctor, because for us, trying to have a baby means we go see Dr. Salsa.  We’re not seeing Dr. Salsa, adorable as his Spanish accent might have been and no matter how darned effective he was at getting me knocked up.  Just having unprotected sex with my almost 36-year old eggs and a guy with a low sperm count does not count as trying in my book.   It counts as just having fun and seeing where the chips (or babies?) fall.

So, Lady Parts Doctor, no need to give me that knowing smile when you say you’ll see me in the new year.  I’ll be seeing you in the new year… for my next annual.  Maybe then we can talk about how I define trying.

*Does male factor infertility count?

Bonne Chance

One of the things I really like about my clinic is that they only give you instruction sheets for as far as you have gotten.  So, your stims sheet will only go to retrieval.  Your retrieval sheet with only go to transfer. And, your transfer sheet, will go to beta, the end of the line.  It really helps to compartmentalize the process and not get you ahead of yourself.  And, there are so many instructions on each sheet, it would be three pages easy if they gave them to you all at once.

Today I got the post-transfer sheet complete with the date of beta day*. 

scene'sAnd I got embryos.  Oh, did I get embryos. Four to be exact.

Yes, you read that right. We went from three to four – although, if you want to be nit-picky, we went from two to four, two being how many we transferred last time. 

After my acupuncture session, I headed over with the full, but not really uncomfortably so, bladder to the prep area where Mr. X was waiting.  The embryologist came out and spoke with us about how many contenders were left standing.  Of the 7 from Sunday, three had arrested (as had the four cell, but we weren’t really expecting a robust future there).  We had three beauties left and a nice looking fourth that while not at the level of its three counterparts, was still better put back than left to the freezer, which it probably wouldn’t have made it into.

Dr. Salsa and the embryologist both agreed that given our history, it was not that aggressive to transfer all four and see what sticks.  It also means that we had none left to freeze, but for some reason, that doesn’t bother me.  I think alot of that is because I specifically asked the embryologist if I should be concerned about the quality of the embryos that we were going to transfer since there were no others that made it and he said no. 

So, four it was. No bladder drama either this time, which was a real nice change from last time.  And, I wore the wonderful earrings that my friend made for me. On the left side, it said “Bonne” and on the right it said “Chance”, good luck, which some how sounds so much more encouraging in French.

Bonne chance, little four. 

image: scene’s

*I must disappoint those of you who want to know the date.  I share all kinds of things here, but that is just one thing I cannot bring myself to divulge.

Aspirations, Part I

We are officially in the countdown to retrieval.  Hopefully, tomorrow morning at 9am will find me drugged into bliss.  As the song goes, if it’s wrong to love those anaesthesia drugs so much, I don’t want to be right.

I have to admit that I am more than ready to deliver the harvest.  The girls have been barking for over a week now and they remind me of their outrage at their current condition everytime I sit, stand, walk, lie down – essentially do anything.  But, I remind them, nicely since they are hormonal, that this is for such a good cause and their discomfort (and mine) is temporary. Hopefully, they will see the bigger picture here and do the right thing. 

The theme this go round has been more mature eggs.  Last time I had 11 eggs retrieved, but only 7 were mature, of which 5 fertilized.  I am very fortunate that I can produce those kinds of numbers with my eggs, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed. IVF is a game of attrition, so the higher the number you start with, the better chances you have to have lots to work with.  Lots of mature eggs, no whammies!

I’m making no predictions as to the numbers for tomorrow.  I never kept count while Dr. Salsa was doing the wanding thing – not even for the three days in a row!  I have learned that I just take the number and latch onto it, so best not to get a number to begin with.  And, hey, I have a surprise to look forward to tomorrow. 

Now, all I have to worry about is what book I will take with me to enjoy while I wait for the show to get on the road – thick tome that I will certainly not finish, or mindless fiction?  Decisions, decisions.

I’ll try to update tomorrow because I know that all of you will be waiting with baited breath to hear about how many eggs I managed to give up.

Trigger Happy

fangleman2Tonight at midnight, I will pull the trigger on this cycle, and it could not come a moment sooner.  The girls are working overtime in the factory and they are making this fact known with every step, every turn, every sit.  I had forgotten the discomfort of IVF stimming.

But, I am grateful to feel every pang, every move that requires a sharp intake of breath because it means that the system still works and we are still on the train.  And, I’m not thinking about retrieval yet, which means I’m not even going to begin to contemplate whether we’ll have embryos to transfer.  We’ll get there soon, but not right now so I’m not going to worry my mildly attractive head over it. 

Instead, I’m going to don my favorite lounging comfy pants with an oh-so comfortable elastic waist, sit gingerly on the couch and snuggle with Mr. X to watch some tellie.  Good times.

image: fangleman

Another Letter to My Lady Parts

Dear Lady Parts:

The last time I wrote to you was in March, that cruel month.  At the time, I begged – nay pleaded – with you to just get on with the miscarriage that Dr. Uterus had predicted was going to happen.  Of course, you didn’t listen to me, probably because you were harboring the little secret that, oops, I still was pregnant.  Way to let me in on the secret there, honey!

I admit, I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms with you since then. Instead, I’ve preferred to let others do the talking – Dr. Salsa with the dildo cam, my thermometer for my BBT – but, it’s time that you and I sit down again for a heart-to-uterus talk.

Let me be blunt: what the f*ck is going on with you? Seriously, this is ri-g*ddamn-diculous.  Ever since the FET, you have been totally whacked out. I had two periods within a month after the FET and now again, after the Clomid challenge. What gives? My temperatures have been all over the place at the wrong times or they’ve been static, again at the wrong times.  I get periods after 12 or 20 days.   I never claimed to be the most regular girl, but come on. You’re killing me with this damn uncertainty and wickedly freaky behavior.  And, frankly, Mr. X is getting very confused.

Since I can’t seem to reason with you and you aren’t talking to me, I’ve decided that we need to see a counselor. Someone who can mediate our differences, someone, like Dr. Salsa, who speaks Uterus because apparently, I’m just not fluent. 

I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I just can’t have this kind of tomfoolery.  I’m trying to get pregnant, here, in case you hadn’t noticed – yea, all those troops bombarding you? that’s the whole TTC thing – and you are not cooperating. 

Maybe someday when we are both shriveled and shrunken, we’ll look back on this and laugh. But, right now, we’re still in prime baby-making time and you are seriously making this way more complicated than it needs to be.  So, get your act together before I’m forced to take more desperate measures.