Double, double toil and trouble …

Despite good news, I'm still wary of the other shoe dropping. And given my reaction to a series of poop storms, I should also be watching for houses.

With infertility, silence sometimes means the worst has the happened. Fortunately, that isn’t the case, but as it always happens with every two-week wait and the optimism of each cycle, struggling to conceive means waiting for the other shoe to stomp all over your baby-building parade.

Under the invisible dangling shoe that has kept me quiet for the past few days, my human chorionic gonadotropin (hcg) levels doubled and then some, according to my latest blood test. Sunday, it was 148. Tuesday, it hit 552. It took a grueling hour to find that out.

I’d stepped away from my desk to pray with the rest of the company for the family of a recently deceased coworker, and the nurse called. A little shaken from the solemn office gathering and nervous about the call, I locked myself out of my voice mail. While waiting for the systems guy to reset my password, I tried calling the doctor’s office back. Every transfer to a live person went something like this:

“Name?” My name. S-P-E-L-L-E-D O-U-T. “Date of birth?” My birthdate and year. “Who’s your doctor?” My doctor. Then silence. “Let me transfer you to the IVF nurse.”

This was all too reminiscent of my low-ovarian reserve diagnosis. No one would tell me what the number was for my anti-mullerian hormone (AMH) test. I’d ask, and then they’d refer me to someone else. Essentially, this test can help determine the number of quality eggs a person has as well as determine gauge what the response might be to in-vitro fertilization. My test results suggested that my ovarian fertility potential hovered in the low- to very-low category. My doctor mentioned the use of donor eggs very early in this infertility process. I feared he was right and coped with the possibility by ignoring him.

That’s why is so unbelievable to me that, according to today’s doctor visit, he actually used what my husband called “the p word.” Here I was thinking the Mr. was being vulgar; instead he was marveling that the doctor kept casually referring to me being pregnant. I’d had moments of wanting to jump around like Doc Brown in “Back to the Future,” yelling, “It worked; 1.21 gigowatts!” but that still seemed a little premature. Short of that temptation, I’ve held out on using the p word and instead described my blood test results in strictly clinical terms.

Today, the Mr. and I had a brief moment of acceptance of a positive outcome. Then life kicked in and my focus returned to the poop storm spinning over work and now where we live. The latter is a horrific mess that would turn anybody into a Scrooge, or in my case, the B. on a Broomstick. That’s the bad news. The good news, in addition to the news I have yet to accept, is that trouble don’t last always. Praise God, it still will be a merry Christmas and a maybe even a very special one.

Meanwhile, I’ll be on the lookout for falling shoes — and houses.

 

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