Category Archives: Beta-HCG

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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Here’s to the numbers game

The "butterfly" part goes into a vein, and a blood collection tube attaches to the "vacuum." I gotta do this again in a couple days. It used to be fine, but now these little suckers are starting to hurt.

I made it to my first beta test without giving in to pressure to buy a home pregnancy test. I kinda floated through the last several days, having some symptoms of something but blaming everything on the drugs — not just my bad moods.

For example: In the lighter sleep of early morning, I tend to have a blanket tug of war with the Mr. That fight involves turning to one side with a death grip on the covers. After nearly three years, I can literally do this in my sleep. But for the past week, that sleeping turn has come with the equivalent of what feels like someone clanging cymbals on the girls. Mmhm, those girls. I wake up abruptly — mad — then stay awake for another hour or so until about five minutes before my alarm sounds. I blame this for my constant need for a nap before bed. And the vicious cycle continues.

Then, there are the slight pains in my side that go away as soon as I try to identify them. It’s like I’m leaning over to stretch, except I’m sitting still. In that case, I didn’t necessarily blame the drugs. I thought, as usual, it was something I ate from the dairy case. (Infer what you will.)

The whole point of the mind games was to downplay anything that could be unnecessarily attributed to a pregnancy that had not been confirmed. Instead of wishful thinking, it was careful thinking.

The game changer was the quick phone call from the nurse about an hour an a half after my blood test, 10 days post transfer. “I’m calling with good news that your beta level is positive at 148. You’ll keep taking your meds and come back Tuesday. Then, it should double to about 320.”

She didn’t say pregnant and I didn’t hear pregnant nor say pregnant to the Mr. But we all know 148 is a good sign. Still, I know not to get too excited — at least not yet. Here’s why: While anything above 25 milli-international units per milliliter (mIU/ml) equals a positive pregnancy test, the real proof is in how much the numbers increase in 48-72 hours. Even then, it’s only through ultrasound, somewhere between 1,000 and 2,000 mIU/ml, that we can get more accurate information about the pregnancy. That includes whether we’re carrying one or two babies.

I could come up with a multitude of Doomsday scenarios, but the possibility of them is enough to keep me grounded even despite the silly grin that the Mr.’s probably worn all day. It’s cute, and it reminds me that there’s hope. Don’t get me wrong: I am tickled chocolate brown and a little bit relieved, but I remain super cautious. I’m thankful to God because I consider this an answered prayer even though there are others to come. With all of that in mind, I’ll quietly celebrate 148 mIU/ml for what it is with a glass of water, more drugs and gummy prenatal vitamins. In the meantime, we’ll see what happens

Here’s to the numbers game. Cheers, big ears.