Category Archives: Infertility Feelings

Not the Octomama

ABC used to have a show called “Dinosaurs.” The youngest animal of this family referred to its father and, well, everyone else as “Not the Mama!” With that and seven fertilized eggs, a.k.a. embryos, ripe for implanting, let me say this once and for all as nice as I can muster:

Remember this "Dinosaurs" baby whose phrase was "Not the mama?" Let's take it a step further: not the octomama. I'll smile to be polite, but your octojoke really isn't funny.

I am not and will not be the freakin’ Octomama — not in a box, with a fox or eating lox. And no, I’m not even the septomama. Say it with me: Not. The. Octomama. Repeat as many times as needed to realize that any “jokes” related to Nadya Suleman aren’t funny and probably won’t be for anyone who has to undergo fertility treatments.

Weeks ago, The Mr. and I had a very detailed conversation together and with the hospital-provided therapist (a requirement for the in-vitro fertilization process at my particular facility) before arriving at the decision to implant two embryos at one time. So, even though we have been blessed with a singing group, a small basketball team or a volleyball team plus one, no doctor in his or her right mind would implant all seven. Here’s why:

  • Implanting more than the recommended number according to a potential mother’s age is like Russian roulette, not only with the chances of a live birth, but with the mother’s life. More babies, more problems (read: complications).
  • The greater the number of embryos in utero, the greater the likelihood that one or more of them might have to take one for the team. (I offer my apologies for attempting to soften the blow of reality.) Essentially, too many kids in the tub might force parents toward the decision of which ones stay and which ones have to be aborted to prevent the death of all. That’s real talk.
  • If multiples make it through pregnancy, the existence of many increases the risk of premature delivery. That’s days, or even, months in somebody’s NICU. It’s like a car accident. It’s one thing if it happens; if it occurs because your own recklessness, then it’s dumb.

We decided on two because, like most couples, we feared the risk of transferring one and having an unsuccessful cycle. We were adequately informed concerning single-embryo transfer, or SET, an industry-wide recommendation that all it takes is one, but we opted to roll this dice anyway. Aside from that, I really would love to have twins. Boys or girls, one of each, or a set of kittens with my nose and his eyes — any combination would make me happy.

As for the remaining five, we’ll literally have them on ice in case the first two don’t make it. (They’ll be frozen.) Should that happen, we’ll start again with two more. Or if we’re successful right out the gate, our frozen reserves will remain until it’s time for more children. Beyond the family size we choose, we’ll donate the rest to another couple who isn’t as fortunate as we’ve been to get to this point.

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“Write this down and repeat it back to me.”

Monday is egg retrieval day, but hold the sparkling cider. I've had too many BFNs to get excited just yet.

“What? Huh? Wait. OK. Um, hold on. OK, I’m ready now. Go.”

That was the beginning of my conversation with the nurse today confirming that Monday will be my retrieval day, also known as the great Christmas Egg Hunt. I worried about the shots, and now I’m the subcutaneous injection queen. I worried about the drugs having no effect, and now I have 12 measurable follicles (right — 19, 17, 16, 14, 12, 12; left — 17, 15, 14, 13, 13 and 11). FYI, follicles grow 2 mm per day and are mature, meaning more likely to have mature eggs, around 18. The number of follicles does not necessarily correlate to viable eggs, and not all eggs retrieved will necessarily be fertilized. My awareness of the fact that there’s no guarantee that they’ll find enough quality eggs for fertilization basically gives me another reason to keep the sparkling cider on ice for now.

It’s not that I’m trying to be Debbie Downer; it’s just that at this point of trying to have children, I know all too well how it feels to get my hopes up and then let down with a BFN (big fat negative). After peeing on stick or two every month, you learn to take everything as it comes. I used to search for pregnancy T-shirts with funny sayings in anticipation of a positive test amid imaginary symptoms. I’d always feel dumb afterward for thinking too far ahead. Although by God, I’ve managed to accomplish many things and overcome situations that haunt people for life, my inability to get pregnant up to this point has always made me feel like something of a failure and occasionally like God wasn’t listening on this one. I kept praying but then encouraged other people to pray; though, I didn’t tell them about the struggle.

As for being a childless failure, cognitively, I know otherwise. Emotionally, though, it takes some convincing. Being happily married and struggling to have children feels like being the smart girl who isn’t considered pretty. You do a good job pretending it doesn’t matter, but then something happens as a reminder that you do. Some of my Facebook friends are fertile Myrtles; they’ve had two kids in the time I’ve been trying to have one. Stuff like that can get to you if you let it. I’ve tried not to let it, but I’m human. And maybe that was behind my annoyance with having to endure the entire in-vitro fertilization process to have the children I’ve been psychologically preparing for since 2005.

Now, here I am at the critical point — less than 36 hours from the egg retrieval but beyond the hard part — and I’m only thinking as far ahead as drug No. 6, a pre-emptive antibiotic that I’ll take orally starting in the morning.

Mindless update

I’d been concentrating so hard on that joyous news of follicles and a continued cycle that I nearly ignored the most profound display of unprofessionalism seen in my entire working career, and it was directed at me. There’s a lesson in everything, and perhaps mine was that life goes on despite all the interruptions of my infertility battles. So, in the midst of the ultrasound-blood work revolving door and phone gazing in hopes of a nurse’s call, I’m pretty sure I have to actually deal with a petty workplace problem before it becomes something else. I don’t have the patience for this, though, I’m not sure whether that’s a real reaction or whether it’s the drugs. They’re supposed to make me crazy at some point; I’m sure they’re already making me sleepy at odd times.

I’m currently on three medications, all administered via injection — Gonal F, Menopur and that evil Ganirelix acetate. The first two essentially create an ovarian Superman, and the latter is like the Kryptonite to keep the hero from winning and thereby ending the tale too soon. The idea is to develop follicles but to keep them, keep me from ovulating before doctors can go in and get the eggs. It’s for this reason that the Mr. and I have to keep our hands off of one another. Apparently, sex naturally triggers ovulation. How that for another counterintuitive fertility measure? Remember, this cycle started with me on birth control pills. So far, though, everything is working.

My estrogen level doubled from Tuesday to 1424. I do know that’s a positive sign, particularly now that, per a nurse’s message, I’m walking around with 10 measurable follicles. With Clomid, a drug given orally that I took for all three intrauterine inseminations, I only produced two follicles. Each time, they came from my right ovary. My left has been on vacation until recently. It’s now holding five at 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15 mm. The right has the remainder at 11, 12, 13, 16 and 16.

At this rate, the retrieval could happen in a few days. I’ll find out more — including how I feel about everything — at my next appointment in a few hours.

P.S. It was actually almost an hour and a half ago. This just didn’t post when it should have. I’m still pondering everything while trying to focus on work. Here we go …

What if … ? (Ode to @IVFandme)

The ominous BFN, or big fat negative. What if after all of the insemination and in-vitro fertilization attempts, this is all I see? God forbid.

Visiting friends in New York allowed my mind to veer away from that hovering in-vitro fertilization cloud — with the exception of the nightly shots. (Speaking of, it’s almost that time again.)

When we all lived in the same city, we often played the “What if …” game just as we did this weekend. What if I came home and the Mr. had a pet monkey? What if Mrs. Friend told her husband that her name was Ursula when they first met? What if one of us caught another of us cheating on the other of us? It gets deep and sometimes wild and crazy as driven by a double dose of vivid imagination. The possibilities stray so far out of anyone’s mind that it takes a while to decide on the most honest and likely answer. For example, I never thought about what food I’d eat if I could only eat that one thing the rest of my life with no consequences until I had to answer the question.

The same day we hung out, I aimlessly scrolled Twitter to find the following tweet: “No more treatments for me. Moving to childfree, kicking & screaming with a side of crying. #MovingOn” and then “For the twithearts that don’t know my story: 3IUIs, 3IVFs, 1DEIVF, 2FET: all BFN. I truly gave it my all. #MovingOn #Infertility.”

For those who don’t know the lingo, the woman I follow with the Twitter handle @IVFandme has endured:

  • three intrauterine inseminations,
  • three in-vitro fertilization attempts,
  • one in-vitro fertilization attempt using donated eggs and
  • two frozen embryo transfers

… all leading to a BFN, infamously known in infertility circles as a big fat negative pregnancy test result. That’s a whole pharmacy of drugs, a lot of little tubes going you know where and God knows how many, ahem, “private viewings” to go through without a baby to show for it. I wanted to kick something on her behalf, and I couldn’t help thinking: What if that were me?

I don’t think people understand that when you get to the point of fertility treatments, you’ve already tried everything you know to do and that everything else really is a crapshoot. It’s not a sure thing. So, although I look fine with the frequent transvaginal ultrasounds, multiple drugs, blood draws and injections that not only expose my belly fat to the Mr. but turn it red so he can see it better, know that I’m anxious, I’m nervous, I’m occasionally pessimistic and sometimes downright depressed. Fortunately, the worst of it never lingers. But like the darkside, it’s always there. When I explain that I’m “undergoing fertility treatments,” congratulations are not in order. This (group of attempts that may go on for years until I’m tired or bankrupt) feels like my last ditch effort, and I don’t want to jinx it by celebrating what could be a lost cause and maybe a waste of money. “We’ll see what happens” is about all I can politely muster with that weight behind every fertility-related move.

Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Friend, I’m breaking the rules and sticking by my non-answer: I don’t know what I’d do if it were me.

As for @IVFandme, my thoughts are with you. With a remote understanding of your individual suckage, I know at least part of the road you traveled to this point and send virtual hugs your way. It ain’t much, but tonight’s shots are dedicated to you. Ouch and sugar honey iced tea.