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 …
Not that anyone’s grading me, but in my on mind at least, I passed an inital hurdle in the in-vitro fertilization race. Based on results from Tuesday’s ultrasound, I have seven measurable follicles at decent sizes (three at 12 mm, two at 11, two at 10 and a lot of small ones) to keep the cycle going. It’s been my biggest fear that the $350 in prescription drugs and the past five days of shots to the gut would suddenly end in a canceled cycle. But today is cycle day seven, and we’re still on.
About those follicles: Everyone who ovulates does so because of an egg that matures inside a follicle before popping out in anticipation of a sperm hookup. My injectable medications have given me super-powered ovaries that have produced more than the typical one or two follicles that would ordinarily lead to one or two eggs. Mature follicles tend to measure about 18 mm. When I did the intrauterine inseminations, 18 mm meant it was time for a “trigger shot” of Ovidrel, an injection that encourages ovulation. I’ll still get the Ovidrel with in-vitro fertilization; it’ll just be exactly 36 hours before the retrieval.
That would be shot No. 4. But that one, I can handle. It’s that doggone Ganirelix that is most certainly from the devil. It burned after the Mr. injected me and left a bruise that is painful to the touch. I walked around work with my pants down, covered by my jacket. So far, it’s the worst thing that has happened in the process, and it’ll happen again — every morning until … Crap, I don’t know when it’ll stop.
All I can do is follow the advice of a diabetic friend with 15 years of needle experience and consider the pain an offering commemorating Christ’s ultimate sacrifice. It sounded trite when she first said it, but given the hell of this Ganirelix shot, it’s gon’ take Jesus, the 12 disciples and Rufus to take this devil down.
I got the go-ahead Wednesday to start my plethora of potions in the build-a-baby kit.
You’ll have to pardon my irreverence. In addition to my normal last-minute packing, I also had to prepare and pack all my drugs for the next several days to get me through Thanksgiving weekend. Making sure I had the right amount of needles, vials, ice packs for the refrigerated stuff and necessary alcohol wipes and gauzes added an hour to my ritual. I’m exhausted, but sitting under this hooded hair dryer is the first time I’ve sat still since I left work. And I have to stop my mind from reeling; it’s been on 90 mph since my ultrasound and blood work this morning.
The point was to make sure my reproductive system responded well to the birth control pills by essentially taking a nap. I didn’t know I was worried about the possibility of the cycle being canceled until worry came up during our workplace Bible study. Boo, hiss. I hate when God calls me out like that. I relaxed a bit after that, but my relief was only temporary even after the nurse called to say the meds were a go. It was like I was suddenly eligible to take a test I hadn’t studied for. I really did mean to brush up on the shot and medicine-mixing lessons from the first in-vitro appointment last week. Just like college, there was so much information that I’d resigned myself to figuring it out on my own time. Tick, tock, tick, tock — lo and behold, the test is tomorrow!
Instead of worrying, though, I’ll sing this song until my iPod changes to Thanksgiving songs:
“It’s only a test you’re going through.
It’s gonna be over real soon.
Keep the faith; don’t give up
For it’s only a test!”
Even though I was born before that, I’m a child of the ’80s who took the “Just Say No to Drugs” campaign very seriously. I wouldn’t even eat cough drops as candy. I made it through adolescence as a “clean teen,” and as an adult, I avoid pain medicine as much as possible.
Now, I’m awaiting a call from my drug dealer. The drugs are legal, depending on how you use them, but they’re drugs nonetheless — a whole lot of drugs. That’s one side of in-vitro fertilization I forgot to think about. I was prepared for the injections; I just didn’t realize I’d have my own pharmacy of tablets, powders, vials, inserts and syringes. In the next 30 days, I will have taken multiple doses of eight medications through multiple methods, rooter to tooter. That doesn’t include a prenatal vitamin and the hazily wonderful hospital drugs to come.
Like any fiend, I’m anxious to talk to my pusher to work out the drop and how much these high-end, high-copay pharmaceuticals will cost me.
So even as I struggle to wrap my mind around it all, Nancy will just have to understand.