"We Are Going to Stop the Doom and Gloom,"

said Smart Nurse as her opening greeting. Apparently, my high level of panic got through to even Nurse Nasty and prompted Smart Nurse and Dr. All Business to actually take a moment to review my chart. Wonder of wonders. SN says that they are "moderately concerned" at my 14dpo level of 54 because, in their experience with IVF patients at this clinic, a level of at least 100 at 14dpo is strongly associated with a good outcome. To which I respond, yes, but you know exactly how many days an IVF embryo has been growing and we don't know that in my case, right? She agreed and agreed that my relatively low hCG level could be caused by perfectly normal and legitimate reasons.

The new (or maybe old but just misrepresented by NN) spin on the numbers is that the news is generally happy but still tinged with moderate worry for now, since they don't know definitively why my overall number is low. We are still doing an ultrasound at 5w2d to look for a gestational sac, although I'm unconvinced that we'll be able to see anything at all. But we shall see, I guess. I must do more early ultrasound Google searches to prepare myself in case they try to screw me again.

I hate them with the fire of a thousand suns for fucking with my head like this. But I am grateful for the small break in the crap slinging. Now, if things can just be something approaching normal for a few days in a row, I may even be able to keep my job.

IF Irony Number 371

If you had told me that IF would have the biggest effect on my marriage after the pink line finally showed, I would have pshawed you. Not possible, I would have said. How could the glorious and long-awaited moment of a BFP possibly lead to a bad place? I am here to tell you that it is in fact possible. And happening. To me.

Nurse Nasty called yesterday with an eerie repeat of Monday's conversation, spiced up with additional confusion, inability to explain herself and sheer panic on my end of the line. The 16dpo number is 118.6--not doubling as quickly as the last test but still a perfectly respectable 42 hour time. Not surprisingly, N.N. again expresses doubt and regret about the numbers. Still too low, they say. They cannot explain to me what number they would find acceptable, the source of that number and the freaking dpo of this fabled pregnancy. I have a strong suspicion that they are looking at a 5wk pregnancy or something but this cannot be confirmed until the one nurse who controls all comments on betas is available for questioning. Theoretically, this will happen today.

So, this is freaking me out. I mean, wouldn't it freak you out? I think, in my heart of hearts, that everything is probably okay but it's hard to hold on to that when the medical professionals I write big checks to don't agree. Bitches. I am a bit of a wreck. Well, it goes back and forth depending on how recently I've had a totally unsatisfying conversation with Nurse Nasty.

Meanwhile, DH and I have argued and fought more in the last week than we have in our entire marriage. Exponentially more than we ever clashed during the diagnosis, consultation, and treatment aspects of this. It appears that the combination my state of precarious wreckage after this last month of huge emotional ups and downs, the essentially unknowable, unpredictable purgatorial nature of the situation, and DH's anger at not being able to fix it adds up to one disconnect after another. One conversation after another when I need comfort and he needs to pretend it's not happening. This is explosive stuff and we don't know how to get past it.

For god's sakes, I hope Smart Nurse calls me today.

Another Dispatch from Anxiety Central

The second beta was 54.7 at 14dpo. I was very happy with this--a doubling time of 28 hours (I've learned a lot about HCG in the last few days). But Dr. HeeHee and Co. remain skeptical. They talk about things like a "slow rise" and "close eye on it" and "kid gloves." All because of the 5.1 at 10dpo. From what I can tell with frantic googling and a quick consult with my friend the Dr. (no, not an RE, but he still has the textbooks!), doubling doubling doubling is the key. 5 is a perfectly normal number that early in the game and so is 54. And, again, the doubling rate was good. So, either they are being overly cautious or I don't know as much as I think I do. It must must must be the former, right?

In my mind, I am now at 15dpo with nary a spot, hardly a twinge, umpteen positive HPTs, two positive betas, and a tummy that is getting just a tad sensitive. None--I repeat none--of these things have ever happened to me before. So, I think I am okay with normal, even slightly "special" results. Dr. HeeHee can find someone else to be in his overacheiver club.

It's Raining but the Sun is Out

I am nearly paralyzed with fear as I wait for the results of beta #2 at 14dpo a.k.a. 4w0d. I guess I didn't really think that all this crap we've been continually dealing with might actually work one of these months. And on top of that, to get to avoid all the shit Dr. HeeHee has lined up for us next cycle? I couldn't possibly be that lucky. Sometime soon, the cosmos will realize that I belong on the Fucked list and scoot me right back over there. Will it be a chemical and gone as quick as it came? Will I make it to 5 weeks before ~poof~ it disappears? Get to hear a heartbeat before the bottom falls out?

Deep breaths. Beta result at 3 p.m. CST. Until then, I'll be the one in the corner obsessively comparing the lines on four days worth of pee sticks.

I May Forgive Clomid After All

I have news. Still not sure how to characterize this news, but news nevertheless.

Beta today at 10dpo after a bizarre FRER experience I will tell you about later.

Hcg: 5.1

Progesterone: 25.59

Repeat Monday.

Holy shit.

I'm not doing well; have I mentioned this?

So, my paternal grandmother committed suicide. And my dad, and my aunt, and my uncle have spent a lifetime battling serious depression. Don't think that this is unrelated to the current state of affairs.

I myself, my own precious self, have suffered through three pretty serious depressive episodes. The most intense was by far when I had just graduated from law school and I was attempting to study for the bar. The psychological effort involved in this undertaking just about did me in. But I did it. And I thought (naively) that I had conquered this crap, with the help of drugs and therapy and sheer fucking willpower.

But now, one divorce and three job changes later, fertility drugs (yes, just Clomid and Prometrium) are about to put me under. At first I thought perhaps it would quickly pass, as it seems to for others, but it has become clear that this is not so much the case. My current theory is that you need a certain baseline level before you start this evil, fucked up crap, or else it just puts you down in the nasty stinky pit. And, as previously mentioned, I am really not in the mental state, biologically and historically speaking, where I can afford much crap.

I am not quite sure what to do here, but I most certainly need some help. I have learned to ask for help when I need it, see? Anyone have some words of wisdom to spare?

The Fourteenth Circle of IF Hell

My dear K., while being supportive throughout this little adventure, has never been one for the details. I would explain what was happening and why (courtesy of my Google M.D.) and he would nod and smile and say something optimistic. Irritating, no?

Suddenly, some kind of switch has been flipped on. Now, he's researching fibroids and FSH and progesterone issues. He's reminding me that we need to head for the bedroom. And he--get this--discussed all of this, including his emotions about the situation, with a male friend yesterday. I am floored. Honestly.

I am thrilled that he has become a more active partner in the minutiae and planning required by IF. And I am also grateful that he's begun to acknowledge his own grief and struggles with this and even seek some support from empathetic friends. (Now, if he'd just start reading some blogs).

But,

I cringe for him, knowing just how hard the blows are, how far the fall can be when you've let Hope in the door. When you begin to consciously, actively think about what may be happening in each cycle, on each day, that's when the pain of IF really starts to settle in and spread across the rest of your life. After you've digested the initial disappointment of not getting pregnant easily, I think you naturally move to the state where you believe that you can exert some control over it, that something you do or think or believe can make a difference to the outcome. But it doesn't. Not predictably at least and certainly not enough to count on. But then it's too late. You've opened yourself up to the larger pain of realizing that IF has become the primary organizing principle of each day that everything else has to fit in and around. In a very real and overwhelming sense, it is your life. I haven't found a good way out of that hole and I'm not sure that there is one.

While I could use the company, I hate that now he will be there with me. I wish one of us could have been spared.

Tagging and Such

Now JJ is spreading the tag love. I get to pick 5 from the following list and get another excuse to talk about mememe:

If I could be a scientist . . .
If I could be a farmer . . .
If I could be a musician . . .
If I could be a doctor . . .
If I could be a painter . . .
If I could be a gardener . . .
If I could be a missionary . . .
If I could be a chef . . .
If I could be an architect . . .
If I could be a linguist . . .
If I could be a psychologist . . .
If I could be a librarian . . .
If I could be an athlete . . .
If I could be a lawyer . . .
If I could be an inn-keeper . . .
If I could be a professor . . .
If I could be a writer . . .
If I could be a llama-rider . . .
If I could be a bonnie pirate . . .
If I could be an astronaut . . .
If I could be a world famous blogger . . .
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world . . .
If I could be married to any current famous political figure . . .

My answers:

If I could be a farmer . . .I would have a big organic operation that sold fresh produce, flowers and such. And my children (!) would run free and climb trees and make mud pies. With goats, and goat cheese, and any other cheese I can manage. Because cheese is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy.

If I could be an architect . . .I would design houses with many many windows that just make you happy to be in them. There is not enough of that, I don't think.

If I could be a gardener . . .I would be living my current lawyer-escape-fantasy. My roses and I would have morning communion and then I would putter about in the garden for the rest of day, finishing with a nice nap in the hammock. And people would come for miles to admire my arbor. Ahhhhhhh.

If I could be a writer . . .I would write my mystery series set in small Southern towns. The sleuth is a young lawyer who gets accidentally sucked into murders and such while working on cases in the various towns. The first one is set in a swampy Delta town and the mayor and police chief are key players. Shinny!

If I could be a lawyer . . .ummmmmm, I'd be blogging instead of billing? Ahem.

Heathers? You out there?

Does an IF Decision Tree Make Me a Geek?

Clomid has finally let me out of jail, but (we all know by now there's always a but), no IUI this month, due to big fat 23mm follie on the wrong (right) side and weenie teeny tiny follie on the right (left) side. Got that? Great lining, great mucus, great spermies in the great mucus, bad uncooperative ovaries. They are going in the Naughty Chair as soon as I get home.

And, in the grand tradition of Suz's Patty the Polyp, we have discovered Frankie the Fibroid hanging out in there darned near the uterine wall. He was not there ever before, but he sure is there now. Dr. HeeHee says Frankie could be "acting as an IUD" because of the position, so we can't ignore him like the party crasher he is. And we still don't know about the true state of my right tube. Or the FSH situation. Or the SA for that matter (don't ask).

So, without further ado, I present to you, Plan # 457! I worked it up decision tree-style, because it was confusing even me:

.

Yes, I know you can't read that. Blogger is evil and I can't seem to make it bigger. So, in English, we will be doing a sonosalpingogram (forget it--it had a bunch of syllables and it was that thing with the balloon in the uterus????) with more evil Clomid (shudder) next cycle. And then, if Frankie is not too too near the uterine wall, we can move on to deciding whether the tube is really blocked (don't ask me how--no more HSGs for me!). If the tube is blocked, then more Clomid and IUIs on the months when follie is on the left. If the tube is not blocked, injectable IUIs for three cycles. Then IVF. Or something. Maybe.

I'll be back when I catch my breath.

I Am the Crazy Lady in the Spooky House

I am losing my ever-lovin' mind, folks. Does this happen to everyone or I am just blessed with special susceptibility to crazy pills? Seriously. The mood swings are about to snap my neck in two and I can't keep mascara on for longer than 30 seconds.

Promise me that this will stop? That I will feel normal again? That I will want to eat something other than Fritos and Hershey's Kisses?

Me and Dr. HeeHee

I hate clomid. It makes me feel like balling up in the bottom of the bathtub and crying all day while I read Star Magazine and obsess about my thighs. As if I needed more incentive to do that!

But, I'm hanging in there. I started the dildo cam ride today and saw the other RE in the Dr. All Business practice. I shall call him Dr. HeeHee--he has the most bizarrely inappropriate nervous laugh I have ever run across. It sounds like he is competing in a turkey calling contest or something. Despite that less than flattering description, it is actually sort of soothing. Perhaps because it's so unexpected and antisocial that it makes me feel more at ease? I'll have to secretly record it so you can hear it for yourself.

The Wonder Duo dreamed up a new Plan Next while I was absent without medical leave. We are heading straight into IUIs kids, do not pass go, do not bother with timed intercourse. I have two 12mm follies on the maybe-blocked right side and one smaller one on the left. We're going to do a post-coital, IUI, and maybe a trigger for dessert. Dr. HeeHee is pumped. I left and immediately went looking for chocolate.

This is going to be a long summer.