Just Keep Swimming A wife trying to keep a positive outlook on male-factor infertility

Having a husband who works nights is hard.  Especially because he works 12-hour shifts.  Because of the stress and energy that comes with being a police officer, as well as the need to have a fully staffed crew 24/7, the guys have really weird schedules.  Bobby works from 6pm to 6am, two or three days on, two days off.  This causes a really wonky rotation of working days.  For example, last week Bobby worked Mon and Tues, was off Wed and Thurs, and worked Fri, Sat, and Sun.  Then this week, it’s the opposite: he was off Mon and Tues, worked Wed and Thurs, and has the weekend off.  If only there were an even number of days in the week.  Seven is such a stupid number.  Whoever thought of seven??  Oh, God did?

(Sally Moment: “I had these days of the week underpants, and I thought they were sort of funny. And then one day Sheldon says to me, “You never wear Sunday.” It was all suspicious. Where was Sunday? Where had I left Sunday? And I told him, and he didn’t believe me.  They don’t make Sunday.  Because of God.” I love that movie!!!)

Most of the time, our schedules overlap pretty well.  I wake up at 5am, Bobby gets home at 6, and I leave for work at 7.  Then Bobby wakes up at 3pm, I get home from work at 4, and he leaves for work at 5.  So we get an hour or so together at the start and end of each day.  This makes our house kind of feel like it has a revolving door.  There’s always one of us coming home as the other one is leaving.  But there are some weeks, like this week, where it feels like I’ve hardly seen my husband at all.  This happens when I have to work late like for open house, or Bobby has to go in early to pick something up from the station before roll call.

On the nights that Bobby works, it sucks being home alone all night.  I don’t make dinner for myself, I just eat a bowl of soup or a sandwich and watch reruns by myself.  Or I sit with the TV off and do school work for hours on end.  I go to bed alone.  It’s very lonely.  On the nights that he’s off, it feels like such a treat to share a meal with someone else and have Bobby around to at least tuck me in before I go to bed.  But I still go to bed alone.  And it’s still very lonely.  On the weekends that Bobby’s off, he’ll wake up around noon so that we can spend most of the day together.  But even then I still go to bed alone, and I wake up alone, with the blinds closed to the morning sun, trying to be quiet so Bobby can sleep.

We never make our bed.  Before Bobby became a cop, I sort of enjoyed mornings together when we would each grab one corner of the comforter and pull it up over the pillows.  It was sort of a farewell to our place of intimacy and relaxation, a preparation for the time later when we would be back again, together.  Now, we can’t make our bed because there’s always one of us in it.  This also makes it hard to change the sheets, since whichever one of us is awake to do the laundry and the changing has to wait for that brief window when the bed is unoccupied to affect the switch.

I don’t mind having dirty sheets, though.  Don’t get me wrong, I truly believe that freshly washed, straight from the dryer sheets are one of the greatest small pleasures in the world.  But when you’re lying alone in bed, wishing the other side held the body of the person you love more than anything in the world, it’s kind of nice that the sheets still hold his familiar, musky scent.  Sometimes, I sleep in the middle of the bed or even use his pillows so I can be closer to that smell.

Weekend mornings are glorious because I can sleep in.  Bobby goes to bed at his usual time, and he is there beside me sleeping deeply when I wake up.  I never thought I would cherish so much the sight of my husband sleeping beside me until he was never there.  I love the sounds of him breathing, the rustling of the sheets as he twitches and shifts, the extra warmth of snuggling beside him.  Bobby always says it’s creepy to watch people sleep, but I do.  I spent an extra hour lying in bed this morning, just enjoying the presence of someone next to me.  Eventually, the cats demanded their breakfast and my real morning began.

There are some positives to our schedule, though.  For one thing, it’s nice having all sorts of room in the bed to stretch out.  Also, it will be great when the baby is born because Bobby will be able to take the night shift and let me sleep for a little while.  And I’m sure Bobby doesn’t miss the sound of me snoring.

I tried to make that paragraph longer. Really, I did.  But that’s all I can think of.  Mostly, it sucks.  I can’t clean or do laundry during the day, Bobby can’t play video games or watch movies loudly at night.  When I watch football on Saturday afternoons, I have to shout into a couch pillow when something good or bad happens.  We can’t really take weekend trips anywhere because it messes with Bobby’s sleep pattern too much.  And of course, the constant and perpetual loneliness.

We’ve learned to cope with our unique living situation pretty well.  And if you knew Bobby and you could see how happy his career makes him, you would understand that as hard as it is, this sacrifice is worth it.  He has become a completely different person since he became a cop, mostly because he has a whole new sense of self-confidence.  Raising a family with this schedule will bring a whole new set of challenges to be worked out, but we’ll figure it out as we go.  For right now, we have to create a different sense of intimacy in our marriage, one that doesn’t rely on a schedule but happens as often as we can make it.

At least it will happen more often than we make our bed.

This post is in response to a post on Foxy’s page about choosing donor sperm.  I tried to post this as a comment to her site, but it wouldn’t let me because it was too long!!!  Maybe some of my thoughts on this matter will be helpful to somebody out there.

Dear Foxy,

I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, but I’m going to post my own personal answers to some of your questions about sperm choosin’.  I know you’ve read about Bobby’s and my decision process about choosing sperm, but hopefully some specific comments on your questions might help you make your own decisions.

Which sperm bank to use?  We ended up going with Cryogenic Laboratories because they had the lowest prices (see below) and offered extras like baby photos, profile silhouettes, and audio interviews at no extra charge.  Most other sperm banks charge extra for all of that stuff.

How do we narrow our choices and make a selection? Truly… this is such a shot in the dark.  The more and more you read the “bios” of each donor, the more they all start to sound the same.  And really, they are.  The sperm banks know you are looking for a certain type of perfect alpha male, and so they write every description to sound like a sensitive, athletic, intelligent, charismatic guy.  (California Cryo is the worst about this, their descriptions read like personal dating ads!!)  But all of that stuff also has to do with the way you nurture your baby, so you can exert some kind of control over it later.  Bobby and I focused on physical characteristics that would cause an obvious “red headed stepchild” reaction. For instance, Bobby and I are both very short, he’s 5’5″ and I’m 5’3″.  So we eliminated anybody over 5’8″.  We realized hair color didn’t matter since I’m blonde and he’s got black hair, but eye color would.  Bobby has blue eyes and I have green, so our kids would never have brown eyes.  Also, we did NOT want a known donor.  These qualities eliminated the vast majority of donors, and we narrowed that to about 4 to choose between.  We made the final decision based mostly on the free silhouettes and medical histories offered by the cryolab.  For instance, one guy sounded great on paper, but his silhouette revealed a ridiculous hooked nose and protruding chin.  No, thank you!!!  We also found that one donor had a dairy and soy allergy.  Goodbye!

Are there cost differences between the banks and donors? YES – Our clinic gave us four banks to choose from, and selecting a random vial from each website revealed around a $300 variance in price.  But really, when you think about it, all sperm banks are required to do the same screenings, and it’s not like they really have any control over the actual sperm being produced.  So Bobby and I just figured to go with the cheapest one.  Some clinics definitely seemed to be more commercialized and profit-centered than others, and we wondered how much we were paying for “reputation.”  Really, all I needed was some guy’s jizz.  You know what I mean?

Which bank will give us the most information about the donor?  We found that Cryogenic Labs gave the most free extras.  But you might have a larger selection of donors from larger places like California Cryo.

How do ML and I do this together? Will ML do this on his own?  Bobby and I each spent some time just perusing the donors and thinking individually about qualities that were important to us.  Then we came together at one laptop and showed each other some of our preferences, and we narrowed it down together.

What do we tell people?
We decided that if the mTESE was unsuccessful and we ended up doing IVF with our backup sperm, that we would not tell anybody.  We should just say the doctors “had all the sperm they needed” which isn’t technically the truth.  The reason why is basically about being fair to our kids.  When kids are adopted, it’s pretty easy to explain to them what that means when they are very young.  Explaining the mechanics of donor insemination are a little more… sensitive?  We probably would wait to tell the kids until they were a little older, maybe 7 or 8, not too old to where they would go all identity-crises on us.  But putting ourselves in their shoes, we felt like it would feel awkward for them to know that the whole world knew a secret about them that they didn’t know until now.  We decided that we wouldn’t tell anybody at all, and let our children decide whether they wanted that history shared.

All things aside, the key thing to remember is this: there truly is NO way to ever make a “good” decision about this, and really, it doesn’t matter.  When a woman falls in love with a man, she doesn’t carry around a comparison checklist to see if he has the qualities that will make the perfect baby.  You’re attracted to him for a variety of reasons, some genetic, but most because of experiences that you share with that person.  Genetics are nothing more than a random slot machine.  Do your best to choose a donor that you’re comfortable with, but don’t stress over it.  In the end, your children will take more away from you and your husband from the way you raise them and the type of family you create than they will from their genetic donor.  I’ve said this analogy before: A baby is a blank canvas, but it takes a father to shape what is painted there.  In short: don’t over think this decision.  Select a donor with a good health history and without any crazy hooked chins, and depend on you and your husband for the rest.

I hope this was somewhat helpful to you, and sorry for such a long comment!  Good luck, I know exactly how uncomfortable and heartbreaking this decision process will be.  I hope, hope, hope that you won’t need it at all!!!

So far, I’ve told about half of my support group about our pregnancy.  Very close, immediate family like our parents and grandparents know.  The two friends who took care of us during our surgeries know. Everybody else is still waiting, and we’re not going to tell them until after the ultrasound confirms that everything is a-ok. (which, by the way, I moved up to Monday.  Taking a couple of hours of work at this point is worth the peace of mind it will bring.)

But I have a problem.  The people who know won’t stop calling me, asking me how I’m feeling.  The people who do not know won’t stop calling me, asking if I’ve heard anything yet.  Literally folks, from the time I get home from school, my cell phone rings or beeps (text message) about 10 times before I go to bed. My sister and my father call me EVERY day, and if I don’t call them back, they panic and thinks something’s wrong.

My neighbor at school whose classroom is adjacent to mine is one of the people who is waiting to hear.  She’s taken to hanging around my classroom, trying to drum up friendly conversation, probably to gauge my mood and see if she can figure anything out.  She comes to visit me before school, between every class change, and after school.  I turn my back to her and face my computer while she talks to me, and she just stands behind me and keeps going.  Then she texts me a few times in the evening.  This morning, she im’d me the minute I logged into facebook.  On the one hand, I’m getting tired of trying to keep things secret.  On the other hand, I’m tired of everybody thinking this is their business and demanding information.  I’ve said this over and over again, I know they are just excited and they care.  But at this point it’s getting to be overkill.  I want my privacy back.

To make matters worse, yes, I have officially started having morning sickness… more like morning nausea at this point.  (I asked for it, right???) On top of that, I am still battling a pretty miserable cold.  I am not sleeping well, between getting up to cough or blow my nose, getting up to take my 4am suppository, and getting up to pee. So when I get to school to deal with all these people, I do NOT feel good.  And when I get home at night, after talking for 7 hours straight, I do not feel like answering my phone.  But people keep calling, and calling…

There is no way to politely tell them to back off without it sounding like I don’t want their friendship.  At some point, I will be glad that they are excited for me.  But right now, I really just want to be left alone.  How do I say that?

Bobby is getting SO SICK of me already.  Not only do I have a miserable cold… not only am I exhausted… but I don’t believe I’m pregnant.  He’s so tired of hearing me talk about how worried I am.  He finally told me, if it would make you feel better, go buy another pregnancy test and take it.

So I did.

And it was positive.  Really positive.

Like, instead of waiting two minutes for it to develop, the line turned blue exactly in time with the pee as it was being absorbed up the stick.  It almost reminded me of a miniature flag of Finland being slowly unfurled.

Alright… All hail the great country of Finland!!!!!

This ended up being kind of a long post.  I thought it would be funny, but I might have drawn it out too long.  I’ll understand if you don’t really want to read it.  To give you the gist – the story starts with me whining, then relates a very frustrating chain of events leading up to jury selection, then shows how I had to describe in court, on record, the process of inserting a vaginal suppository.  If this intrigues you, read on.  If not… see you next post, and I’m sorry I’m so long winded. 🙂

ACT 1 – The Weekend
Setting: My bedroom
Characters: Me, Bobby
Mood: Overly dramatic

I spent the weekend, as you already know, freaking out about my Prometrium suppositories.  How do I insert them? Why are they pills? Are they going to turn my baby into the wrong gender? What schedule do I take them on? What if I don’t get enough progesterone and I miscarry?  And most importantly, how will I take my medicine while I’m at jury duty on Monday?

You see, I received a summons at the beginning of July for jury service on August 2.  Two weeks later, I got a phone call saying, “Your jury service has been completed.  You are no longer required to report for duty.”  So like any other selfish, un-civic-minded person, I threw a little celebration that included gleefully ripping up my summons and tossing it into the trash like confetti.  Weee!  Then another week later, I received another phone call.  “Your jury service has been rescheduled for August 30.” Um… shit.

But then IVF really got into the full swing, and my head was swimming with injection schedules, retrieval worries, TESE recovery… and then school started, and my head was swimming with preplanning and pregnancy tests… and I forgot all about my jury duty.  Until last Thursday, when I got a phone call reminding me about my service.  Um… shit. It’s the first week of school, I have no sub lined up, and no clue what to assign my students to keep them busy on the 6th day of the year, seeing as how I’ve taught them nothing yet except where to put their backpacks when they enter my classroom.  So I spent the weekend at first in denial, then harassing Bobby with every question I could think of.  Since I lost all my paperwork, I had no idea where to report, what time, what I could bring with me…  I went into the whole experience feeling very flustered to begin with.

ACT II
Setting: Parking Garage, County Jury Room, Federal Jury Room
Characters: me, weird old guy, Krishna lady, jerky security guard, nice security guard, Clerk of the Court
Mood: Distraught

I counted out the hours for my suppositories.  If I took the first one at 7:30, I could take the 2nd around 3:30, and thus hopefully be home in time to do it privately.  I left the house and drove down to the county court house, and parked in the city parking garage.  On the sidewalk outside of the garage was a weird old guy sitting at a folding table with a sign that said “Jury Information.”  It was seriously sketchy looking, but ok.  I walked up to him and he said, “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here today?”  Yes, I said, I got a phone call Thursday telling me to be here.  “You say you got a phone call? We don’t send out phone calls to jurors.  What’s your name?”  I told him.  He checked his list once.  He checked his list twice. He checked it a third time.  “You’re not on my list.  The federal courts send out phone calls to their jurors, but today isn’t the first Monday of the month.  I don’t think they’re calling juries today.”  I’m slightly spazzing out at this point.  “Listen, the best I can tell you to do is walk three blocks over to that big white building, that’s the county courthouse, and see if they have you in the system.  If not, it’s only a few more blocks over to the federal courthouse.  Good luck.”

I was not prepared to walk any sort of distance in Florida’s heat, wearing dress pants and heels, and carrying my big purse and an armful of textbooks and papers to grade.  I was all prepared for a long day of sitting in the big jury room, waiting for my number to be called.  But I hobbled over to the courthouse, where I went through security and was second in line to check in at the Jury Office.  The woman in front of me was a caucasian lady dressed in an Indian sari with a yellow line painted down her forehead – a Krishna.  She was explaining her situation to the clerk, which was identical to my own.  So I piped up and said, The same thing happened to me! I threw away my paperwork, and the guy didn’t have me on his list, and I don’t know where to go.  The clerk told us both to head over to the federal courthouse.

So back outside I go with the Krishna lady, three more blocks away in the intensifying heat, blisters popping up on my heels.  When I get to security, they force me to check all my electronic devices at the door, including my cell phone and iPod.  Ok, this is irritating, they never said anything about not being able to bring those things on the paperwork (that I lost).  Then this really mean security man took away my books, too.  He said the judge doesn’t like it when people have books in the courtroom, and if he let me bring it upstairs, it would end up in the courtroom, and the judge would get mad.  Like I’m some kind of two-year-old, I can’t be trusted to keep a book with me.  All of my useful possessions stripped away, I stepped into the elevator with another security guard and promptly burst into tears.

“Are you okay, miss?”  Yeah, I say, I’m great.  “You look like you’re having a bad day.”  Sort of, I’m just pregnant and I get really weepy over nothing these days.  “Well, whatever it is that’s bothering you, it’ll get better.”  The elevator arrives at my floor.  “You just go right on in through that door, and don’t worry.  It won’t be that bad.”  He was really nice.

The Clerk of the Court did her check in deal, (it turns out nearly EVERYONE had thrown away their paperwork) and as I walked into the waiting room (which was staffed with those really uncomfortable chairs like they have at the DMV) I noticed that practically everybody else in the room had a book out, reading!! I was SO PISSED.  I went into the bathroom and cried, cried, cried.  This whole day had just sucked ass so far.  Once I had let it out though, I was better.  I wiped my eyes, then went back outside and stared at the walls while everybody else sat happily reading the books they brought.  Luckily, federal court is different than county court.  You don’t sit in the room waiting all day to be called; once we watched the little orientation video, we were all brought into the courtroom at once and interviewed together.  But there’s one other major difference – federal courts last more than just one day.  In fact, this trial was scheduled to last through Thursday.  And I have these damn suppositories to take.

I went up to the Clerk and asked, Is pregnancy a reason not to serve on an extended court case like this?  “Well that depends, how pregnant are you?”  I’m five weeks, but I have doctor’s appointments, and I have to take hormone supplements at a certain time every day… in a really personal way… otherwise I’ll miscarry.  She told me to just let the judge know that I had a high-risk pregnancy when he asked if there were any reasons why people couldn’t serve.  Then we were taken into the courtroom.

ACT III
Setting: The Federal Courtroom
Characters: me, the judge, the attorneys, 33 other jurors, and two baliffs
Mood: much calmer

After I actually got into the courtroom and the judge started talking about the importance of jury service and the details of the case to be tried, I really calmed down.  I remembered what a big deal this stuff was, and became much more civic minded.  Still, though, the issue of my medication is a real problem.  I went through all the interview questions, which had some funny moments that I will spare you from, including that Krishna lady and a few other characters like a couple of bus drivers and an actual Indian guy who had obviously just become a citizen and had no idea what was going on.  Finally, after an hour and a half, the judge finally asked, “Is there any other reason that might keep anyone from giving their full focus to rendering a fair verdict in this trial?”  I timidly raised my hand – the only one in the room.  The bailiff brought me the microphone to explain myself.  I asked if I could approach the bench to speak privately.

I went up to the judge’s bench and was joined… by all the attorneys, the stenographer, and both bailiffs.  Not exactly the low-key, private conversation I had hoped for.  I said, I’m 5 weeks into a high risk pregnancy and need to take medications at certain times of the day that will interfere with court proceedings.  The judge just sort of looked at me like this didn’t sound like a big deal and said, “How often do you have to take these medications?”  Well, I say, I am on hormone supplements that have to be taken three times a day.  I pause, and everyone seems to be waiting for the explanation of what makes this an actual problem.  So I take a deep breath and say, quietly and quickly, They have to be inserted vaginally while lying on my back, and I have to stay in a reclined position for 20 minutes afterward.  Without them, I will miscarry.  “Oh.” says the judge.  “Thank you. You can be seated.”

I didn’t get picked for the jury.

The end.

First, the news you really care about: Beta #2 was 321! More than double from #1. We’re well on our way!  Although I’m nervous that we won’t have any other tests until the first ultrasound in two weeks.  It’s weird to go from constant updates, constant “doing,” to… “you’re pregnant! congratulations! you can relax now!”  Really? I can? Are you sure? I might have forgotten how…

When the nurse called with the second beta numbers, I told her enough was enough with these freaking PIO’s.  My rear is so swollen, I am starting to feel like poor Sarah Baartman. Of course this is a gross exaggeration, but seriously, the tops of my cheeks are actually sticking out slightly from the rest of my bum.  It feels like a concrete shelf.  I’M DONE, I told the nurse, I can’t take it any more.  So she called in the prescription for prometrium.  She explained that it was a suppository, put it in three times a day, we discussed timing issues about how to accomplish this while at school, etc.  A few hours later, I called the pharmacy to see if it was ready to be picked up.

“Yes, it’s ready,” said the pharmacist, “and it’s $117.”

Ok then.  That’s a lot.

So I go to pick up the “suppositories.”  The guy hands me the bag, and basically explains to me that he’s never heard of this medication being used this way, that he was so surprised to hear my nurse ask them to be inserted vaginally, and he’s never heard of it being used for fertility.  He also explained that my insurance actually paid about $250 of the cost of the drug, probably because they didn’t know it was being used for fertility treatments.  “But good luck with everything!”  he said as I walked away nervously from the counter.  His confusion was very unsettling.

I got out to my car and opened the bag.  These are not suppositories… they are PILLS.  No wonder the guy was so confused!  And… there’s no applicator.  The nurse specifically told me to be sure to place them all the way up and behind my cervix…. how??? My finger ain’t that long, sister!  Then I read the pamphlet that comes with the medication.  This medication is part of hormone therapy for menopausal women; take one pill daily by mouth; studies about this pill are inconclusive as to its effect on growing fetuses.  Wha???  So I go home and get on the manufacturer’s website.  It explains that occasionally this medication can cause gender reversals, turning boy fetuses into girls and vice versa, but this can usually be reversed.  WTF???? Is my nurse insane???

As even further proof of this poor pharmacists confusion, check out what the instructions on the bottle say:

How many vagina’s am I supposed to have?????

Then, after I got home, I remembered something.  I have Jury duty on Monday.  And my mid-day “suppository” is due around 1:00.  How am I supposed to lay on the floor of a public bathroom in the courthouse and insert this sucker, then stay for 15 minutes while it melts and absorbs???  By this time, I’ve officially worked myself up into a state of extreme panic.  I call Bobby, who’s out patrolling the streets of our fair city, and sobbingly tell him all that has happened.  He says… call the nurse.  I start crying even harder, because it’s 6:45 in the evening, and even though she’s on call this weekend, I felt so bad to interrupt her weekend with my stupid suppository problems.

Once I got the nurse on the phone, it was immediately clear that she was out at dinner or some other enjoyable location due to the loud noise in the background (unlike me, who was sobbing on my bedroom floor).  She said, oh yes, every time I prescribe this medication, I leave the voicemail and repeat the instructions two times because they always get confused, but every single time they still end up calling me back and saying, are you suuure this is how you want this prescribed?  She seemed to think this was pretty funny.  I feel like she could have prepped me a little better for the fact that the medication instructions would be the opposite of what she was telling me to do.  She then called my doctor, who was also on call this weekend (just one more person for me to interrupt and bother, great) and he suggested that I take the suppository Sunday, then take the shot on Monday because of jury duty, and then stay on the suppository after that.

Bobby swears that if I talk to the judge, I can explain that I have a medical need to stay home and he will grant me a continuance for my jury service.  But then I’m taking a whole day off work for nothing, and I’ll still have to go back another time anyway.  I might as well just take the shot tomorrow, get the jury crap over with, and be done with it all.

The nurse said they were hoping for around 30 or 60, and was ecstatic to report 149!!!!!!!  She said that we don’t need to wait for Saturday’s repeat test – we can confirm our pregnancy and celebrate!!

WE ARE THRILLED!

Bobby got the beta number when he went in for his post op – I left my phone turned off in my car so I wouldn’t be tempted during school.  Immediately after leaving the doctor’s office, he ran straight to my school, and showed up at the end of my 5th period class… with flowers. (The man has never surprised me with flowers at work, ever.)

We’re going out to dinner tonight to celebrate.  And we’re stopping by the bookstore to pick up some baby books.  And maybe by Target to look at baby stuff.

HOLY CRAPOLIE – I’M PREGNANT!!!

I’m exhausted.

But the good news is, I’m no more exhausted than I have been on any other first day of school, even though I taught all 6 class periods, and other than the time spent in my car, sat down for approximately 20 minutes today.  I hope I can keep this up.

Short story for you today.  We’re sitting at lunch and a friend of mine whose wife is pregnant with their third child says, “Man, my poor wife.  When you guys were pregnant (gesturing to the moms in the group,) did you ever have to take thisandthat shot? No? Hmm, I think it’s because of her blood type.  Anyway, she has to have this shot, and they have to give it to her in the backside!”

My friend SS (the one who cared for my after my surgery) looks over at me, and then says, “Do you have to give her the shot yourself?”

He says “Oh gosh no, she is going to the doctor today to get it.”

So then I say, “How many times does she have to have the shot?”

He says, “Just once, but it’s in the backside! I feel soooo bad for her.”

I look over at SS, smile, and roll my eyes.

Literally you guys, when I woke up this morning, I had a swollen lump the diameter of a quarter on my ass, and every single step I’ve taken today has hurt.  I’m sorry friend, I love you, and I know you have no idea that I’ve had a shot in the butt every day for the last two weeks (and multiple shots daily in the stomach for three weeks before that) but… I have NO sympathy for your poor wife!

Other than that, and the ridiculous rainstorm that opened up right as we were dismissing, and the exhaustion and soreness that I’m currently experiencing, and the fact that Bobby’s car window was open during said rainstorm… today was a pretty good day! Can’t wait to do it again tomorrow…

I have been doing ok so far with the Two Week Wait, until today.  Today, I went back-to-school shopping.  I knew it was going to be a bad day before I even left the house.  I was crabby and snappy… poor Bobby has his hands full with me.

There are two reasons why I shouldn’t have gone shopping today.  The first is because school starts Monday, and every family in the whole city was at Target today.  There was no parking, the aisles were crammed, and the lines were long.  Drivers were rude and desperate to get around jams by breaking all the rules.  I nearly died like three times.

The second reason is because I’m bloated.  Every pair of pants I tried on gave me a muffin top, every shirt showed my love handles.  The dresses I tried on… actually made me look pregnant.  The harsh lights of the dressing room did nothing to assuage my insecurity.  I did manage to find a few things that I felt would fit reasonably once I return to normal size, so I guess the day wasn’t a total loss.

But the worst part…. was thinking to myself, I shouldn’t buy any new clothes, in case I’m pregnant.  In fact, maybe I should just walk through the maternity section, just to look.  Then I put that dress back on, and turned to the side, and pretended that for just a second, maybe…

And right there, in a span of two minutes in the Target dressing room, the Two Week Wait suddenly became unbearable.

I haven’t had ANY symptoms, which is a good thing since it leaves me nothing to analyze, and a bad thing… since it leaves me nothing to analyze!  I’ve had a “few” cramps that were so mild that I really can’t be sure they weren’t just in my head.  I’m exhausted, but it’s my first week back to work, and progesterone is what makes pregnant women feel tired early in pregnancy, so I would be tired right now whether I’m pregnant or not because of the supplements.  My boobs are so sore, but they have been sore ever since I started the Lupron.  I’m peeing constantly, getting up several times in the middle of the night, but I’m still hydrating non stop with gatorade to prevent hyperstimulation.  I have no spotting, no nausea.  I feel completely normal.

Bobby’s mom called this afternoon.  She asked if I was pregnant yet.  He said the test wasn’t until next Thursday.  She said, well but can’t she just tell?  This got me thinking.

I’ve got a comment for God’s suggestion box.  I think your body should have some sort of notification system for if you’re pregnant.  Like… some sort of special discharge that only happens when you’re pregnant.  In fact, let’s make it pink or blue discharge so you can know the sex right away.  Or maybe, an explosion of tickles in your belly, as if your uterus is shouting “Hooray!!”  Or all of a sudden, your hair color changes. OR WAIT, even better, pregnancy test lines appear across your eyebrows.  Whatever. SOMEthing to keep my mind from having to experience this torture.  I wish I really could just know, instantly, what’s going on inside my body.  I wish the embryologist could call me every day with an update like he did while he was babysitting my embryos.  Why can’t they use a little microscopic video camera and just scan the walls of my uterus?

And now it’s all I can think about.  Am I, or aren’t I?  Was there a reason that I conspicuously drank water while my four other friends downed margaritas and cosmos at dinner last night, or was that all for nothing?  Should I buy a mini fridge to keep cold ginger ale in my classroom, or not?  Should I be buying new pants right now, or not?  I JUST WANT TO KNOW NOW!!!!

You see, all this mental anguish started with a simple shopping trip.  If only I didn’t feel so fat.

Yep, I should never have left the house today.

Before I start whining… WE FROZE 3 EMBRYOS!!!  When we did the transfer, the embryologist said he didn’t think we’d freeze any.  But we froze 3!!!  It seems like every step of the way, we start out with an initially worst-case scenario, and then it becomes better.  I hope the good juju continues.

Bobby is healing…. ok.  He’s trying to cut back on the pain meds slowly but surely, and I hope he gets there soon.  He’s been on his back now for an entire week, and I know he’s so miserable.  I’m miserable too, I miss snuggling with him.  The sweet, affectionate mood from earlier this week has dissipated.  Now it’s mostly, I’m sick of being in bed, I’m uncomfortable, and this wait is killing me. I’m ready for us to be back to normal.

I talked to my sister yesterday.  Our conversation began thusly:

Her: “So, how are you feeling?”
Me: “Fine.” (I know what she means, but maybe if I don’t respond she won’t push it.)
Her: “Well, do you feel any different yet?”
Me: “It’s been two days.  And I really don’t want to talk about how I’m feeling.  I’m going to go crazy thinking about it.”
Her: “Ok, sorry.” (She sounds hurt. Great. I switch topics quickly.)

EVERY PERSON I KNOW who knows we did the transfer has asked me, “So, how are you feeling?”  When I got to school on Monday, the few people I’ve told each ran up to me, threw their arms around me, gave me a “secret smile,” and said “So…” I want to tear my hair out, bang my fists against the wall, and scream. IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS. I’M NOT PREGNANT YET. THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. LEAVE ME ALONE.

I understand that they’re just excited – to them, IVF means I’m finally having a baby!! Yay!! Isn’t this fun??  I’m so happy for you!!  To me… to all of us infertiles… IVF is an invasion of my body.  It’s a battle, an epic struggle of science vs. nature.  It’s fear, uncertainty, hope, grief, worry, anger, jealousy… all rolled into one syringe that I stick myself in the ass with every night.  THIS IS NOT FUN.  I am not excited.  I am terrified.  I’ve already done the “Wait… wait… are my boobs sore? Let me squeeze and wiggle them… yep, definitely sore! I’m probably pregnant!!” dance before.  I’ve done it way too many times, and been let down way too many times, to ever do that dance again.  I don’t want to analyze every quiver of nausea, every yawn or cramp.  I DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT HOW I’M FEELING.

I just want to keep occupied until next Thursday, when I can know for sure.  I’ve already been hurt so much, I don’t want to be hurt any more.  They just can never understand what that feels like.

Ironically, the only person who’s actually given me space and NOT asked how I’m feeling is my father.  I think he’s just as scared as I am.