The good news (I’ve grown tired of “burying the lead” for dramatic effect): Today’s ultrasound showed everything is completely normal. Heartbeat is at 140 bpm, measurements show the embryo is 7w1d. Technically, I’m 7w3d, but Dr. Hot says that’s no problem whatsoever. M and I now have a pretty little picture to scrapbook.
From the beginning of this pregnancy, I’ve wanted someone to look at me like I’m completely insane for worrying so much. That, to me, is reassurance. Dr. Hot did just that today. He even joked a little, after I spent the entire appointment anxiously asking questions like, Was he sure the measurements really were fine? There really wasn’t anything abnormal? After removing the wand, Dr. Hot said, “Well, I hate to tell you this, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you or the baby.” Later, he reminded me (all in the most loving way possible) that women have babies are the time. Then I reminded him that the women who come to this clinic have spent a damn long time trying to get to this point, and they sure as hell don’t want to give the baby up without a fight. He nodded--he knows very well what I meant; he just wanted to reassure me.
At the end of the appointment, he shook M’s hand, and as I put my hand out for a shake, he hugged me instead. Um, awkward moment. But it was very sweet. I jokingly told him as he left that I hoped I would never see him again. He paused (taken aback, maybe?), then said he hoped I would at least send them pictures.
And that was it. M and I walked out of the clinic feeling like we were on top of the world. Yes, we know we still have a long way to go, but we feel good for now.
On the downside, I’m getting sicker and sicker. We’re going to State Fair tonight with M’s parents, and I pray I’ll be able to at least get a corn dog down.
Oh, and here’s a little nugget for you to chew on: We traveled to southeastern Missouri last weekend to visit my grandparents. When I told my grandma I was pregnant, the first thing she said was, “Well, I hope we’ll still be around by the time the baby comes.” Don’t you love how my grandma doesn’t have an ounce of self-absorption in her?
Showing posts with label fun with my RE. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fun with my RE. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
There ain't no cysts on me
I woke up this morning with a feeling of impending excitement/dread. Today was the day. At about 1:30 this afternoon, Dr. Hot would give me either good news or yet another disappointment.
I went to work, and though I had lots to do (for once), it was hard to concentrate. I left the office for a professional networking luncheon, but my heart just wasn’t in the mood for schmoozing. All I could think about was my appointment.
Finally, I got to the clinic, my heart pounding furiously, and Dr. Hot walked in the room. I gave him a nervous smile and leaned back, trying to relax in anticipation of the slightly uncomfortable contraption forcing its way into my nether regions.
Was I waiting to find out if I was pregnant? Was I breathless in anticipation of news about whether I was ovulating.
No. I was simply there to find out whether I could finally START TRYING TO GET PREGNANT AGAIN! That’s all. How pathetic. That, my friends, is one of the reasons why it takes PCOS women so long to get pregnant—because we wait, and wait, and wait-- just for the opportunity to try.
I had unexpectedly gotten my period on Sunday (remember, I had two ovarian cysts), and was in the office for a baseline ultrasound. I was terrified Dr. Hot would say the cysts were still rather large and I would have to sit out yet another cycle. Instead, he sent me home with the instructions to start taking Femara. I smiled at him and said, “Do you realize this is the first time you’ve given me good news?”
And so the games begin. Femara, please don’t forsake me. To borrow from K, all I need is one good egg.
I went to work, and though I had lots to do (for once), it was hard to concentrate. I left the office for a professional networking luncheon, but my heart just wasn’t in the mood for schmoozing. All I could think about was my appointment.
Finally, I got to the clinic, my heart pounding furiously, and Dr. Hot walked in the room. I gave him a nervous smile and leaned back, trying to relax in anticipation of the slightly uncomfortable contraption forcing its way into my nether regions.
Was I waiting to find out if I was pregnant? Was I breathless in anticipation of news about whether I was ovulating.
No. I was simply there to find out whether I could finally START TRYING TO GET PREGNANT AGAIN! That’s all. How pathetic. That, my friends, is one of the reasons why it takes PCOS women so long to get pregnant—because we wait, and wait, and wait-- just for the opportunity to try.
I had unexpectedly gotten my period on Sunday (remember, I had two ovarian cysts), and was in the office for a baseline ultrasound. I was terrified Dr. Hot would say the cysts were still rather large and I would have to sit out yet another cycle. Instead, he sent me home with the instructions to start taking Femara. I smiled at him and said, “Do you realize this is the first time you’ve given me good news?”
And so the games begin. Femara, please don’t forsake me. To borrow from K, all I need is one good egg.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
The verdict
The good news: I think I know why I’ve had problems getting my period. I definitely know why I’ve had cramping on my left side for the past week.
The bad news: I have two ovarian cysts. They’re both about 3 cm, which Dr. Hot says isn’t too incredibly big. I have to take a month off before we can even think about doing another cycle. I know many of you have had cysts, and I’d be interested in hearing about your experiences.
More bad news: Dr. Hot says the cysts, which have been bleeding into themselves, probably developed because of ovulation. I’m not sure if they’re follicular or corpus luteal. The problem? The last time I ovulated (Clomid-induced) was at the beginning of April. Which means I’ve already had more than a cycle to recover, yet the cysts are still a problem. I could kick myself, because I forgot to mention at my appointment that the only other time I ovulated on Clomid, I ended up in the ER after a corpus luteal cyst ruptured.
In other words, my body has to throw a hissy fit every time it ovulates. Or at least, every time it ovulates with the help of an ovulation induction drug. The solution, it would seem, would be to ovulate on my own. Except, of course, that I can’t. So here I sit--waiting, waiting, waiting.
Sharah’s post about trying to find balance really hit home with me. I’ve been focusing on the endgame, and in the process, glossing over other parts of my life. I’ve stopped scrapbooking temporarily. Why? Because I’ve scrapbooked with my SIL and a few members of the Mommy Club recently, and now my hobby is inextricably linked to those unpleasant memories. All I can think about is what I’m not scrapbooking—pictures of my child. I told myself I would start scrapbooking again when I got pregnant.
So many things in my life have hinged on getting pregnant. I think to myself that I’ll be able to handle a July family reunion more easily because “I might secretly be pregnant by then.” Now there’s not a chance of that happening. My 30th birthday is in October. I’ve told myself it will be a much happier occasion if I’m pregnant by then. I told M we wouldn’t put any money into a Roth IRA until I’m in the second trimester of a pregnancy, because I want our savings to be accessible for possible fertility treatments.
I just can’t do it anymore. Yesterday, after an emotional afternoon at work, I went for a walk at home. It had been a gloomy day, but the sun was back to shining gloriously. I suddenly felt this tremendous peace, and tears filled my eyes. God is going to work it out, somehow. I have to hold on to that peace, and not dismiss it because I prefer to be miserable. I have to live my life with infertility in the background, not the foreground.
I’m going to try to make time to scrapbook sometime this week.
The bad news: I have two ovarian cysts. They’re both about 3 cm, which Dr. Hot says isn’t too incredibly big. I have to take a month off before we can even think about doing another cycle. I know many of you have had cysts, and I’d be interested in hearing about your experiences.
More bad news: Dr. Hot says the cysts, which have been bleeding into themselves, probably developed because of ovulation. I’m not sure if they’re follicular or corpus luteal. The problem? The last time I ovulated (Clomid-induced) was at the beginning of April. Which means I’ve already had more than a cycle to recover, yet the cysts are still a problem. I could kick myself, because I forgot to mention at my appointment that the only other time I ovulated on Clomid, I ended up in the ER after a corpus luteal cyst ruptured.
In other words, my body has to throw a hissy fit every time it ovulates. Or at least, every time it ovulates with the help of an ovulation induction drug. The solution, it would seem, would be to ovulate on my own. Except, of course, that I can’t. So here I sit--waiting, waiting, waiting.
Sharah’s post about trying to find balance really hit home with me. I’ve been focusing on the endgame, and in the process, glossing over other parts of my life. I’ve stopped scrapbooking temporarily. Why? Because I’ve scrapbooked with my SIL and a few members of the Mommy Club recently, and now my hobby is inextricably linked to those unpleasant memories. All I can think about is what I’m not scrapbooking—pictures of my child. I told myself I would start scrapbooking again when I got pregnant.
So many things in my life have hinged on getting pregnant. I think to myself that I’ll be able to handle a July family reunion more easily because “I might secretly be pregnant by then.” Now there’s not a chance of that happening. My 30th birthday is in October. I’ve told myself it will be a much happier occasion if I’m pregnant by then. I told M we wouldn’t put any money into a Roth IRA until I’m in the second trimester of a pregnancy, because I want our savings to be accessible for possible fertility treatments.
I just can’t do it anymore. Yesterday, after an emotional afternoon at work, I went for a walk at home. It had been a gloomy day, but the sun was back to shining gloriously. I suddenly felt this tremendous peace, and tears filled my eyes. God is going to work it out, somehow. I have to hold on to that peace, and not dismiss it because I prefer to be miserable. I have to live my life with infertility in the background, not the foreground.
I’m going to try to make time to scrapbook sometime this week.
Friday, May 18, 2007
False hope
I called the RE’s office yesterday (I’ll christen him Dr. Hot—because he is. Very.) and asked for his blessing to start Provera to induce my period and begin my first Femara cycle. The nurse called back and instructed me to first take a pregnancy test, and then, if I get a negative, start on the Provera. If it’s positive, well, that’s a different story.
I know I’m not pregnant. I’m 99.9% sure of it, since my temperatures indicate I didn’t even ovulate (yes, I had a false alarm a couple of weeks ago, but my temps have fallen so much that even Fertility Friend has admitted it was wrong and taken away my coverline). That’s why I want to take the Provera. I know Dr. Hot is just covering his butt, so someone can’t go back to him and say, “You prescribed Provera when you didn’t even know if the woman was pregnant?!!” Yet somehow, the fact that he even suggested a pregnancy test makes me hopeful. Like maybe it is possible to ovulate without a temperature rise (as far as I know, it’s not), or even to conceive without ovulating (not bloody likely!).
In a way, it’s like hoping you may have lost weight simply by buying a gym membership—without ever actually going to the gym to work out (yes, I know it’s a weak analogy, but it works in this case).
So, I know I will not be announcing a BFP next week. But you can bet my heart will still be pounding when I POAS tomorrow morning.
I know I’m not pregnant. I’m 99.9% sure of it, since my temperatures indicate I didn’t even ovulate (yes, I had a false alarm a couple of weeks ago, but my temps have fallen so much that even Fertility Friend has admitted it was wrong and taken away my coverline). That’s why I want to take the Provera. I know Dr. Hot is just covering his butt, so someone can’t go back to him and say, “You prescribed Provera when you didn’t even know if the woman was pregnant?!!” Yet somehow, the fact that he even suggested a pregnancy test makes me hopeful. Like maybe it is possible to ovulate without a temperature rise (as far as I know, it’s not), or even to conceive without ovulating (not bloody likely!).
In a way, it’s like hoping you may have lost weight simply by buying a gym membership—without ever actually going to the gym to work out (yes, I know it’s a weak analogy, but it works in this case).
So, I know I will not be announcing a BFP next week. But you can bet my heart will still be pounding when I POAS tomorrow morning.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
The Mommy Club
Treatment update: I called the RE’s office the other day and was disappointed to find out that he wants me to take metformin for the next cycle, and then I can start on Letrozole. This bummed me out because it basically means that my next baby-making chance probably won’t be until the summer. Then again, I know that starting met is important, and that it takes a while for it to be effective. I feel like I’ve done everything bassackwards by first doing three cycles of Clomid, then starting the met. Oh well. I know by my OPKs that I have high LH levels (although blood tests came back normal), and I’ve read that might be related to insulin. So who knows—maybe met will be the magic pill for me!
Last night, I attended a scrapbook party at my SIL’s office. Everybody there was a mother—except me. As I sat working on my page, I listened to my SIL and her friends discuss doctor’s appointments, temper tantrums, baby groups and the like. I stayed silent, because, well, I had nothing to say. I frequently feel this way when I talk to my SIL or other members of the Mommy Club. It’s like they’re all part of a sorority that has so far excluded me. There are countless opportunities for moms to meet other moms and subsequently schedule play dates and other social opportunities. They welcome each other, because they have a common bond. If I, however, showed up for Stroller Fitness (my SIL’s weekly exercise group), everyone would look at me a bit strangely, and whisper to each other, “What’s she doing here? She’s not a mom!”
I’m not saying that I only want a baby for the social opportunities—far from it. I just feel completely ready to be a cliché, to be a “soccer mom,” or a tee-ball mom, or a kiddie ballet mom. Yet that opportunity has not yet come to me. Instead, I’m forced to grit my teeth and smile as people say to me things like, “When you have kids you’ll understand.”
Please, someone teach me the secret handshake so I can join the club!
Last night, I attended a scrapbook party at my SIL’s office. Everybody there was a mother—except me. As I sat working on my page, I listened to my SIL and her friends discuss doctor’s appointments, temper tantrums, baby groups and the like. I stayed silent, because, well, I had nothing to say. I frequently feel this way when I talk to my SIL or other members of the Mommy Club. It’s like they’re all part of a sorority that has so far excluded me. There are countless opportunities for moms to meet other moms and subsequently schedule play dates and other social opportunities. They welcome each other, because they have a common bond. If I, however, showed up for Stroller Fitness (my SIL’s weekly exercise group), everyone would look at me a bit strangely, and whisper to each other, “What’s she doing here? She’s not a mom!”
I’m not saying that I only want a baby for the social opportunities—far from it. I just feel completely ready to be a cliché, to be a “soccer mom,” or a tee-ball mom, or a kiddie ballet mom. Yet that opportunity has not yet come to me. Instead, I’m forced to grit my teeth and smile as people say to me things like, “When you have kids you’ll understand.”
Please, someone teach me the secret handshake so I can join the club!
Monday, April 9, 2007
Wishy-washy me
OK, I admit it—I’m wavering. I wrote a long post explaining why I’m staying with my OB instead of the RE, and now I’m wondering if that’s the right decision. I have a week to decide.
I spoke to my OB today on unrelated issues, and she told me she doesn’t usually prescribe Letrozole; she refers patients to an infertility specialist. So I basically know that when I go to see her for my CD3 u/s, she’ll prescribe me 150mg Clomid and probably metformin. I may be able to talk her into monitoring my follies, but no trigger shot (again, I’d have to get that from the RE). Since we’ve been having challenges trying to time intercourse (see previous entries), I wonder if it would make the most sense to go to the RE and get trigger shots.
So, should I stay with my OB for another cycle or two, or return to the RE who mistakenly counted me out at CD13, five days before ovulation (and no, he’s not a bad RE—I just have weird ovaries, and he was trying to save me some money)? I would appreciate as many opinions as I can get. OB visits are covered under insurance; RE visits are not.
I spoke to my OB today on unrelated issues, and she told me she doesn’t usually prescribe Letrozole; she refers patients to an infertility specialist. So I basically know that when I go to see her for my CD3 u/s, she’ll prescribe me 150mg Clomid and probably metformin. I may be able to talk her into monitoring my follies, but no trigger shot (again, I’d have to get that from the RE). Since we’ve been having challenges trying to time intercourse (see previous entries), I wonder if it would make the most sense to go to the RE and get trigger shots.
So, should I stay with my OB for another cycle or two, or return to the RE who mistakenly counted me out at CD13, five days before ovulation (and no, he’s not a bad RE—I just have weird ovaries, and he was trying to save me some money)? I would appreciate as many opinions as I can get. OB visits are covered under insurance; RE visits are not.
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