My guilt factor is sky high lately. What if I hadn't had that surgery, what if I'd had another doctor do the such-and-such surgery, what if I'd had no surgeries at all? What if I'd factored in my health first?
It's just overwhelming to live in constant pain, pain that's a direct result of (in)fertility treatments. (Side note: I feel like an imposter saying "fertility" treatments because I really only went through one medicated treatment cycle).
When we were TTC, any guilty feelings were centered around what I wasn't doing: not eating/drinking the correct things, exercising too much or too little. I shouldn't have eaten that goat cheese! I probably killed my embryo! Etc. Or feeling wishing I had started treatments earlier.
I can't stop thinking lately about all the infertility-related choices I've made in the past few years. I chose the crappy RE to do my initial IF workup. Since the crappy doc suggested a laparoscopy to see how "messed up" I was inside (his words) and I didn't trust him to do it, I chose an outside endometriosis-specialized physician to do the surgery. During the lap, the endo guy also did a hysteroscopy and said my septum wasn't large enough to be a fertility issue, and he didn't see any other problems.
Enter the good RE, who eventually found scar tissue in my ute and thought my septum was an issue after all. Two surgeries later, my life was turned completely upside down by chronic pain. I don't blame her surgical skills—I blame the damn balloon—but my life changed dramatically on 3/9/12.
I'm trying to forgive myself for everything. For not seeing the good RE first, for not doing more research before I started having surgeries. For trusting that any type of hysteroscopic surgery was minor. After all, I'd had laparoscopic surgery already. Why would I flinch at something less major than that? It's like doing injectable IUIs after Clomid ones; eh, not that big a leap.
Now that my TTC chapter is closed, I can look at it as a whole and see the flaws and horror more clearly. I'm not wrapped up in next steps and cycle days, which is AWESOME, don't get me wrong. But reflecting on that period of time is rough, and I guess the TTC chapter is being drawn out in a way because I'm still physically feeling the effects of my treatments.
I feel like I've ruined my body. I mentioned on my last post that I used to run half marathons. Running was a huge part of my life throughout my 20's. I ran 5Ks, 10Ks, and half marathons. Before that, in high school and earlier, I was as dancer. In my 30's, I took up yoga and practice almost daily.
That's where I was, physically speaking, on 3/9/12: lean and mean from many hours of yoga. I felt great when I practiced and was strong enough to do some pretty tough poses. I was flexible for the first time in my life.
I can't even take a walk now. I risked my body's wrath today by walking for about 20 min at lunchtime and I'll probably suffer the consequences this weekend. I feel completely defective and it's embarassing to talk about; how do you tell your coworkers that you can't walk because your pelvic floor muscles are fucked up? Who wants to say "pelvic" anywhere in the vicinity of work?
My body is mushy now and 5 pounds heavier. My pants are getting tighter and tighter. Surprising fact: if you don't move around at all and keep eating as if you do, you gain weight. I want to move. I crave exercise. I want to stretch and be flexible again and not feel my hamstring clamp up when I put up my leg while shaving. I've tried stretching; I really have. It turns out that your pelvic floor muscles are connected to EVERYTHING and hence EVERYTHING hurts to stretch. Want to stretch out my pinkie finger? Can't. Connected to the pelvic floor. My PT tells me to do what I comfortably can but not to do anything painful at this point, so I'm left with nothing to do except a couple of measly exercises she gave me.
So, to summarize: my lady parts are fucked up because we tried too hard to get pregnant (see what I mean? Impossible to talk about without getting into areas all sexual-like). I hate my body and hate that I ignored the warning signs. I already had pelvic pain before all the IF shenanigans started. Why did I screw things up more down there? Blah.
*****
Hmm, that was all over the place and not at all what I set out to write. Funny how that works.
I'm tired of the headaches. TENS helps with them so we're going steady again. The headaches almost make me feel cross-eyed at moments, like I can't focus for a second because of the intensity. It's really weird, but I can tell that the headaches are part of the neuropathic pain, and my doc concurred. It's like the pain comes up from my pelvis (hate that word and must find a new one), through my core and spreads out in my head. Caffeine and painkillers don't touch it. Lyrica is pretty much the only thing that works, that and TENS. I'm going through 9V batteries like a fiend. It turns out that rechargeable 9Vs aren't as readily available or as high a quality as you might think.
In the interest of ending on a high note, I had a major victory today. <drumroll> ...I did not cry at a coworker's pregnancy announcement. I cried at her last one but shrugged off this one like a champ. It helped that my pregdar went off big-time when I saw her this morning...it wasn't her body, it was her smug pregginess. And I'm sure I will love the upcoming meetings when she will turn work-related conversations into something about her baby.
But anyway. No tears! Victory! :)
Have a great weekend!
birds
Showing posts with label infertility. Show all posts
Showing posts with label infertility. Show all posts
Friday, October 26, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Awkward Analogies with Dr. Third Opinion
I'll give you the deets later for my appointment with Dr. Third Opinion, but for now, here's a list of Things I Wish My Doctors Hadn't Said. I'll start with Dr. Third Opinion's classic:
1. Imagine that this room is your vagina. Could you come up with an analogy that doesn't have us standing in my vagina? It caught me so off guard that I couldn't remember which wall was my cervix.
2. This exam will make you feel like you're peeing on the table. Said to me before an abdominal CT scan. At least they warned me.
3. Is there any chance you could be pregnant? This one is especially good when asked right before a D&C. Um, yes, but with a dead baby?
4. We don't know what's wrong with you. Variations include "None of our patients have this much pain after surgery" and "I'd be happy to refer you to one of my colleagues." Sometimes, this is followed by #5.
5. One option is for you to go to the ER tonight. This one made me transition from mildly concerned to freaking the f*** out.
6. We need to do surgery to see how messed up you are inside. Listen, buddy. Infertility has screwed with my body image enough without you adding "messed up" to my negative self-talk. The doctor who said this a while back wanted to get my laparoscopy business. He didn't get it.
****
A short update: Pain sucks, but family visits mean that my food supply is solid. I have a work trip on Thursday and I have to get up at 3 a.m. for my flight. It is going to be a very rough day. Will my coworker need to push me in a wheelchair through the airport? Stay tuned.
1. Imagine that this room is your vagina. Could you come up with an analogy that doesn't have us standing in my vagina? It caught me so off guard that I couldn't remember which wall was my cervix.
2. This exam will make you feel like you're peeing on the table. Said to me before an abdominal CT scan. At least they warned me.
3. Is there any chance you could be pregnant? This one is especially good when asked right before a D&C. Um, yes, but with a dead baby?
4. We don't know what's wrong with you. Variations include "None of our patients have this much pain after surgery" and "I'd be happy to refer you to one of my colleagues." Sometimes, this is followed by #5.
5. One option is for you to go to the ER tonight. This one made me transition from mildly concerned to freaking the f*** out.
6. We need to do surgery to see how messed up you are inside. Listen, buddy. Infertility has screwed with my body image enough without you adding "messed up" to my negative self-talk. The doctor who said this a while back wanted to get my laparoscopy business. He didn't get it.
****
A short update: Pain sucks, but family visits mean that my food supply is solid. I have a work trip on Thursday and I have to get up at 3 a.m. for my flight. It is going to be a very rough day. Will my coworker need to push me in a wheelchair through the airport? Stay tuned.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Happy Anniversary to Me
My 3-year TTC anniversary is coming up in August, but I feel a bit like a fraud for saying that. We haven't actually TTCed for the past year in any sense of the word. No timed intercourse, no IUIs, no IVF. I did deal with healing from a miscarriage, waiting on our lost baby's chromosome testing results, and undergoing two surgeries with sucktastic post-op recoveries. And yet, even after a horrible year for my body, I find myself trying to write off the past year as if it doesn't count as time TTCing. Part of it is not wanting to seem like I'm fronting around other IFers.
I've heard lots of sentiments similar to mine in the IF community; IFers who have taken breaks and imply that their months not spent TTCing don't count. Friends with PCOS have said that since they didn't ovulate during the first year of trying, it didn't actually count as trying. Or they only ovulated 3 times in a year so somehow, implying that they only get credit for being in pain part of that year.
The pain-minimizing phenomenon really jumped out at me at the first meeting of my infertility support group. We started off introducing ourselves and telling everyone where we were in the process. I was about 1.5 years in at the time and hadn't started treatments, while everyone else had 3-4 years of TTC under their belts, often with IVF. I felt like a fraud—who was I to claim I'd suffered when these women had been through so much?
Although I saw them as legitimate IFers, the group members were creative at finding ways to minimize their own struggles. They'd say things like, "We've been trying for 4 years but we weren't really trying that entire time—we took time off between treatments." When it was my turn, I found myself saying, "I've only been trying for one and half years and we haven't started treatments yet. We're early in the process." I'd had a miscarriage and a laparoscopy, but I needed them to know that I realized I wasn't in their league, pain-wise.
Although pain minimizing drives me a bit crazy—we've all been through a lot—all pain isn't equal. Mali wrote a great post about this recently, emphasizing that this doesn't mean we shouldn't grieve, just that we need to keep some perspective about it. So true.
I talked about perspective recently with my therapist, who says there are two ways to look at a personal struggle. To paraphrase and probably oversimplify it, you can concentrate on how much worse you have it than everyone else, or you can focus on how others have it worse than you. Clinical outcomes, however they were measured, tend to be better for those who concentrate on how others have it worse.
Lately, even with my ongoing pain, I've mostly been thinking lately about how others have it worse. I'm in a gratefulness phase, which has definitely not always been the case since we started trying. I feel like I have a pretty good perspective about all of this, but I'm not going to minimize what I've been through. I'm 3 full years into TTC and it still sucks.
*****
On the topic of gratefulness, you all constantly surprise me with the thought and love you put into writing comments. You may not be huggers and I'm not even super huggy myself, but your comments feel like big hugs coming through the screen. I tear up while I read them and reread them when I need support. Thank you.
I welcome feedback if I'm saying something ridiculous, too. If I need to have my thoughts rearranged, let me know. In a nice way. :)
*****
I'm going on the Pill in the hope that calming down some of my monthly hormonal fluctuations will decrease my pain. An additional benefit is that it's birth control; with the pain meds I'm taking, I can't safely get pregnant. A huge drawback is that the Pill tends to turn me into Crazy Town, weepy and prone to temper outbursts. People need to steer clear of me for the next few months.
When I talked to my RE about getting the Pill prescription, she seemed really surprised that I'm still in this much pain. It scares me to be this much of an outlier; she's essentially telling me I'm the 0.01%. I think I freak her out—I have been in constant pain for 3 months as a result of her performing surgery on me. And she doesn't seem to know what to make of me.
My pain doc seems really sure of my diagnosis, though. She hasn't shared the medical terminology for it, but it has to do with my history of pelvic pain, endo, and surgery sensitizing the nerves further. I haven't asked her about my prognosis, but I need to. Big time.
So I have the expert opinions of two doctors. One is unsure of my diagnosis and worried about me, and the other says I just got screwed genetically and I'll eventually get better (at least, I hope she thinks I'll get better). I'm starting to think a tad about getting a third opinion, although I'm not sure if it's necessary. Pros are that it could give me peace of mind, help me get out of pain, and prevent this kind of shitstorm in the future. Cons are that it's yet another appointment and copay, and I'm actually pretty confident in my pain doctor. My pelvic pain was on the rise even before this latest surgery (thank you, blogging, for helping me remember that), and the uterine balloon was the straw that broke the camel's back. I'll be thinking about a possible third opinion.
*****
In addition to "celebrating" our 3-year TTC anniversary, my husband and I had our 5-year wedding anniversary yesterday. :) Love you, baby!
Alright, I need to go read my book club book on our deck. It's 80 degrees, sunny, and the mosquitoes haven't taken over yet. Have a good one!
I've heard lots of sentiments similar to mine in the IF community; IFers who have taken breaks and imply that their months not spent TTCing don't count. Friends with PCOS have said that since they didn't ovulate during the first year of trying, it didn't actually count as trying. Or they only ovulated 3 times in a year so somehow, implying that they only get credit for being in pain part of that year.
The pain-minimizing phenomenon really jumped out at me at the first meeting of my infertility support group. We started off introducing ourselves and telling everyone where we were in the process. I was about 1.5 years in at the time and hadn't started treatments, while everyone else had 3-4 years of TTC under their belts, often with IVF. I felt like a fraud—who was I to claim I'd suffered when these women had been through so much?
Although I saw them as legitimate IFers, the group members were creative at finding ways to minimize their own struggles. They'd say things like, "We've been trying for 4 years but we weren't really trying that entire time—we took time off between treatments." When it was my turn, I found myself saying, "I've only been trying for one and half years and we haven't started treatments yet. We're early in the process." I'd had a miscarriage and a laparoscopy, but I needed them to know that I realized I wasn't in their league, pain-wise.
Although pain minimizing drives me a bit crazy—we've all been through a lot—all pain isn't equal. Mali wrote a great post about this recently, emphasizing that this doesn't mean we shouldn't grieve, just that we need to keep some perspective about it. So true.
I talked about perspective recently with my therapist, who says there are two ways to look at a personal struggle. To paraphrase and probably oversimplify it, you can concentrate on how much worse you have it than everyone else, or you can focus on how others have it worse than you. Clinical outcomes, however they were measured, tend to be better for those who concentrate on how others have it worse.
Lately, even with my ongoing pain, I've mostly been thinking lately about how others have it worse. I'm in a gratefulness phase, which has definitely not always been the case since we started trying. I feel like I have a pretty good perspective about all of this, but I'm not going to minimize what I've been through. I'm 3 full years into TTC and it still sucks.
*****
On the topic of gratefulness, you all constantly surprise me with the thought and love you put into writing comments. You may not be huggers and I'm not even super huggy myself, but your comments feel like big hugs coming through the screen. I tear up while I read them and reread them when I need support. Thank you.
I welcome feedback if I'm saying something ridiculous, too. If I need to have my thoughts rearranged, let me know. In a nice way. :)
*****
I'm going on the Pill in the hope that calming down some of my monthly hormonal fluctuations will decrease my pain. An additional benefit is that it's birth control; with the pain meds I'm taking, I can't safely get pregnant. A huge drawback is that the Pill tends to turn me into Crazy Town, weepy and prone to temper outbursts. People need to steer clear of me for the next few months.
When I talked to my RE about getting the Pill prescription, she seemed really surprised that I'm still in this much pain. It scares me to be this much of an outlier; she's essentially telling me I'm the 0.01%. I think I freak her out—I have been in constant pain for 3 months as a result of her performing surgery on me. And she doesn't seem to know what to make of me.
My pain doc seems really sure of my diagnosis, though. She hasn't shared the medical terminology for it, but it has to do with my history of pelvic pain, endo, and surgery sensitizing the nerves further. I haven't asked her about my prognosis, but I need to. Big time.
So I have the expert opinions of two doctors. One is unsure of my diagnosis and worried about me, and the other says I just got screwed genetically and I'll eventually get better (at least, I hope she thinks I'll get better). I'm starting to think a tad about getting a third opinion, although I'm not sure if it's necessary. Pros are that it could give me peace of mind, help me get out of pain, and prevent this kind of shitstorm in the future. Cons are that it's yet another appointment and copay, and I'm actually pretty confident in my pain doctor. My pelvic pain was on the rise even before this latest surgery (thank you, blogging, for helping me remember that), and the uterine balloon was the straw that broke the camel's back. I'll be thinking about a possible third opinion.
*****
In addition to "celebrating" our 3-year TTC anniversary, my husband and I had our 5-year wedding anniversary yesterday. :) Love you, baby!
Alright, I need to go read my book club book on our deck. It's 80 degrees, sunny, and the mosquitoes haven't taken over yet. Have a good one!
Friday, June 1, 2012
My Husband As a Patient
It's become abundantly clear since my husband broke his arm that he's not used to being a patient. I've been to about a million doctor's appointments in the past few years; him, an annual physical. Me, depleting our savings on repairing my uterus and receiving psychotherapy; him, occasionally spending a little on a new computer gadget. So it makes sense that I've got the patient routine down pat while he's just starting to navigate the system for his own needs.
At urgent care right after he broke his arm, the doctor asked him, "And who are you?" as one of their patient identification questions. He thought she was joking, so joked back with, "I'm the victim!" Uh, no, honey. State your name.
Yesterday, I went with him for a follow-up x-ray to make sure the broken bone hadn't displaced. I was really nervous for him; after all, I'm used to receiving bad news in the doctor's office. I'm often the statistically unlikely case and maybe my bad luck had worn off on him. Two of my friend's daughters have recently had emergency surgery for broken arms. Broken arms are serious shit.
My husband didn't seem too concerned about the x-ray. When the doctor came back into the room to discuss the results, my husband barraged her with less pressing matters. Can he do such-and-such, is this twinge normal, etc. HONEY! Let the woman tell us the x-ray results! She might be about to tell us that our next stop today is the hospital!
He finally allowed her time to tell us that his arm looked great, thank goodness. Surgery/casts avoided once more.
His naivete about medical stuff is endearing. It's amazing that he's retained some innocence after all I've been through. He's quite adept at helping me maneuver the medical system, but when it comes to him being the patient, he seems a bit lost.
****
Now I'm going to launch into another "woe is me" pain tirade, so feel free to leave off if you aren't in the mood/want me to get a life/have had enough of my griping.
I'm sick of this shit. I'm also PMSing and crampy, both of which are not helping my attitude at the moment. I'm starting to see trends with the pain. Walking = more pain, which I've known for a while but sometimes have to relearn. My menstrual cycle is also closely associated with the pain. After this period, I'll probably feel pretty good for about a week before ovulation pain begins. After ovulating, I might get a little relief before the late luteal phase cramps kick in. All the normal cycling stuff further inflames whatever nerves, tendons, and muscles that already hate me from the surgeries. I'm starting to admit that I need to think about this pain in the long term. There will likely be no 5Ks this fall, more battles lost to cellulite, and a need to accept this pain into my life for now.
Writing this post reminded me to call my RE to see if maybe the Pill could calm down some of this. I have less endo pain when I'm taking it so it seems like it could be an option. It's not like we are going to be TTC anytime soon, anyway. And I haven't talked my RE in a couple of weeks and she probably wants to hear my slightly annoying voice—ha.
I've had adoption on my mind. A friend recently adopted a baby boy and it gave me hope, hope that sometimes adoption works out and hope that we have other options to explore. And maybe I'm looking for a way out of this pain hellhole, but I keep thinking of reasons I want to stop giving my body to The Cause. What if my next 3D sono causes a pain flare? What if we see more scar tissue? I'm sure as hell not going to have another uterine surgery to remove it.
What if we don't see scar tissue and we try another painful letrozole cycle, and I get pregnant only I'm in pain the entire time and the delivery leaves me with chronic pelvic pain for the rest of my life? Or I get pregnant from letrozole, miscarry, and have another D&C that flares my pain for the rest of my life? Or I don't get pregnant but the letrozole cycles themselves give me pain for the rest of my life?
Obviously, there's a lot of fear going on. But there's also hope. Hope that maybe someday soon I can give my body the break it desperately needs. Not the kind of break where you take a few months off—I've taken off for almost a year, if taking time off includes endless procedures and surgeries. I want the kind of break where we get off the damn TTC treadmill and find a way to start healing from the experience.
At urgent care right after he broke his arm, the doctor asked him, "And who are you?" as one of their patient identification questions. He thought she was joking, so joked back with, "I'm the victim!" Uh, no, honey. State your name.
Yesterday, I went with him for a follow-up x-ray to make sure the broken bone hadn't displaced. I was really nervous for him; after all, I'm used to receiving bad news in the doctor's office. I'm often the statistically unlikely case and maybe my bad luck had worn off on him. Two of my friend's daughters have recently had emergency surgery for broken arms. Broken arms are serious shit.
My husband didn't seem too concerned about the x-ray. When the doctor came back into the room to discuss the results, my husband barraged her with less pressing matters. Can he do such-and-such, is this twinge normal, etc. HONEY! Let the woman tell us the x-ray results! She might be about to tell us that our next stop today is the hospital!
He finally allowed her time to tell us that his arm looked great, thank goodness. Surgery/casts avoided once more.
His naivete about medical stuff is endearing. It's amazing that he's retained some innocence after all I've been through. He's quite adept at helping me maneuver the medical system, but when it comes to him being the patient, he seems a bit lost.
****
Now I'm going to launch into another "woe is me" pain tirade, so feel free to leave off if you aren't in the mood/want me to get a life/have had enough of my griping.
I'm sick of this shit. I'm also PMSing and crampy, both of which are not helping my attitude at the moment. I'm starting to see trends with the pain. Walking = more pain, which I've known for a while but sometimes have to relearn. My menstrual cycle is also closely associated with the pain. After this period, I'll probably feel pretty good for about a week before ovulation pain begins. After ovulating, I might get a little relief before the late luteal phase cramps kick in. All the normal cycling stuff further inflames whatever nerves, tendons, and muscles that already hate me from the surgeries. I'm starting to admit that I need to think about this pain in the long term. There will likely be no 5Ks this fall, more battles lost to cellulite, and a need to accept this pain into my life for now.
Writing this post reminded me to call my RE to see if maybe the Pill could calm down some of this. I have less endo pain when I'm taking it so it seems like it could be an option. It's not like we are going to be TTC anytime soon, anyway. And I haven't talked my RE in a couple of weeks and she probably wants to hear my slightly annoying voice—ha.
I've had adoption on my mind. A friend recently adopted a baby boy and it gave me hope, hope that sometimes adoption works out and hope that we have other options to explore. And maybe I'm looking for a way out of this pain hellhole, but I keep thinking of reasons I want to stop giving my body to The Cause. What if my next 3D sono causes a pain flare? What if we see more scar tissue? I'm sure as hell not going to have another uterine surgery to remove it.
What if we don't see scar tissue and we try another painful letrozole cycle, and I get pregnant only I'm in pain the entire time and the delivery leaves me with chronic pelvic pain for the rest of my life? Or I get pregnant from letrozole, miscarry, and have another D&C that flares my pain for the rest of my life? Or I don't get pregnant but the letrozole cycles themselves give me pain for the rest of my life?
Obviously, there's a lot of fear going on. But there's also hope. Hope that maybe someday soon I can give my body the break it desperately needs. Not the kind of break where you take a few months off—I've taken off for almost a year, if taking time off includes endless procedures and surgeries. I want the kind of break where we get off the damn TTC treadmill and find a way to start healing from the experience.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
My Body's Saying "No"
I'm not sure how much more TTC I can take.
I'm tired of feeling bad. We can't seem to stop messing with my reproductive organs and I'm afraid we're screwing up my body. Hormones, surgeries, uterine balloons...whatever we've done that's so pissed you off, Body, I'm sorry. I know you want to get on the Pill, calm down the endo, and forget about having children, but I don't think I'm ready to stop.
I've felt bad enough with all the post-op pain lately that I often forget why we're doing this. A baby seems like a fantasy, like I'm kidding myself to think I could possibly ever have one. It's not helping that I'm not sure when I'll feel better and my uterus will cease to be messed up, both of which need to occur before we try again.
To check the architectural/healing status of my uterus, I need to have a 3D sonogram during the early part of a cycle. Although Aunt Flo came a few days ago, I'm skipping the 3D sono this cycle. My doctor and I decided it would decidedly not be a good idea since my uterus is still pissed off from the last procedure. We can hope that I'll be feeling good enough to have the 3D sono next cycle, but who knows. It might be a couple more cycles until we can TTC again.
Trying seems very abstract after being TTA so long. And like I said in a recent post, being TTA is freeing. I desperately still want a child but haven't been forced to focus on getting there. I'm living my life.
But I want my life back in full. I want to be healthy and active again and doing my normal activities. I'm tired of having to constantly plan around pain. I'm tired of surgeries and doctors. I'm tired of having my clinic on speed dial and knowing the nurse line options by heart. I want yoga, walking, cooking, and everything I normally do.
I'm sure my struggles so far are a small price to pay for the chance at having a child. The thing is, I don't know how much longer this will go on, and I don't know how much more my body can take. Our bodies don't have long to be on this planet and I want mine to be as healthy as possible. What if I'm irreversibly damaging it by going under the knife time after time? What if my nerves, damaged by endo, are getting so pissed off that they will act up the rest of my life? What if the hormones I've taken cause the endo flare to end all flares?
I won't even go into how I don't know how much more of trying my heart can take. But I don't.
There's also the question of how my body would behave with a pregnancy that lasts beyond 7 weeks, the time both of my miscarriages were diagnosed. I think we've established that my uterus is cranky, to say the least. Am I setting myself up for a pregnancy full of complications? Will I be in pain and on bedrest for 9 months? My two short-lived pregnancies were probably farther on the crampy/twingy continuum than most, but not awful. But I haven't experienced anything beyond 7 weeks. How in the world will my pissy uterus deal with an actual fetus?
Blah. I know I need to talk to my doctor about my fears but we're in survival mode currently, just trying to get past this painful post-op time. Communications with my doctor involve plans for the immediate future only.
A part of me, the part with feelings, isn't just in "making it through the day" mode, though. Tomorrow is my due date for my last pregnancy. I've been reflecting on the tiny little baby we saw on the ultrasound screen, perfect except for not having a heartbeat. We found out a few weeks after my D&C that it was a girl. I miss her. I wish I was worried about labor and delivery now and not when to stop trying.
I'm tired of feeling bad. We can't seem to stop messing with my reproductive organs and I'm afraid we're screwing up my body. Hormones, surgeries, uterine balloons...whatever we've done that's so pissed you off, Body, I'm sorry. I know you want to get on the Pill, calm down the endo, and forget about having children, but I don't think I'm ready to stop.
I've felt bad enough with all the post-op pain lately that I often forget why we're doing this. A baby seems like a fantasy, like I'm kidding myself to think I could possibly ever have one. It's not helping that I'm not sure when I'll feel better and my uterus will cease to be messed up, both of which need to occur before we try again.
To check the architectural/healing status of my uterus, I need to have a 3D sonogram during the early part of a cycle. Although Aunt Flo came a few days ago, I'm skipping the 3D sono this cycle. My doctor and I decided it would decidedly not be a good idea since my uterus is still pissed off from the last procedure. We can hope that I'll be feeling good enough to have the 3D sono next cycle, but who knows. It might be a couple more cycles until we can TTC again.
Trying seems very abstract after being TTA so long. And like I said in a recent post, being TTA is freeing. I desperately still want a child but haven't been forced to focus on getting there. I'm living my life.
But I want my life back in full. I want to be healthy and active again and doing my normal activities. I'm tired of having to constantly plan around pain. I'm tired of surgeries and doctors. I'm tired of having my clinic on speed dial and knowing the nurse line options by heart. I want yoga, walking, cooking, and everything I normally do.
I'm sure my struggles so far are a small price to pay for the chance at having a child. The thing is, I don't know how much longer this will go on, and I don't know how much more my body can take. Our bodies don't have long to be on this planet and I want mine to be as healthy as possible. What if I'm irreversibly damaging it by going under the knife time after time? What if my nerves, damaged by endo, are getting so pissed off that they will act up the rest of my life? What if the hormones I've taken cause the endo flare to end all flares?
I won't even go into how I don't know how much more of trying my heart can take. But I don't.
There's also the question of how my body would behave with a pregnancy that lasts beyond 7 weeks, the time both of my miscarriages were diagnosed. I think we've established that my uterus is cranky, to say the least. Am I setting myself up for a pregnancy full of complications? Will I be in pain and on bedrest for 9 months? My two short-lived pregnancies were probably farther on the crampy/twingy continuum than most, but not awful. But I haven't experienced anything beyond 7 weeks. How in the world will my pissy uterus deal with an actual fetus?
Blah. I know I need to talk to my doctor about my fears but we're in survival mode currently, just trying to get past this painful post-op time. Communications with my doctor involve plans for the immediate future only.
A part of me, the part with feelings, isn't just in "making it through the day" mode, though. Tomorrow is my due date for my last pregnancy. I've been reflecting on the tiny little baby we saw on the ultrasound screen, perfect except for not having a heartbeat. We found out a few weeks after my D&C that it was a girl. I miss her. I wish I was worried about labor and delivery now and not when to stop trying.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
What I'm Doing On My "Trying to Avoid" Vacation
Note: In fertility/infertility circles, "trying to conceive" = TTC and "trying to avoid conception" = TTA.
Taking time off when you're trying to conceive can be good. Regroup, relax, stop thinking about planned sex. Give your body a break from fertility medications.
I've been on a medically-induced break for months. Months and months. Since my second miscarriage last September, actually. First it was waiting for the hCG to leave my system so we could do the repeated pregnancy loss panel. Then it was waiting for test results. Then uterine imaging times eleventy, surgeries, blah blah blah. Waiting indefinitely is a cruel thing to put a mid-30's infertile through.
However. I'm trying to see the positive side of time off as we look toward yet more months of waiting to try again. There are definitely positives.
1. I'm drinking all the coffee I want. Not really, because I get super jittery after 1.5 cups/day, but that 1.5 cups is a beautiful, life-affirming elixir each morning. I was drinking one cup a day before I knew I was pregnant last time, but guilt was involved. There is zero guilt right now.
2. I'm drinking wine sometimes. I don't drink often because of heartburn. Alcohol is a major culprit, along with citrus fruits, cheddar cheese, anything with tomatoes...the list goes on. But when I'm prepared to deal with the gastric side effects, I can totally drink.
3. I'm not taking my temperature. I half-heartedly kept charts for a few months after my last miscarriage, but that's gone out the window. My doctor has records of all the cycle-disrupting hormones I've been taking for the last few months. I'll let her do my only record keeping for a while.
4. I'm off people's "baby bump" watch list. When people know you've just undergone surgery, they tend to assume you aren't currently pregnant.
5 . I'm not having timed intercourse. Typical conversation when we're TTC for the umpteenth month in a row: "Should we do it before or after we watch Project Runway?" "Eh, let's just do it and get it out of the way." We haven't had to have that conversation in quite a while.
6. I'm not failing a test every month. You can't fail when you haven't tried. Sure, I still feel like a broken woman with a Franken-uterus, but the sense of failing an all-important, life-changing test every month is gone.
7. I'm eating what I want. Back to consumables. Lunch meat? Sure! Soft cheeses? Bring 'em on. Iffy leftovers? Eh, won't kill me. All the stuff I worry about when I'm trying isn't even close to being on my radar now. One could argue that I could keep doing my normal activities—coffee, soft cheeses and all—and get pregnant safely. But I know better than to try. I'm a worrier and it's better for me to skip the Intro to Kick-Boxing class when I'm TTC. It's not worth the worry that I'm going to harm my developing ova/blastocyst/zygote.
8. I'm not living my life in 2-week increments. No follicular phase freak-outs. No two-week wait. No mental breakdowns when Aunt Flo arrives involving crying in the bathroom, eating giant cookies, and spending money. (Of course, I've exchanged follicular and luteal phases for pre-op and post-op weeks, but I'm trying to be positive here.)
Of course, I desperately want to be TTC again. I want a chance of being pregnant. Even the hope roller-coaster sounds good about now. But I'm going to try to enjoy this break since I don't have much choice in the matter.
Post-op pain update: Pain still very much present but I'm seeing incremental improvements. My yoga muscles are atrophying and I'm not dumb enough to even try to stretch right now, so I'm still lying around a ton. Getting some amusement out of ordering my husband around.
Taking time off when you're trying to conceive can be good. Regroup, relax, stop thinking about planned sex. Give your body a break from fertility medications.
I've been on a medically-induced break for months. Months and months. Since my second miscarriage last September, actually. First it was waiting for the hCG to leave my system so we could do the repeated pregnancy loss panel. Then it was waiting for test results. Then uterine imaging times eleventy, surgeries, blah blah blah. Waiting indefinitely is a cruel thing to put a mid-30's infertile through.
However. I'm trying to see the positive side of time off as we look toward yet more months of waiting to try again. There are definitely positives.
1. I'm drinking all the coffee I want. Not really, because I get super jittery after 1.5 cups/day, but that 1.5 cups is a beautiful, life-affirming elixir each morning. I was drinking one cup a day before I knew I was pregnant last time, but guilt was involved. There is zero guilt right now.
2. I'm drinking wine sometimes. I don't drink often because of heartburn. Alcohol is a major culprit, along with citrus fruits, cheddar cheese, anything with tomatoes...the list goes on. But when I'm prepared to deal with the gastric side effects, I can totally drink.
3. I'm not taking my temperature. I half-heartedly kept charts for a few months after my last miscarriage, but that's gone out the window. My doctor has records of all the cycle-disrupting hormones I've been taking for the last few months. I'll let her do my only record keeping for a while.
4. I'm off people's "baby bump" watch list. When people know you've just undergone surgery, they tend to assume you aren't currently pregnant.
5 . I'm not having timed intercourse. Typical conversation when we're TTC for the umpteenth month in a row: "Should we do it before or after we watch Project Runway?" "Eh, let's just do it and get it out of the way." We haven't had to have that conversation in quite a while.
6. I'm not failing a test every month. You can't fail when you haven't tried. Sure, I still feel like a broken woman with a Franken-uterus, but the sense of failing an all-important, life-changing test every month is gone.
7. I'm eating what I want. Back to consumables. Lunch meat? Sure! Soft cheeses? Bring 'em on. Iffy leftovers? Eh, won't kill me. All the stuff I worry about when I'm trying isn't even close to being on my radar now. One could argue that I could keep doing my normal activities—coffee, soft cheeses and all—and get pregnant safely. But I know better than to try. I'm a worrier and it's better for me to skip the Intro to Kick-Boxing class when I'm TTC. It's not worth the worry that I'm going to harm my developing ova/blastocyst/zygote.
8. I'm not living my life in 2-week increments. No follicular phase freak-outs. No two-week wait. No mental breakdowns when Aunt Flo arrives involving crying in the bathroom, eating giant cookies, and spending money. (Of course, I've exchanged follicular and luteal phases for pre-op and post-op weeks, but I'm trying to be positive here.)
Of course, I desperately want to be TTC again. I want a chance of being pregnant. Even the hope roller-coaster sounds good about now. But I'm going to try to enjoy this break since I don't have much choice in the matter.
Post-op pain update: Pain still very much present but I'm seeing incremental improvements. My yoga muscles are atrophying and I'm not dumb enough to even try to stretch right now, so I'm still lying around a ton. Getting some amusement out of ordering my husband around.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The Balloon from Hell
Yesterday started with an innocent enough mix-up. I got up at 5:00 to get ready for my surgery, showered, and woke my husband up. That's when I realized it was actually an hour earlier than I'd thought and my alarm clock had Sprung Forward two days early. Somehow it had the date wrong, wrong year and everything. Ok, fine. Took a nap for an hour and thought it was no big deal. Maybe it was a sign of worse things to come.
The procedure itself was fine. My veins behaved beautifully for the IV insertion, I passed out pleasantly (isn't it always pleasant?), and wasn't in too much pain afterward. My doctor removed some more scar tissue and needed to insert a balloon to promote healing, so had to trim back my septum farther. The balloon was inserted and 5cc of fluid put in to prevent the uterine walls from fusing back together and forming more scar tissue.
My husband recorded his conversation with the doctor afterward, and I have yet to listen to it. I've looked at the detailed drawings, timeline, and uterus pics, though, which is about all I can handle right now. Looks like I'll be taking estrogen and then estrogen/progesterone this cycle, having a period, and then having another saline infusion sonogram. I have the option of doing letrozole at the same time as the 3D sono, but I'm not sure where I stand on that.
Back to yesterday. I hadn't picked up my post-op prescriptions yet because my work week had been busy, so we stopped by the pharmacy. The resident who'd written the prescriptions hadn't written a quantity for oxycodone, which started a drawn-out drama of trying to get it fixed by phone while we were waiting. About an hour later, meds in hand, we were able to head home. Pain and cramping started to set in for real.
Thirty minutes later, I was writhing on the floor in agony. It sounds totally melodramatic but I'm actually not exaggerating. Pain meds weren't helping so we headed to my doctor's office 30 minutes away. Seriously do not know how I made it through the trip, I was so out of my mind with pain.
I saw a fellow, who with my main doctor's blessing removed 2 cc's of the fluid from the balloon. It gave me immediate relief but not enough, so he removed another cc. I started bleeding, and the doctor said some of the pain had been from blood building up that couldn't be expelled. I went home feeling much less pain and no inclination to writhe.
That's when the bleeding picked up. A couple of hours later, I called the fellow again, and he said I'd have to go to the ER if the bleeding continued to be heavy. That definitely freaked me out—did not want to go there. Thankfully, the bleeding tapered some by bedtime and I pretended to sleep. Couldn't sleep more than 30 minutes at a stretch.
Called the fellow again this morning and the current plan is to removed the balloon tomorrow morning. We'd planned on removing it on Friday, but I can't deal with this level of pain for that long. I wouldn't be able to work, for one thing. The doctors say it's probably been in long enough to do some good, anyway.
I haven't really been able to process the fact that we'll be waiting at least one more month, if not more. I can't say I'm surprised, though.
Quick Blogger question that's been driving me crazy: some of the blogs I've followed through Google Friend Connect don't appear on my main Blogger Dashboard page or my Google Reader. I end up missing those posts and it makes me sad. Any ideas what's going on?
The procedure itself was fine. My veins behaved beautifully for the IV insertion, I passed out pleasantly (isn't it always pleasant?), and wasn't in too much pain afterward. My doctor removed some more scar tissue and needed to insert a balloon to promote healing, so had to trim back my septum farther. The balloon was inserted and 5cc of fluid put in to prevent the uterine walls from fusing back together and forming more scar tissue.
My husband recorded his conversation with the doctor afterward, and I have yet to listen to it. I've looked at the detailed drawings, timeline, and uterus pics, though, which is about all I can handle right now. Looks like I'll be taking estrogen and then estrogen/progesterone this cycle, having a period, and then having another saline infusion sonogram. I have the option of doing letrozole at the same time as the 3D sono, but I'm not sure where I stand on that.
Back to yesterday. I hadn't picked up my post-op prescriptions yet because my work week had been busy, so we stopped by the pharmacy. The resident who'd written the prescriptions hadn't written a quantity for oxycodone, which started a drawn-out drama of trying to get it fixed by phone while we were waiting. About an hour later, meds in hand, we were able to head home. Pain and cramping started to set in for real.
Thirty minutes later, I was writhing on the floor in agony. It sounds totally melodramatic but I'm actually not exaggerating. Pain meds weren't helping so we headed to my doctor's office 30 minutes away. Seriously do not know how I made it through the trip, I was so out of my mind with pain.
I saw a fellow, who with my main doctor's blessing removed 2 cc's of the fluid from the balloon. It gave me immediate relief but not enough, so he removed another cc. I started bleeding, and the doctor said some of the pain had been from blood building up that couldn't be expelled. I went home feeling much less pain and no inclination to writhe.
That's when the bleeding picked up. A couple of hours later, I called the fellow again, and he said I'd have to go to the ER if the bleeding continued to be heavy. That definitely freaked me out—did not want to go there. Thankfully, the bleeding tapered some by bedtime and I pretended to sleep. Couldn't sleep more than 30 minutes at a stretch.
Called the fellow again this morning and the current plan is to removed the balloon tomorrow morning. We'd planned on removing it on Friday, but I can't deal with this level of pain for that long. I wouldn't be able to work, for one thing. The doctors say it's probably been in long enough to do some good, anyway.
I haven't really been able to process the fact that we'll be waiting at least one more month, if not more. I can't say I'm surprised, though.
Quick Blogger question that's been driving me crazy: some of the blogs I've followed through Google Friend Connect don't appear on my main Blogger Dashboard page or my Google Reader. I end up missing those posts and it makes me sad. Any ideas what's going on?
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Still Benched
My hysteroscopy yesterday dealt us another setback and I'm feeling numb.
My husband dropped me off at the clinic 30 minutes early because he had a work commitment he couldn't get out of. I told my sister to come pick me up around 10:30. That's kind of how it is these days. Get a ride from whomever is available, go home, sleep it off. Repeat. Procedures and anesthesia seem to be my new normal. My uterus has been poked around in five times in the last 6 months, three of those with anesthesia.
So having one or two more procedures in the next couple of months won't make much of a difference, right? Yeah, right. Waiting for just an opportunity to conceive has become really hellish.
My doctor removed a little more scar tissue yesterday. She hesitated to call it scar tissue, like maybe it wasn't quite bad enough to fit that criteria, but I'll call it that for lack of a better term. One area in the upper left corner of my uterus just doesn't want to behave.
I need to have another hysteroscopy next month to make sure it healed. My doctor gave me the option of trying to conceive this month, since my follicles are rarin' to go after taking letrozole, but I can't. I told her I'm not in a gambling mood. If scar tissue puts me at risk of miscarriage, why would I risk it? I'm desperate but not reckless.
My procedure next month will need to be performed at the surgery center instead of the clinic. My doctor wants to have access to special surgical scissors in case she sees more scar tissue. If she does remove more scar tissue then, she'll insert a balloon afterward to promote healing. Then there was something about removing more of my septum so that the balloon is more effective, something that didn't make total sense in my Versed/fentanyl haze. She's going to call me today to discuss it further. Oh, yeah, and I would need to have yet another hysteroscopy in April to check out the healing.
In addition to the whole waiting thing, which SUCKS, I'm not psyched to go to the surgery center again. My surgery in December was there and while everyone was super nice, it was quite a process. Lots and lots of instructions and phone calls before the surgery, hard-core anesthesia that required a longer recovery, and an audience of anesthesia people, surgical nurses, and random people off the street who wanted to see my freakish uterus up close and personal. I much prefer feeling less like a circus act at the clinic with just my surgeon and one nurse in attendance.
My husband wants to do another letrozole cycle next month in case everything looks good at uterus imaging session number 252. I was on board at first but am not feeling it anymore. First of all, I have zero hope that my uterus will look stunningly clear. Its track record lately isn't very good. Second, letrozole isn't a walk in the park. Taking it makes me giddy with hope, and I'm just not willing to be let down by an aborted attempt like this month. Not to mention the side effects. They admittedly don't get bad for me until the last day of taking it, but at that point my fatigue becomes crushing and I almost start crying in the produce department because I can't find my husband.
I'm pretty devastated. I knew we might not be able to try this month, but holding onto hope that we could was keeping me going. Two or three or four months isn't a long time in the scheme of things, and when you aren't the one going through it, it's really not. But when it's your life and your body, it feels like it will never end. In the next few months, I'll turn 35, lose my opportunity to have a 2012 baby, and possibly get closer to losing my mind.
I have to say, though, you guys are helping to keep me sane. Your support has been tremendous and is making such a difference in my life. I am enjoying getting to know each of you. Thank you!
My husband dropped me off at the clinic 30 minutes early because he had a work commitment he couldn't get out of. I told my sister to come pick me up around 10:30. That's kind of how it is these days. Get a ride from whomever is available, go home, sleep it off. Repeat. Procedures and anesthesia seem to be my new normal. My uterus has been poked around in five times in the last 6 months, three of those with anesthesia.
So having one or two more procedures in the next couple of months won't make much of a difference, right? Yeah, right. Waiting for just an opportunity to conceive has become really hellish.
My doctor removed a little more scar tissue yesterday. She hesitated to call it scar tissue, like maybe it wasn't quite bad enough to fit that criteria, but I'll call it that for lack of a better term. One area in the upper left corner of my uterus just doesn't want to behave.
I need to have another hysteroscopy next month to make sure it healed. My doctor gave me the option of trying to conceive this month, since my follicles are rarin' to go after taking letrozole, but I can't. I told her I'm not in a gambling mood. If scar tissue puts me at risk of miscarriage, why would I risk it? I'm desperate but not reckless.
My procedure next month will need to be performed at the surgery center instead of the clinic. My doctor wants to have access to special surgical scissors in case she sees more scar tissue. If she does remove more scar tissue then, she'll insert a balloon afterward to promote healing. Then there was something about removing more of my septum so that the balloon is more effective, something that didn't make total sense in my Versed/fentanyl haze. She's going to call me today to discuss it further. Oh, yeah, and I would need to have yet another hysteroscopy in April to check out the healing.
In addition to the whole waiting thing, which SUCKS, I'm not psyched to go to the surgery center again. My surgery in December was there and while everyone was super nice, it was quite a process. Lots and lots of instructions and phone calls before the surgery, hard-core anesthesia that required a longer recovery, and an audience of anesthesia people, surgical nurses, and random people off the street who wanted to see my freakish uterus up close and personal. I much prefer feeling less like a circus act at the clinic with just my surgeon and one nurse in attendance.
My husband wants to do another letrozole cycle next month in case everything looks good at uterus imaging session number 252. I was on board at first but am not feeling it anymore. First of all, I have zero hope that my uterus will look stunningly clear. Its track record lately isn't very good. Second, letrozole isn't a walk in the park. Taking it makes me giddy with hope, and I'm just not willing to be let down by an aborted attempt like this month. Not to mention the side effects. They admittedly don't get bad for me until the last day of taking it, but at that point my fatigue becomes crushing and I almost start crying in the produce department because I can't find my husband.
I'm pretty devastated. I knew we might not be able to try this month, but holding onto hope that we could was keeping me going. Two or three or four months isn't a long time in the scheme of things, and when you aren't the one going through it, it's really not. But when it's your life and your body, it feels like it will never end. In the next few months, I'll turn 35, lose my opportunity to have a 2012 baby, and possibly get closer to losing my mind.
I have to say, though, you guys are helping to keep me sane. Your support has been tremendous and is making such a difference in my life. I am enjoying getting to know each of you. Thank you!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Coming Out, Neighborhood Style
In my last post, I complained about people who can't go two seconds without talking about their babies. What do they think about the weather? Their baby likes it. How do they feel about the big game? They haven't cared about sports since Junior was born. Thank goodness their lives have meaning now and such trivialities don't concern them anymore.
Whereas I can't relate to having a meaningful life—mine's still purposeless and insignificant, obviously—I can totally relate to their one-track minds. I go through phases where getting pregnant is all I think about. Before being consumed by basal body temperatures and fake pregnancy symptoms, I'd obsess about other stuff: boyfriends (pre-husband), running, finishing my degree. I was guilty of awkwardly turning conversations to my obsession du jour.
One of my latest preoccupations, more of a semi-obsession than a full-blown one, has been to tell some neighborhood friends about our difficulty getting and staying pregnant. Broaching the topic has proved tricky, though. I hadn't been able to find an opening. "How are you?" "Ok, but my uterus isn't." "Why didn't you come to the last party?" "I was going through my second miscarriage. Was there a keg?" I just hadn't wanted to be a downer, you know?
Lately I've been ready to break my silence, though. Last weekend after a glass of wine, I worked some conversational magic to turn a conversation from aging to infertility. I said that aging hadn't bothered me until we started trying to conceive, and now my greying eyebrow hairs are constant reminders that it's just going to get harder for me to get (and stay) pregnant. At the time, I thought you could hear a pin drop after I said that. I've known these women for years and I'm guessing they've wondered about my husband and me, the oddly childless ones.
In retrospect, the room didn't get silent. A woman jumped in and started talking about her experiences with infertility and loss. She's doing well now and has children, which is reassuring. I felt connected, and the wall protecting my secrets came down a little more.
Not telling can be a burden. You miss out on support, for one thing. You also lie. For several weeks after my laparoscopy, I lied about why I had to miss my neighborhood yoga class. Telling about the lap would have meant telling about endo, leading to questions about endo and fertility, which I wasn't ready for. You also can't expect people to be sensitive if they don't know about your issues. Maybe they'll still say dumb stuff after they know, but maybe they won't. Maybe telling the entire neighborhood about our struggles will put an end to comments about how my husband and I must be rattling around in our house with its unused bedrooms.
I know there's a downside to telling, too. I can't untell them and regain my privacy. Telling people is addictive, though, and I'm going to enjoy this high as long as I can.
Random thought of the day: I get really excited when my work bathroom has new "Don't throw your tampon in the toilet" signs. Someone else is menstruating and not pregnant! Another possible sign of a fellow bleeder is hearing paper crackle in the next stall, although it usually just turns out the person changed the toilet paper roll.
Whereas I can't relate to having a meaningful life—mine's still purposeless and insignificant, obviously—I can totally relate to their one-track minds. I go through phases where getting pregnant is all I think about. Before being consumed by basal body temperatures and fake pregnancy symptoms, I'd obsess about other stuff: boyfriends (pre-husband), running, finishing my degree. I was guilty of awkwardly turning conversations to my obsession du jour.
One of my latest preoccupations, more of a semi-obsession than a full-blown one, has been to tell some neighborhood friends about our difficulty getting and staying pregnant. Broaching the topic has proved tricky, though. I hadn't been able to find an opening. "How are you?" "Ok, but my uterus isn't." "Why didn't you come to the last party?" "I was going through my second miscarriage. Was there a keg?" I just hadn't wanted to be a downer, you know?
Lately I've been ready to break my silence, though. Last weekend after a glass of wine, I worked some conversational magic to turn a conversation from aging to infertility. I said that aging hadn't bothered me until we started trying to conceive, and now my greying eyebrow hairs are constant reminders that it's just going to get harder for me to get (and stay) pregnant. At the time, I thought you could hear a pin drop after I said that. I've known these women for years and I'm guessing they've wondered about my husband and me, the oddly childless ones.
In retrospect, the room didn't get silent. A woman jumped in and started talking about her experiences with infertility and loss. She's doing well now and has children, which is reassuring. I felt connected, and the wall protecting my secrets came down a little more.
Not telling can be a burden. You miss out on support, for one thing. You also lie. For several weeks after my laparoscopy, I lied about why I had to miss my neighborhood yoga class. Telling about the lap would have meant telling about endo, leading to questions about endo and fertility, which I wasn't ready for. You also can't expect people to be sensitive if they don't know about your issues. Maybe they'll still say dumb stuff after they know, but maybe they won't. Maybe telling the entire neighborhood about our struggles will put an end to comments about how my husband and I must be rattling around in our house with its unused bedrooms.
I know there's a downside to telling, too. I can't untell them and regain my privacy. Telling people is addictive, though, and I'm going to enjoy this high as long as I can.
Random thought of the day: I get really excited when my work bathroom has new "Don't throw your tampon in the toilet" signs. Someone else is menstruating and not pregnant! Another possible sign of a fellow bleeder is hearing paper crackle in the next stall, although it usually just turns out the person changed the toilet paper roll.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
My Baby
I've led my bloggie friends to believe that we're trying for our first take-home baby, but that's not entirely true. Meet our first, Baby Dog. Her name has been changed to maintain anonymity.
She's actually not a baby anymore but is a full-grown, elderly doggie. I've had her since she was one. She didn't have any puppy energy left in her at age one and was already kinda lazy and crotchety. She's always completely lacked in any athletic abilities and will only run if she thinks she is in imminent danger. Or if she thinks she's going to be fed. She thinks playing fetch is a complete waste of time. She also has the most intense, loving gaze that looks right into your soul.
My husband entered the picture when Baby Dog was middle-aged. She was pretty set in her ways by then but decided pretty quickly that he was ok. One incident early on when we were dating convinced her that he was The One. We had guests over and accidentally left some food out on the coffee table when we went to another room. Suddenly realizing our mistake, I leaped up to find her licking the cutting board clean. She'd eaten a pound of cheese. Amazingly, she seemed to feel great afterward and suffered no ill effects.
****
My husband and I bought a new camera recently. Our old one broke sometime after our honeymoon in 2007. In the early days after it broke, I decreed that we couldn't buy a new camera until we had a baby. You know, good old-fashioned bribery to get my husband on the trying to conceive train earlier. Eventually our babyless state had zero to do with lack of trying and everything to do with legitimate medical problems, so I decided to stop punishing him with a cameraless existence.
Baby Dog has been the subject of more photos with our new camera than any other person or dog. In a fit of unexploited maternal energy last weekend, I decided it would be hilarious to photograph her surrounded by hand-me-down baby paraphernalia that's collecting dust in our closets. It was.
Looks like my letrozole cycle is getting moved up! As you know, that never happens. Cycles are always pushed back and never moved up. Apparently muscle twitches are not a common side effect of taking estrogen, contrary to what Dr. Google told me, and my doctor instructed me to stop taking it and the progesterone right away. She thinks I've been on the hormones long enough and can wait for a period, meaning I'll probably get to start letrozole a little earlier than initially planned. Every little bit helps, right?
 |
| "But I'm not cold." |
She's actually not a baby anymore but is a full-grown, elderly doggie. I've had her since she was one. She didn't have any puppy energy left in her at age one and was already kinda lazy and crotchety. She's always completely lacked in any athletic abilities and will only run if she thinks she is in imminent danger. Or if she thinks she's going to be fed. She thinks playing fetch is a complete waste of time. She also has the most intense, loving gaze that looks right into your soul.
My husband entered the picture when Baby Dog was middle-aged. She was pretty set in her ways by then but decided pretty quickly that he was ok. One incident early on when we were dating convinced her that he was The One. We had guests over and accidentally left some food out on the coffee table when we went to another room. Suddenly realizing our mistake, I leaped up to find her licking the cutting board clean. She'd eaten a pound of cheese. Amazingly, she seemed to feel great afterward and suffered no ill effects.
****
My husband and I bought a new camera recently. Our old one broke sometime after our honeymoon in 2007. In the early days after it broke, I decreed that we couldn't buy a new camera until we had a baby. You know, good old-fashioned bribery to get my husband on the trying to conceive train earlier. Eventually our babyless state had zero to do with lack of trying and everything to do with legitimate medical problems, so I decided to stop punishing him with a cameraless existence.
Baby Dog has been the subject of more photos with our new camera than any other person or dog. In a fit of unexploited maternal energy last weekend, I decided it would be hilarious to photograph her surrounded by hand-me-down baby paraphernalia that's collecting dust in our closets. It was.
The worst part of the photo shoot for Baby Dog was when I tried to hold her. She gets mad when her 2-foot bubble of personal space isn't respected. She looks adorable in a baby hat but has very little tolerance for cuddling, being rocked to sleep, or being burped.
 |
| Burping |
Sifting through the sadly unused baby clothes was the hardest part of the photo shoot on my end. I did it for the sake of a few funny photos—you know, fine art. When the clothes are sitting in our closets along with car seats and strollers, I can try to forget they're there. Opening the vacuum-sealed bags and smelling their baby-ness (how do they retain that baby scent from years ago when my niece and nephew were little?) reminds me that my only baby smells like a dog and not baby shampoo. For now, Baby Dog will have to be the sometimes unwilling recipient of all of my maternal impulses.
Looks like my letrozole cycle is getting moved up! As you know, that never happens. Cycles are always pushed back and never moved up. Apparently muscle twitches are not a common side effect of taking estrogen, contrary to what Dr. Google told me, and my doctor instructed me to stop taking it and the progesterone right away. She thinks I've been on the hormones long enough and can wait for a period, meaning I'll probably get to start letrozole a little earlier than initially planned. Every little bit helps, right?
Friday, January 13, 2012
Hidden Expenses of Trying
My second miscarriage was a lot cheaper than my first. I'm guessing it's not because my insurance company offers "buy one get one free" coverage for D&Cs, though. Either they missed this last one, which is highly unlikely, or it's covered differently from the first because it was performed in an office and not a hospital setting. In any case, I only paid a $20 copay.
I felt like I was getting away with something for a while after the cheapie D&C, particularly since my first one set me back $1800. Mindful of not counting my chickens before they hatched (don't I know it), I kept an eye out for a bill in case it took a while to be processed. My heart would stop when I received mail from my insurance company, but all of the envelopes contained harmless letters and not bills.
Rather than opening the mailbox with dread every day, I could have called to inquire about coverage for the procedure. However, I knew there was really no need to waste 30 minutes getting a noncommittal answer from a representative. It was just a matter of time before some other medical test or procedure helped me reach my insurance deductible and coinsurance maximum.
My surgery last month ended up being the big ticket item for this insurance period. I've reached my deductible/coinsurance maximum each of the 3 insurance years we've tried, meaning that including copays, we've spent over $10,000 not getting pregnant. Or, technically speaking, occasionally getting pregnant but not making it very far.
Everyone knows IVF can be expensive. IUIs can certainly add up, too, making people wonder if they should have put the IUI money towards IVF. What's blindsided me, though, is how much money you can spend on things that aren't IUI or IVF. There's an array of fertility-related tests and procedures I hadn't considered before 2 years ago, from less invasive (but still expensive) uncovered lab tests to surgeries like laparoscopies.
As far as infertility treatments and expenses go, we're in the minor leagues. My heart goes out to women who have spent much, much more than we have and still do not have a baby in their arms. Or those who have a baby but have suffered financially after expensive treatments. Or who have gone through IVF at all, even if it was paid for. I know I'm far from alone in all this. My husband and I have been lucky so far to avoid IVF-scale interventions.
I have to wonder, though. How many more insurance years will I continue paying my maximum, not for prenatal testing, labor, and delivery but for infertility labwork and procedures?
I felt like I was getting away with something for a while after the cheapie D&C, particularly since my first one set me back $1800. Mindful of not counting my chickens before they hatched (don't I know it), I kept an eye out for a bill in case it took a while to be processed. My heart would stop when I received mail from my insurance company, but all of the envelopes contained harmless letters and not bills.
Rather than opening the mailbox with dread every day, I could have called to inquire about coverage for the procedure. However, I knew there was really no need to waste 30 minutes getting a noncommittal answer from a representative. It was just a matter of time before some other medical test or procedure helped me reach my insurance deductible and coinsurance maximum.
My surgery last month ended up being the big ticket item for this insurance period. I've reached my deductible/coinsurance maximum each of the 3 insurance years we've tried, meaning that including copays, we've spent over $10,000 not getting pregnant. Or, technically speaking, occasionally getting pregnant but not making it very far.
Everyone knows IVF can be expensive. IUIs can certainly add up, too, making people wonder if they should have put the IUI money towards IVF. What's blindsided me, though, is how much money you can spend on things that aren't IUI or IVF. There's an array of fertility-related tests and procedures I hadn't considered before 2 years ago, from less invasive (but still expensive) uncovered lab tests to surgeries like laparoscopies.
As far as infertility treatments and expenses go, we're in the minor leagues. My heart goes out to women who have spent much, much more than we have and still do not have a baby in their arms. Or those who have a baby but have suffered financially after expensive treatments. Or who have gone through IVF at all, even if it was paid for. I know I'm far from alone in all this. My husband and I have been lucky so far to avoid IVF-scale interventions.
I have to wonder, though. How many more insurance years will I continue paying my maximum, not for prenatal testing, labor, and delivery but for infertility labwork and procedures?
Friday, January 6, 2012
New Year, New Regrets
I mistakenly thought I'd coast into my surgery last Friday with a limited amount of nerves. Ha! Guess you never really get used to handing your life over to strangers wielding potent anesthetics and scalpels.
Fasting, IVs, and anesthesia should be old hat to me after having gone through several procedures. My first surgery several years back was completely unrelated to my reproductive organs, although like this recent surgery, it also involved a septum. My nasal septum was veering off course and required some work to fix. For the most part, it wasn't too traumatic, except when I nearly passed out from the horror of My First IV. The My First Surgery Barbie would have a huge bruise on her arm as a badge of honor. There is nothing normal or natural-seeming about having a needle sitting in you and feeling cold IV fluids enter and creep up your arm. Disgusting.
Several procedures and a laparoscopy later, IVs are easy peasy. I'm almost to the point of being able to watch them put it in. Ok, that's a lie, but at least I'm not fainting anymore.
At my pre-op appointment, a resident gave me several prescriptions associated with the surgery. Narcotic, check. Hormones to promote healing afterward, check. Misoprostal...wait a second. Misoprostal is often used in lieu of D&Cs to induce miscarriages. I had a visceral reaction when the resident casually mentioned I'd be taking it. Apparently, in addition to inducing miscarriages, it can be used to prepare your cervix for procedures to prevent future miscarriages.
A lot of us have an unfailing memory for dates associated with our losses and infertility. On 12/30/09, I started spotting with my first miscarriage. On 12/30/11, I was on misoprostal and headed into surgery.
It was pretty uneventful physically. I came to and said, "Is it over already?" Cramps came and went for a few days afterward but were manageable.
I'm left with a lingering sense of regret and "should have knowns," though. My doctor removed two things, a septum and some scar tissue, I feel like I should have explored further last year. We'd been assuming the septum was too small to cause any issues, but maybe it was an issue all along. The scar tissue, possibly caused by my first D&C, was hinted at during my HSG a year ago. The tissue was partially blocking the opening to my left tube and I have to wonder if it's a coincidence that both of my pregnancies were from the right. It pisses me off that this might have been missed by some previous doctors. The third item on my doctor's extraction list was a polyp. I'm pretty sure it was a new development so at least I can keep it off of my guilt list.
How do you find the balance between researching adequately—pursuing diagnostic testing and second opinions—and becoming completely consumed by it? I want to believe that we've done enough experimenting recently on my body (ok, and on my husband, who had one vial of blood drawn after my last miscarriage) at this point to move forward with trying again. My obsessive, scientific nature drives me to check out all options, though, and it's hard to find the balance between constant research and trusting my doctor. I know that at some point, the data collecting has to stop.
That's where I'm at this first week of 2012. Wondering if we've covered all our bases, regretting that we didn't address some of these issues earlier, and hoping an embryo will soon make itself at home my newly renovated uterus.
If all goes well with my recovery this month, we'll start a letrozole cycle in early February. My first and only letrozole cycle to date resulted in a pregnancy so it's hard to not put all of my hopes and dreams into this upcoming cycle. After being in a holding pattern for several months, I'm beyond ready to get this party started again.
I've missed the Blogosphere this past month. Work and the holidays have been just about all I can handle recently. I've been trying to keep up with reading and commenting as best I can and hope to see everyone more this month.
Fasting, IVs, and anesthesia should be old hat to me after having gone through several procedures. My first surgery several years back was completely unrelated to my reproductive organs, although like this recent surgery, it also involved a septum. My nasal septum was veering off course and required some work to fix. For the most part, it wasn't too traumatic, except when I nearly passed out from the horror of My First IV. The My First Surgery Barbie would have a huge bruise on her arm as a badge of honor. There is nothing normal or natural-seeming about having a needle sitting in you and feeling cold IV fluids enter and creep up your arm. Disgusting.
Several procedures and a laparoscopy later, IVs are easy peasy. I'm almost to the point of being able to watch them put it in. Ok, that's a lie, but at least I'm not fainting anymore.
At my pre-op appointment, a resident gave me several prescriptions associated with the surgery. Narcotic, check. Hormones to promote healing afterward, check. Misoprostal...wait a second. Misoprostal is often used in lieu of D&Cs to induce miscarriages. I had a visceral reaction when the resident casually mentioned I'd be taking it. Apparently, in addition to inducing miscarriages, it can be used to prepare your cervix for procedures to prevent future miscarriages.
A lot of us have an unfailing memory for dates associated with our losses and infertility. On 12/30/09, I started spotting with my first miscarriage. On 12/30/11, I was on misoprostal and headed into surgery.
It was pretty uneventful physically. I came to and said, "Is it over already?" Cramps came and went for a few days afterward but were manageable.
I'm left with a lingering sense of regret and "should have knowns," though. My doctor removed two things, a septum and some scar tissue, I feel like I should have explored further last year. We'd been assuming the septum was too small to cause any issues, but maybe it was an issue all along. The scar tissue, possibly caused by my first D&C, was hinted at during my HSG a year ago. The tissue was partially blocking the opening to my left tube and I have to wonder if it's a coincidence that both of my pregnancies were from the right. It pisses me off that this might have been missed by some previous doctors. The third item on my doctor's extraction list was a polyp. I'm pretty sure it was a new development so at least I can keep it off of my guilt list.
How do you find the balance between researching adequately—pursuing diagnostic testing and second opinions—and becoming completely consumed by it? I want to believe that we've done enough experimenting recently on my body (ok, and on my husband, who had one vial of blood drawn after my last miscarriage) at this point to move forward with trying again. My obsessive, scientific nature drives me to check out all options, though, and it's hard to find the balance between constant research and trusting my doctor. I know that at some point, the data collecting has to stop.
That's where I'm at this first week of 2012. Wondering if we've covered all our bases, regretting that we didn't address some of these issues earlier, and hoping an embryo will soon make itself at home my newly renovated uterus.
If all goes well with my recovery this month, we'll start a letrozole cycle in early February. My first and only letrozole cycle to date resulted in a pregnancy so it's hard to not put all of my hopes and dreams into this upcoming cycle. After being in a holding pattern for several months, I'm beyond ready to get this party started again.
I've missed the Blogosphere this past month. Work and the holidays have been just about all I can handle recently. I've been trying to keep up with reading and commenting as best I can and hope to see everyone more this month.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Kids Having Kids
You see them everywhere: the young fertiles. It stings. Why them and not me? Recently, it got personal for me. I found out the kids I used to babysit are now having kids. How is that possible? Didn't time freeze when they were 10?
I recently discovered that a former babysitting client works in my husband's department. I grew up and babysat two states away and don't often run into people from that life. Small world.
My husband found out this kid is married and has a child, which is perfectly reasonable and expected given that he's in his late 20's. It kinda blew my mind, though. I met (re-met?) him and his wife and new baby at a party at my husband's department and had my mind blown even more.
I'm supposed to have children before the kids I babysat have them, obviously. Sure, life's not fair and everyone faces different battles, but it's so easy to get caught up in self pity sometimes. Something releases within me a bit when I admit to myself that it's just not fair, go cry in the bathroom at work, and move on.
I'm finding myself dwelling in pity-party land a lot lately, though. The holidays are tough and I'm angry that I have a surgery coming up soon—removal of a uterine septum and a polyp. Last New Year's, I was preparing for my laparoscopy. This New Year's will be one day after my septum/polyp resection and I'll probably be on painkillers instead of champagne.
We hope to be cleared to try again after I heal from the surgery. My repeated pregnancy loss panel came back normal, which my doctor said bodes well for us. I'm trying to feel good about that but secretly wishing we had a more definitive answer for our losses. If they'd found something treatable, something other than the septum that may or may not be a problem, we'd fix it and get our baby. I know in reality it's not that easy but the inconclusive diagnoses are so scary in their own way.
I'm happy to be taking part in my second ICLW. Welcome to my blog!
I recently discovered that a former babysitting client works in my husband's department. I grew up and babysat two states away and don't often run into people from that life. Small world.
My husband found out this kid is married and has a child, which is perfectly reasonable and expected given that he's in his late 20's. It kinda blew my mind, though. I met (re-met?) him and his wife and new baby at a party at my husband's department and had my mind blown even more.
I'm supposed to have children before the kids I babysat have them, obviously. Sure, life's not fair and everyone faces different battles, but it's so easy to get caught up in self pity sometimes. Something releases within me a bit when I admit to myself that it's just not fair, go cry in the bathroom at work, and move on.
I'm finding myself dwelling in pity-party land a lot lately, though. The holidays are tough and I'm angry that I have a surgery coming up soon—removal of a uterine septum and a polyp. Last New Year's, I was preparing for my laparoscopy. This New Year's will be one day after my septum/polyp resection and I'll probably be on painkillers instead of champagne.
We hope to be cleared to try again after I heal from the surgery. My repeated pregnancy loss panel came back normal, which my doctor said bodes well for us. I'm trying to feel good about that but secretly wishing we had a more definitive answer for our losses. If they'd found something treatable, something other than the septum that may or may not be a problem, we'd fix it and get our baby. I know in reality it's not that easy but the inconclusive diagnoses are so scary in their own way.
I'm happy to be taking part in my second ICLW. Welcome to my blog!
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Zero Sum Game
I'm pretty sure my therapist lied to me.
She has many good qualities. She's a lovely, highly intelligent person who feels more like a good friend, albeit one with an intimate knowledge of infertility psychology, than a therapist. Once a year, she leads a series of group sessions based on Alice Domar's research. I attended the series last spring and continued receiving individual therapy from her after it ended. I cannot begin to describe the many ways she's helped me.
However, despite her extensive scholarship and experience, I can't help but question some of her nuggets of infertility wisdom. The one that's bugging me lately is about how other women's fertility does not affect mine. Having babies, she says, is not a zero sum game in which I have to remain childless in order for some other woman to have her baby or babies. My scientific training tells me she's correct, but there are times I question it. Like when I found out last week that my husband's brother's wife is pregnant with baby #5.
This will be their fifth baby in 6 years. Their children are wonderful and of course I'm happy for them. Heck, if they keep having them at this rate, maybe they'll even loan us a kid or two. However, it also makes me sad about my lack of babies, and it's not the first time a pregnancy of hers has done that. The announcement of pregnancy #3 provoked a weekend-long crying jag that was my husband's first glimpse of how baby crazed I was. We weren't even trying at the time but I was—surprise, honey!—quite ready to start. (For the record, I only cried for one night this time! Progress.)
My husband's brother isn't the only genetic relation of ours to be amazingly fruitful. My sister is so fertile I thought surely by virtue of sharing half of her genes, I'd be at least half as fertile. Are our siblings using up our family's fertility allotment? Outside our family, am I the token infertile friend who has to fulfill some pre-ordained percentage of infertiles in my sphere? My rational mind accepts that my fertility (or lack thereof) is independent of others', but there's still a little niggling place in the back of my brain that doesn't accept it.
p.s. Thank you so much for your Liebster blog nominations. I am putting together a post about it. Family obligations over Thanksgiving kept me out of blogging for a while.
She has many good qualities. She's a lovely, highly intelligent person who feels more like a good friend, albeit one with an intimate knowledge of infertility psychology, than a therapist. Once a year, she leads a series of group sessions based on Alice Domar's research. I attended the series last spring and continued receiving individual therapy from her after it ended. I cannot begin to describe the many ways she's helped me.
However, despite her extensive scholarship and experience, I can't help but question some of her nuggets of infertility wisdom. The one that's bugging me lately is about how other women's fertility does not affect mine. Having babies, she says, is not a zero sum game in which I have to remain childless in order for some other woman to have her baby or babies. My scientific training tells me she's correct, but there are times I question it. Like when I found out last week that my husband's brother's wife is pregnant with baby #5.
This will be their fifth baby in 6 years. Their children are wonderful and of course I'm happy for them. Heck, if they keep having them at this rate, maybe they'll even loan us a kid or two. However, it also makes me sad about my lack of babies, and it's not the first time a pregnancy of hers has done that. The announcement of pregnancy #3 provoked a weekend-long crying jag that was my husband's first glimpse of how baby crazed I was. We weren't even trying at the time but I was—surprise, honey!—quite ready to start. (For the record, I only cried for one night this time! Progress.)
My husband's brother isn't the only genetic relation of ours to be amazingly fruitful. My sister is so fertile I thought surely by virtue of sharing half of her genes, I'd be at least half as fertile. Are our siblings using up our family's fertility allotment? Outside our family, am I the token infertile friend who has to fulfill some pre-ordained percentage of infertiles in my sphere? My rational mind accepts that my fertility (or lack thereof) is independent of others', but there's still a little niggling place in the back of my brain that doesn't accept it.
p.s. Thank you so much for your Liebster blog nominations. I am putting together a post about it. Family obligations over Thanksgiving kept me out of blogging for a while.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
It's Your Turn...Maybe
Welcome, November ICLWers! Here's a quickie version of my not-so-reproductive history: trying over 2 years, 2 miscarriages (1 recent), currently pursuing repeated pregnancy loss testing and a surgery to remove a uterine septum.
After a disappointing appointment with my reproductive endocrinologist last week, I gave my mom the status report: 6-week wait until surgery and some unknown amount of time to heal after that. My mom said hopefully, "Well, after the surgery, things should go fine." Translation: You'll get pregnant immediately, you won't miscarry, and you'll have a baby 9 months after that. Some people tell you things will be fine to brush you off, but I don't think that was her intention. I think she either actually feels optimistic or is trying to use the power of positive thinking on my reproductive organs. She had a similar hopeful reaction after my first miscarriage almost 2 years ago, telling me she thought I'd have a baby by Christmas. Of course, the timing would have been impossible unless I'd gotten pregnant immediately (ha!) and delivered early.
How do you feel about people telling you that surely your next [vacation/surgery/IVF] is gonna result in a baby? I used to feel hopeful right along with them but admit I don't anymore. Miscarriage #2 destroyed my sense that everything's gonna be ok. During that pregnancy, I was sure it was finally my turn. I thought I'd reached my miscarriage quota, that I'd put in my time with infertility and loss. It turns out there isn't a limit to the number of miscarriages you can have. There's no cosmic fairness meter doling out infertility and loss evenly—it's just unfair. Optimism and a sense that it's your turn don't get you a baby.
On a more positive note, part of you has to believe the next cycle will be The One or you'll go out of your mind. I want to believe that removing my septum is the magic bullet—that I'll heal perfectly, get pregnant soon after, and meet my baby 9 months after that. I guess the difference between my mom and me is that I don't dare voice that optimism—it's too hard when it doesn't work out. It seems naive to say "things should go fine" from this point forward. If it was as easy as saying and thinking that, they would have gone fine many, many months ago.
After a disappointing appointment with my reproductive endocrinologist last week, I gave my mom the status report: 6-week wait until surgery and some unknown amount of time to heal after that. My mom said hopefully, "Well, after the surgery, things should go fine." Translation: You'll get pregnant immediately, you won't miscarry, and you'll have a baby 9 months after that. Some people tell you things will be fine to brush you off, but I don't think that was her intention. I think she either actually feels optimistic or is trying to use the power of positive thinking on my reproductive organs. She had a similar hopeful reaction after my first miscarriage almost 2 years ago, telling me she thought I'd have a baby by Christmas. Of course, the timing would have been impossible unless I'd gotten pregnant immediately (ha!) and delivered early.
How do you feel about people telling you that surely your next [vacation/surgery/IVF] is gonna result in a baby? I used to feel hopeful right along with them but admit I don't anymore. Miscarriage #2 destroyed my sense that everything's gonna be ok. During that pregnancy, I was sure it was finally my turn. I thought I'd reached my miscarriage quota, that I'd put in my time with infertility and loss. It turns out there isn't a limit to the number of miscarriages you can have. There's no cosmic fairness meter doling out infertility and loss evenly—it's just unfair. Optimism and a sense that it's your turn don't get you a baby.
On a more positive note, part of you has to believe the next cycle will be The One or you'll go out of your mind. I want to believe that removing my septum is the magic bullet—that I'll heal perfectly, get pregnant soon after, and meet my baby 9 months after that. I guess the difference between my mom and me is that I don't dare voice that optimism—it's too hard when it doesn't work out. It seems naive to say "things should go fine" from this point forward. If it was as easy as saying and thinking that, they would have gone fine many, many months ago.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Embarrassing Moments
Remember those "My Most Embarrassing Moment" stories you were forced to write as a kid? At least for "The Person I Admire Most" or "My Best Day Ever," you could come up with something without resorting to lying. If you couldn't think of an embarrassing moment, you were screwed. Did everyone else keep their most embarrassing moments filed away in case they were ever asked?
It turns out the scourge of having an embarrassing moment story at the ready isn't just for kids. At a party recently, some friends started sharing their cute, hilariously awkward embarrassing moments. My husband had everyone doubled over with his story about getting tongue-tied around a pretty realtor in his dating days--he accidentally said he was going to "pick his nose" in another room. Everyone had their funny/cute story ready until the attention shifted to me. Just like in elementary school, I couldn't think of a single embarrassing moment.
If I'd been with a different crowd, specifically a fertility-challenged one, I could have thought of several cringe-worthy moments to share. Infertility is full of embarrassment, and not of the neighborhood party-appropriate "the wave took my swimsuit!" type. We have to get used to spreading our legs for strangers on a regular basis. Maybe mortifying is a better word for it.
One infertility embarrassing moment happened during my first treatment cycle last summer. I was supposed to take letrozole starting on cycle day 3, but what does "day 3" REALLY mean? What about heavy spotting? Heavy spotting for several days? On a Sunday morning that could have been day 3, I paged the reproductive endocrinology fellow. All of the RE fellows at my practice are attractive men in their early 30's--you know, just the people you want to talk to about your period. As I described the bleeding to the hot doctor on call at the time, I had to acknowledge to myself how surreal the experience was. I know, he's a medical professional, but it comes down to the fact that a guy my age was talking to me on a Sunday morning about vaginal crypts.
So, yeah. Not the kind of story you'd share at a party unless all your fellow guests were infertiles. What are your awkward, embarrassing stories about this experience?
It turns out the scourge of having an embarrassing moment story at the ready isn't just for kids. At a party recently, some friends started sharing their cute, hilariously awkward embarrassing moments. My husband had everyone doubled over with his story about getting tongue-tied around a pretty realtor in his dating days--he accidentally said he was going to "pick his nose" in another room. Everyone had their funny/cute story ready until the attention shifted to me. Just like in elementary school, I couldn't think of a single embarrassing moment.
If I'd been with a different crowd, specifically a fertility-challenged one, I could have thought of several cringe-worthy moments to share. Infertility is full of embarrassment, and not of the neighborhood party-appropriate "the wave took my swimsuit!" type. We have to get used to spreading our legs for strangers on a regular basis. Maybe mortifying is a better word for it.
One infertility embarrassing moment happened during my first treatment cycle last summer. I was supposed to take letrozole starting on cycle day 3, but what does "day 3" REALLY mean? What about heavy spotting? Heavy spotting for several days? On a Sunday morning that could have been day 3, I paged the reproductive endocrinology fellow. All of the RE fellows at my practice are attractive men in their early 30's--you know, just the people you want to talk to about your period. As I described the bleeding to the hot doctor on call at the time, I had to acknowledge to myself how surreal the experience was. I know, he's a medical professional, but it comes down to the fact that a guy my age was talking to me on a Sunday morning about vaginal crypts.
So, yeah. Not the kind of story you'd share at a party unless all your fellow guests were infertiles. What are your awkward, embarrassing stories about this experience?
Monday, November 7, 2011
Head in the Sand
The moral of the following story is, "Don't put your health completely in the hands of your doctors." They might not correctly interpret your descriptions of your symptoms, and of course they don't always spend as much time considering options as you would yourself. For me, this lesson came from my experience with a disease called endometriosis.
A quick side note for readers who aren't familiar with endometriosis: Endo occurs in some women after endometrial tissue from the uterus migrates through the fallopian tubes and out into the abdomen during menstruation. All women experience this retrograde menstruation, most without ill effects. In women with endo, for some unknown reason, the tissue attaches to the outsides of organs in the pelvic cavity. Resulting symptoms include pain during menstruation, sex, and bowel movements.
The first time I heard about endometriosis, I was a high schooler working at a natural foods store. My coworker told me she had it and I felt a twinge of panic as she described her symptoms. They sounded so similar to mine, but I was a little comforted that hers sounded worse. Her pain was debilitating throughout the month, whereas mine was "only" debilitating during my period. Sure, I couldn't sleep or move when it was bad, but that was normal, right? My aunt used to experience pain so bad she vomited and I hadn't vomited yet. That became my benchmark for how much pain was too much. Not puking? Suck it up! Furthermore, after I found out that endo ran in families, it was comforting to know that my aunt had never been diagnosed with it.
The worst pain in high school always happened late at night. To attempt to fall back asleep or think about something other than the excruciating pain, I'd listen to a cassette tape of U2's The Joshua Tree. If I didn't fall back into a heavy sleep before the tape ended, the loud click when it reached the end would jar me out of any dozing state I'd managed to achieve. Particularly bad nights were when side 1 didn't put me into a sound sleep and I had to get out of bed to switch to side 2. Standing up was guaranteed to make the cramps worse, not to mention that the music on side 2 was inferior. (Why did it never occur to me to move the boom box closer to my bed? Another smart move would have been to graduate to a CD to save myself from those awful clicks.)
My cramps decreased when I was very physically active. During the school year in high school, they were manageable when I was dancing all the time. Summertime brought less physical activity and family vacations when my period would inevitably hit. Cramps hit me hard at the beach, the mountains, and a summer afternoon in New Orleans when I had to curl up on a bench in a museum.
In addition to exercise, going on the Pill in my 20's alleviated my cramping somewhat. However, I didn't fully understand that it was helping at the time and found the side effects troublesome. In my late 20's, I stopped taking it. I was a vegetarian with vegan leanings who'd worked in a natural foods store, so eschewing medications wasn't out of character.
Even when my symptoms weren't intolerable (ie, rendering me unable to move and wanting to die), they were disruptive. High levels of physical activity ceased to help and periods dictated my training schedule for half marathons. Ready access to tampons or The Keeper wasn't enough to keep me exercising on my heaviest days. If I dared to run even a short 3-4 miles, cramps would inevitably paralyze me halfway through. I would limp my way home, doubled over and feeling foolish for daring to run on a heavy day.
In my 20's and early 30's, I described the pain to each gynecologist and nurse practitioner I saw for annual exams. Their response was always the same: take ibuprofen or naproxen and use a heating pad. Their implicit suggestion was to suck it up. Massive doses of ibuprofen took the pain from a 10 to an 8 and I was still incapacitated. NSAIDs also gave me horrible heartburn as I got older. As for the heating pad idea, well, my cramps laughed at them. After I stopped taking the Pill, doctors suggested I get back on it to ease my cramps. I had decided I was a Natural Woman, though, medication-free and indulging my OCD tendencies by charting my temperature every day. I wasn't fully convinced at that point that the Pill helped my cramps, anyway.
Doctors never mentioned endo and I got used to the standard "800 milligrams of ibuprofen" suggestion. Although I knew a little about endo and thought I might have it, I trusted my doctors to let me know if further action was needed. Finally, after we had trouble conceiving last year, a doctor suggested a laparoscopy to look for endo. Years of telling doctors about pain before we started trying hadn't prompted any discussions of surgery or prescription pain relievers. Although they had offered the Pill with the ostensible purpose of decreasing cramps, they failed to mention that the Pill could quiet down a disease that most likely compromised my fertility.
It's obvious that I wasn't assertive enough. I'm not usually shy about telling doctors what's going on with my body, but it seemed almost shameful to complain about cramps. Didn't every woman have them to some extent? The "it's not bad 'til you puke" mentality had stuck with me. Having pain that made me nauseated and wanting to puke wasn't enough. Instead of inwardly rolling my eyes at the heating pad and ibuprofen suggestions, I should have described exactly how much pain I was having. Instead, I missed work every month and ignored a disease that was probably impacting my fertility.
Dr. Google is a blessing and a curse (hello, paranoia), but I hope young women today use its power for good. Maybe instead of living in denial like I did, they'll google "endometriosis" and insist on getting checked out.
A quick side note for readers who aren't familiar with endometriosis: Endo occurs in some women after endometrial tissue from the uterus migrates through the fallopian tubes and out into the abdomen during menstruation. All women experience this retrograde menstruation, most without ill effects. In women with endo, for some unknown reason, the tissue attaches to the outsides of organs in the pelvic cavity. Resulting symptoms include pain during menstruation, sex, and bowel movements.
The first time I heard about endometriosis, I was a high schooler working at a natural foods store. My coworker told me she had it and I felt a twinge of panic as she described her symptoms. They sounded so similar to mine, but I was a little comforted that hers sounded worse. Her pain was debilitating throughout the month, whereas mine was "only" debilitating during my period. Sure, I couldn't sleep or move when it was bad, but that was normal, right? My aunt used to experience pain so bad she vomited and I hadn't vomited yet. That became my benchmark for how much pain was too much. Not puking? Suck it up! Furthermore, after I found out that endo ran in families, it was comforting to know that my aunt had never been diagnosed with it.
The worst pain in high school always happened late at night. To attempt to fall back asleep or think about something other than the excruciating pain, I'd listen to a cassette tape of U2's The Joshua Tree. If I didn't fall back into a heavy sleep before the tape ended, the loud click when it reached the end would jar me out of any dozing state I'd managed to achieve. Particularly bad nights were when side 1 didn't put me into a sound sleep and I had to get out of bed to switch to side 2. Standing up was guaranteed to make the cramps worse, not to mention that the music on side 2 was inferior. (Why did it never occur to me to move the boom box closer to my bed? Another smart move would have been to graduate to a CD to save myself from those awful clicks.)
My cramps decreased when I was very physically active. During the school year in high school, they were manageable when I was dancing all the time. Summertime brought less physical activity and family vacations when my period would inevitably hit. Cramps hit me hard at the beach, the mountains, and a summer afternoon in New Orleans when I had to curl up on a bench in a museum.
In addition to exercise, going on the Pill in my 20's alleviated my cramping somewhat. However, I didn't fully understand that it was helping at the time and found the side effects troublesome. In my late 20's, I stopped taking it. I was a vegetarian with vegan leanings who'd worked in a natural foods store, so eschewing medications wasn't out of character.
Even when my symptoms weren't intolerable (ie, rendering me unable to move and wanting to die), they were disruptive. High levels of physical activity ceased to help and periods dictated my training schedule for half marathons. Ready access to tampons or The Keeper wasn't enough to keep me exercising on my heaviest days. If I dared to run even a short 3-4 miles, cramps would inevitably paralyze me halfway through. I would limp my way home, doubled over and feeling foolish for daring to run on a heavy day.
In my 20's and early 30's, I described the pain to each gynecologist and nurse practitioner I saw for annual exams. Their response was always the same: take ibuprofen or naproxen and use a heating pad. Their implicit suggestion was to suck it up. Massive doses of ibuprofen took the pain from a 10 to an 8 and I was still incapacitated. NSAIDs also gave me horrible heartburn as I got older. As for the heating pad idea, well, my cramps laughed at them. After I stopped taking the Pill, doctors suggested I get back on it to ease my cramps. I had decided I was a Natural Woman, though, medication-free and indulging my OCD tendencies by charting my temperature every day. I wasn't fully convinced at that point that the Pill helped my cramps, anyway.
Doctors never mentioned endo and I got used to the standard "800 milligrams of ibuprofen" suggestion. Although I knew a little about endo and thought I might have it, I trusted my doctors to let me know if further action was needed. Finally, after we had trouble conceiving last year, a doctor suggested a laparoscopy to look for endo. Years of telling doctors about pain before we started trying hadn't prompted any discussions of surgery or prescription pain relievers. Although they had offered the Pill with the ostensible purpose of decreasing cramps, they failed to mention that the Pill could quiet down a disease that most likely compromised my fertility.
It's obvious that I wasn't assertive enough. I'm not usually shy about telling doctors what's going on with my body, but it seemed almost shameful to complain about cramps. Didn't every woman have them to some extent? The "it's not bad 'til you puke" mentality had stuck with me. Having pain that made me nauseated and wanting to puke wasn't enough. Instead of inwardly rolling my eyes at the heating pad and ibuprofen suggestions, I should have described exactly how much pain I was having. Instead, I missed work every month and ignored a disease that was probably impacting my fertility.
Dr. Google is a blessing and a curse (hello, paranoia), but I hope young women today use its power for good. Maybe instead of living in denial like I did, they'll google "endometriosis" and insist on getting checked out.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Me 101
Since this is an infertility/loss blog, I'll dive right into where I am with the process. I'm 34 and subfertile. Been trying to get pregnant for over two years, with two miscarriages along the way. This will be our first baby. My amazing husband is 40.
We found out I was pregnant for the second time a few days after my husband's 40th birthday. He was so happy that it looked like things were turning a corner for us, and thought it was pretty special that it was happening at such a milestone birthday for him. I know he was excited for the first pregnancy, too, but this time was different. We'd been trying for an additional 1.5 years, a surgery (laparoscopy), lots of fertility tests, lots of fertility sex, and finally, a medication to promote ovulation (letrozole). I'm sure the extra time had given him space to settle into the whole baby concept.
After going through many cycles with no pregnancies, we knew we were very lucky to get pregnant our first cycle on letrozole. To only have to take a few pills and not do a more invasive treatment was a huge gift. There was a fetus this time, an actual baby on the ultrasound. Our first pregnancy had resulted in a blighted ovum, which was a big fake-out. It's like the sac is playing this cruel joke about growing something inside it--"I'll give you all of the pregnancy symptoms but there's nothing going on in here!" After finding out there was no heartbeat this time, I started sobbing while the doctors continued trying to find something on the ultrasound. There was a little part of me under the shock and devastation that was happy I could see a baby this time. My self-congratulations were short-lived. The ultrasound doctor said that this type of miscarriage is more worrisome than the last. Once there's a fetal pole, stuff is less apt to go wrong.
But it did. And I'm dealing. It's been one and a half months since my D&C and I'm ok. In some ways this one has been easier to deal with. In my less confident moments, I attribute all of the difference this time around to the Prozac I started taking several months ago. But I think it's also easier because I've changed. My psychiatrist said recently that she doesn't think I'm avoiding the grief from this miscarriage, which was my concern. She thinks I'm making healthy adaptations to the heightened level of stress in my life.
I guess. I do feel better prepared to handle what life throws at me these days. I feel stronger, more resilient. But I also feel battered. And cynical. Like this will never work and my biggest fear will be realized: I won't be a mom. I keep reminding myself that chances are good that we'll get there somehow, but the fear still lurks under all of the reassurances I channel its way.
I'm brand new to writing like this. I'm a medical writer by trade, which gives me just enough understanding of medicine to pepper my doctors with a million questions at every visit, but not enough actual medical knowledge to really know what's going on. I guess we all have to eventually just trust the doctors, but it's so difficult. Anyway, blogging and writing about myself in a creative capacity is entirely new to me.
What am I looking for with this blog? A place to be a little creative. To express my frustrations and joys. To find and give support. Thanks for reading!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)