Harley:
Shortly after my birthday this year, we noticed that Harley was acting different. More lethargic, not getting excited. She stopped eating. And after two days of her being like this we took her to the emergency vet, since it was a weekend. The initial diagnosis was pancreatitis, though he thought something else might be going on due to her bloodwork. We went into two days later for an ultrasound and the whole world shattered.
The vet said he suspected stage III stomach lymphoma. Her prognosis? Not good. Especially if we couldn't get her to eat. If we did IV chemo we could optimistically have a year with her left. But most likely 3-6 months. I was by myself and that was all the information I retained. I spent the rest of the appointment holding myself together. Not because I didn't want to cry in front of the vet, but because I didn't want to stress Harley out by crying. I was given a bag of medication and sent home.
I rolled the windows down in the car and cried the whole way home. I figured if Harley had her head out the window, she couldn't hear my sobs.
I nearly collapsed out of the car when I got home. It was awful. Absolutely the worst feeling in the world. Because how do you explain to a dog that she's going to die? We went inside the house and I put Harley on the couch with me and just held her. Trey and I stayed up with her and just wanted to spend time with her.
I felt so guilty going to work. Leaving her home alone. We arranged to have our dog sitter come by and check on her, mostly because I was terrified she would die while I was gone and I would come home to her, by myself.
One of the medications, a steroid, started to get her feeling better. We were told this would happen, and it would allow her to eat and get her strength back, but it wouldn't cure the cancer.
We got a referral for a specialized practice with an oncology center and waited. I felt sick the whole time. How late is too late? How come I didn't know she had this? How could I have let her get this way? I felt like a horrible dog mom. I felt incredibly guilty. I cried every single day.
Harley is not just my dog. She's MY dog. She knows me. It's almost as if she can read my mind. When she hears me laughing she comes to see what we're laughing at so she can get in on the action. When she hears me crying she lays down next to me. She has been by my side through the worst parts of my life. Some days I cried so much on her that her hair was soaked. But she didn't care. She loved me and I loved her.
The day finally came to take her to the oncologist. It was a really nice place. The room was nice, not stuffy. I guess they want you to be comfortable when they tell you your pet is going to die.
Harley had a barrage of tests. We were there for hours. She was poked, prodded, xrayed, ultrasounds, needle aspirations.
And guess what.
They did not think her test results and symptoms were consistent with cancer. Her cells were fine. Her ultrasound unremarkable. Her xrays-well, that was a different story. They did a chest xray, which was consistent with pneumonia. The previous ultrasound we had from the hospital showed thickening of the stomach wall. This was due to acute gastroenteritis. My baby did not have cancer. She had some other things, but curable things! We just needed to get her on antibiotics and watch her while she ate to check for aspiration (which is what they said caused the pneumonia).
We have xrays in a couple of weeks to check for improvement and then bloodwork and another ultrasound after that to make sure nothing has changed. But oh, I cannot tell you how worried we were. I was not, am not, ready to lose her. And I'm so glad that she's back to her normal self and still has a lot more time with us.
Briony:
A few weeks ago we noticed a bump on Briony's belly. Thinking it was just an inflamed nipple (maybe Harley had bitten it or something), we didn't really worry too much. Then it got bigger, and harder. So in the middle of all of the Harley's stuff (and some other personal stuff that we'll talk about later), I made an appointment to take Briony in.
Once again, I was by myself when I received bad news.
I am never going to the vet by myself again.
The vet stated that she thought it was a mammary tumor. Since Briony was older when she was spayed she has a higher risk of developing these. At this point she didn't know if it was benign or malignant, but recommended we remove it and send it for testing. UGH.
Can we please catch a break on our dogs??!!
***Update:
Briony has been diagnosed with osteosarcoma of the mammary tissue. This is a very rare cancer as it's a bone cancer found in the soft tissue of her mammary gland. We did have the whole tumor removed and we have clear margins. The initial xrays showed nodules on her spleen so we started chemo. At her last xrays there were no nodules on her spleen and she is doing great!
She seems to tolerate the chemo well and is doing very good with eating, drinking, etc. We are hopeful that she will be with us a little longer.
Harley, on the other hand, is very sick. A couple of days ago she had some cysts on her neck. They opened up and began bleeding. We took her to the vet and she suspects fibrosarcoma and believes that's what is causing her discomfort eating and drinking. We are waiting on the results from the pathology on the masses.
Thursday, July 19, 2018
What it feels like when your heart breaks out of its ice cage
It's been awhile since we've provided an update. Unfortunately for y'all, you won't see this for some time after it's happened, anyway.
You see, on March 22 we transferred 2 embryos. It was our third transfer. We transferred the 4th and 5th embryo. I was in a state of being and feeling blank. I felt nothing. No excitement, no anxiety. I even took a nap while waiting for the doctor and embryologist to come in. I had removed myself.
Trey would constantly have to remind me about the shot. I would forget. I was not involved because why would I be? We have lost all the other embryos ever transferred, why would this be any different?
Went for beta, came back as 40, which is pregnant. The RN sounded excited, but I couldn't muster any sort of feeling in my voice. Next beta, came back as 95. A little low so they wanted a third test. "Of course. This is it." I told myself. This is the beginning of the end. Next beta: 225. Doctors ecstatic. It had more than doubled! Ok, great. Still doesnt change anything, I thought. I've had great numbers before, and still, nothing.
Went in for early ultrasound. Empty gestational sac. Just like the last two times. Just like EVERY OTHER TIME. And because I had walled myself in I didn't feel anything, except validated that I was right.
Went in for 7 week ultrasound. Tried to convince Trey not to come. "It'll just be the same 'no longer viable shit' " I said. He said he was coming anyway.
I didn't ask to see the screen. I didn't look at anything or anyone except the ceiling.
"Ok, this looks great. We've got the pregnancy right where it needs to be *zoning out* and here you have a yolk sac-"
"I have one?!" I exclaimed. You see, we had never seen anything at the 7 week ultrasound. It had always just been empty. So that's what I was expecting. When your body continually fails you. When you continuously experience disappointment and failure coming from yourself, you don't expect anything else.
We saw the HEART BEATING. And the ice melted from mine. A flood of everything came over me. I broke down after the doctor left the room. Trey just held me and let me cry. How could we have had good news??! I asked "Is this real?" It didn't feel real. I kept expecting to wake up.
We were given pictures. We took them. We had never taken the pictures offered at 7 weeks before. We were given a due date. A due date. I had a due date.
I went home. Still trying to figure out who's dream I was in. Pinching myself. Doing things that I wouldn't normally do to see if I would wake up. It was real. But it didn't feel real. It felt surreal.
The next day, at the 2018 Race to Parenthood, we were so excited. SO excited. I would have a baby at the next R2P. I would have a race baby.
And then. Blood. A river of blood. I tried to ignore it. But then, I felt something. I went into the bathroom (aka porta potty) and things were falling out of me. I couldn't see what it was. Was it just blood or...something more? I knew it was gone. I had lost it in a porta potty for fuck's sakes. Of course. Of course this would happen less than 24 hours after we saw our little beans. Of course. Because WHY would we get our dream?
Went home. Put my blood soaked clothes in the washer. I didn't want to wash them right away because I didn't want to lose the last of our miracle.
"You know you're the strongest person I know." Said to my while lying in bed praying this was a dream. I turned to liquid inside. I didn't feel strong. I felt weak. Felt like a failure. We were going through this again because I can't stay pregnant. Because no one wants to grow inside of me for nine months. Because this is all my fault.
Went in for ultrasound. It was a Saturday and most of the office was out at the race. We waited maybe 20 minutes which was an eternity.
I was anxious to see, but terrified to look.
And there on the screen was our answer.
Our baby beans was ok. Bigger even. Stronger heartbeat. Everything fine.
Everything fine? I asked.
Sometimes it just happens and we have patients who have healthy babies. It certainly freaks us out
(how do you think it makes us feel???) but try not to worry.
Ok-I'll try and not do the impossible, thanks Doc.
But baby beans is still there. And, for now, I am still pregnant. For now, everything is still ok. I will walk around terrified and worried, overanalyzing everything, in between appointments. But for now, the three of us are ok.
We were discharged from the fertility clinic at 8 weeks. I never, ever thought this would happen. I was going to be a regular patient at a regular OB office. No one would automatically assume we had spent years getting to this point. No one would automatically assume that we had to do what we did to make this baby.
When I called the OB office to make my first appointment the receptionist was ecstatic. I'm sure that I sounded less than enthused (I was also attempting to get over a horrendous cold). Because I was terrified. It wasn't real. This was obviously not my life, because we didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve this. I thought the rest of this journey would be filled with heartbreak and loss and devastation. And I am still having a hard time believing that this is happening.
Every time I see baby beans and I hear the heartbeat it's a miracle. Because in between ultrasounds I have convinced myself that I've lost it and I just don't know it. I've convinced myself that this time isn't going to work either. And then, there it is on the monitor, a strong heartbeat.
At our first visit to the OB, just over 9 weeks, we got to hear the heartbeat again. AND, it didn't look like a blob anymore. There was a discernible head, body and little limb buds.
We've been putting the sonograms on our whiteboard and each time I pass by it I wonder if that's the last picture we'll have. I know many of you are yelling at me right now, telling me to enjoy this and stop being so morbid and negative. But, you see, when all you know is losing babies, that's what you expect to happen to you. When something magical finally does happen, it doesn't feel real. At least, not for awhile.
The horrible thing about being a patient of a regular OB office is that I don't get my weekly ultrasound. I don't get to see my baby every week. I have to wait a MONTH until my next visit. A month. Four weeks. If you thought I worried and freaked out waiting a week, can you imagine how I feel waiting a month???
**Update:
So far, at almost 20 weeks, everything is going well. We found out we are having a baby BOY and I am anxious to get the nursery set up.
I never thought this would happen. I thought for the rest of my life we would keep losing. Some days it doesn't seem real and some days I have convinced myself that I am living in a fantasy world. I still convince myself that the baby is gone. The closer we get to appointments, the more anxious I am because in between I can pretend that everything is ok. That we are ok. That he is ok. How do I get through the next half of this pregnancy without having a panic attack every month? It's difficult, but we take one day at a time. Each day that nothing horrible happens, is one more day closer to when we get to meet our miracle baby.
You see, on March 22 we transferred 2 embryos. It was our third transfer. We transferred the 4th and 5th embryo. I was in a state of being and feeling blank. I felt nothing. No excitement, no anxiety. I even took a nap while waiting for the doctor and embryologist to come in. I had removed myself.
Trey would constantly have to remind me about the shot. I would forget. I was not involved because why would I be? We have lost all the other embryos ever transferred, why would this be any different?
Went for beta, came back as 40, which is pregnant. The RN sounded excited, but I couldn't muster any sort of feeling in my voice. Next beta, came back as 95. A little low so they wanted a third test. "Of course. This is it." I told myself. This is the beginning of the end. Next beta: 225. Doctors ecstatic. It had more than doubled! Ok, great. Still doesnt change anything, I thought. I've had great numbers before, and still, nothing.
Went in for early ultrasound. Empty gestational sac. Just like the last two times. Just like EVERY OTHER TIME. And because I had walled myself in I didn't feel anything, except validated that I was right.
Went in for 7 week ultrasound. Tried to convince Trey not to come. "It'll just be the same 'no longer viable shit' " I said. He said he was coming anyway.
I didn't ask to see the screen. I didn't look at anything or anyone except the ceiling.
"Ok, this looks great. We've got the pregnancy right where it needs to be *zoning out* and here you have a yolk sac-"
"I have one?!" I exclaimed. You see, we had never seen anything at the 7 week ultrasound. It had always just been empty. So that's what I was expecting. When your body continually fails you. When you continuously experience disappointment and failure coming from yourself, you don't expect anything else.
We saw the HEART BEATING. And the ice melted from mine. A flood of everything came over me. I broke down after the doctor left the room. Trey just held me and let me cry. How could we have had good news??! I asked "Is this real?" It didn't feel real. I kept expecting to wake up.
We were given pictures. We took them. We had never taken the pictures offered at 7 weeks before. We were given a due date. A due date. I had a due date.
I went home. Still trying to figure out who's dream I was in. Pinching myself. Doing things that I wouldn't normally do to see if I would wake up. It was real. But it didn't feel real. It felt surreal.
The next day, at the 2018 Race to Parenthood, we were so excited. SO excited. I would have a baby at the next R2P. I would have a race baby.
And then. Blood. A river of blood. I tried to ignore it. But then, I felt something. I went into the bathroom (aka porta potty) and things were falling out of me. I couldn't see what it was. Was it just blood or...something more? I knew it was gone. I had lost it in a porta potty for fuck's sakes. Of course. Of course this would happen less than 24 hours after we saw our little beans. Of course. Because WHY would we get our dream?
Went home. Put my blood soaked clothes in the washer. I didn't want to wash them right away because I didn't want to lose the last of our miracle.
"You know you're the strongest person I know." Said to my while lying in bed praying this was a dream. I turned to liquid inside. I didn't feel strong. I felt weak. Felt like a failure. We were going through this again because I can't stay pregnant. Because no one wants to grow inside of me for nine months. Because this is all my fault.
Went in for ultrasound. It was a Saturday and most of the office was out at the race. We waited maybe 20 minutes which was an eternity.
I was anxious to see, but terrified to look.
And there on the screen was our answer.
Our baby beans was ok. Bigger even. Stronger heartbeat. Everything fine.
Everything fine? I asked.
Sometimes it just happens and we have patients who have healthy babies. It certainly freaks us out
(how do you think it makes us feel???) but try not to worry.
Ok-I'll try and not do the impossible, thanks Doc.
But baby beans is still there. And, for now, I am still pregnant. For now, everything is still ok. I will walk around terrified and worried, overanalyzing everything, in between appointments. But for now, the three of us are ok.
We were discharged from the fertility clinic at 8 weeks. I never, ever thought this would happen. I was going to be a regular patient at a regular OB office. No one would automatically assume we had spent years getting to this point. No one would automatically assume that we had to do what we did to make this baby.
When I called the OB office to make my first appointment the receptionist was ecstatic. I'm sure that I sounded less than enthused (I was also attempting to get over a horrendous cold). Because I was terrified. It wasn't real. This was obviously not my life, because we didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve this. I thought the rest of this journey would be filled with heartbreak and loss and devastation. And I am still having a hard time believing that this is happening.
Every time I see baby beans and I hear the heartbeat it's a miracle. Because in between ultrasounds I have convinced myself that I've lost it and I just don't know it. I've convinced myself that this time isn't going to work either. And then, there it is on the monitor, a strong heartbeat.
At our first visit to the OB, just over 9 weeks, we got to hear the heartbeat again. AND, it didn't look like a blob anymore. There was a discernible head, body and little limb buds.
We've been putting the sonograms on our whiteboard and each time I pass by it I wonder if that's the last picture we'll have. I know many of you are yelling at me right now, telling me to enjoy this and stop being so morbid and negative. But, you see, when all you know is losing babies, that's what you expect to happen to you. When something magical finally does happen, it doesn't feel real. At least, not for awhile.
The horrible thing about being a patient of a regular OB office is that I don't get my weekly ultrasound. I don't get to see my baby every week. I have to wait a MONTH until my next visit. A month. Four weeks. If you thought I worried and freaked out waiting a week, can you imagine how I feel waiting a month???
**Update:
So far, at almost 20 weeks, everything is going well. We found out we are having a baby BOY and I am anxious to get the nursery set up.
I never thought this would happen. I thought for the rest of my life we would keep losing. Some days it doesn't seem real and some days I have convinced myself that I am living in a fantasy world. I still convince myself that the baby is gone. The closer we get to appointments, the more anxious I am because in between I can pretend that everything is ok. That we are ok. That he is ok. How do I get through the next half of this pregnancy without having a panic attack every month? It's difficult, but we take one day at a time. Each day that nothing horrible happens, is one more day closer to when we get to meet our miracle baby.
A Letter to God
Dear God,
I know we don't talk much. We have a long past of me not talking to you, unless I'm angry or grateful. I've been mostly angry and hopeless lately, so you've been getting a lot of that.
But now I'm coming to you on behalf of someone else. Still for purely selfish reasons, but it's for someone else.
You see, just a few days ago we transferred a couple of embryos. I have mostly been annoyed and ill-tempered while waiting to see if they stick. If these don't, then we only have 4 more embryos. That means I will have lost five. I will have lost more than what I have left. And I can't. I need someone to live. I need to not feel like a failure again and again. I need to not say goodbye all the time. I can't lose another baby. I can't only be a mother to fur babies and angel babies. If that is going to be Your will then You will need to change me. You will need to change me into a completely different person, someone who doesn't want children. Someone who doesn't hurt every time someone else has a baby. Someone who doesn't get jealous or frustrated or cry themselves to sleep at night because they feel to empty. You will have to change me into someone else.
These embabies don't deserve this. They deserve to be warm and cuddled for 9 months and then warm and cuddled by me for the rest of their lives. They do not deserve to be buried in the flower garden. They do not deserve to be called "the products of conception" after it is discovered they are no longer viable. You have already caused this hurt to three of my embabies already. Don't do it to the rest. Give me something. Please don't leave me with nothing. Please don't leave them alone and in the ground. No parent should have to bury their child...no matter how old they are.
So you see, this is a plea for them. So that they can live. So that I can show them this beautiful world. So that I can teach them to make it a better place. So that they can fall in love and be loved by someone and have wonderful friendships and passions and hobbies. So that maybe one day they can change someone's life.
You have already taken too many. You already have enough of my children. Let me get to keep one. Let me hold one and raise one. Let me have one. All I want is one. Just don't take anymore from me. My heart can't take it anymore.
I am begging you.
I know we don't talk much. We have a long past of me not talking to you, unless I'm angry or grateful. I've been mostly angry and hopeless lately, so you've been getting a lot of that.
But now I'm coming to you on behalf of someone else. Still for purely selfish reasons, but it's for someone else.
You see, just a few days ago we transferred a couple of embryos. I have mostly been annoyed and ill-tempered while waiting to see if they stick. If these don't, then we only have 4 more embryos. That means I will have lost five. I will have lost more than what I have left. And I can't. I need someone to live. I need to not feel like a failure again and again. I need to not say goodbye all the time. I can't lose another baby. I can't only be a mother to fur babies and angel babies. If that is going to be Your will then You will need to change me. You will need to change me into a completely different person, someone who doesn't want children. Someone who doesn't hurt every time someone else has a baby. Someone who doesn't get jealous or frustrated or cry themselves to sleep at night because they feel to empty. You will have to change me into someone else.
These embabies don't deserve this. They deserve to be warm and cuddled for 9 months and then warm and cuddled by me for the rest of their lives. They do not deserve to be buried in the flower garden. They do not deserve to be called "the products of conception" after it is discovered they are no longer viable. You have already caused this hurt to three of my embabies already. Don't do it to the rest. Give me something. Please don't leave me with nothing. Please don't leave them alone and in the ground. No parent should have to bury their child...no matter how old they are.
So you see, this is a plea for them. So that they can live. So that I can show them this beautiful world. So that I can teach them to make it a better place. So that they can fall in love and be loved by someone and have wonderful friendships and passions and hobbies. So that maybe one day they can change someone's life.
You have already taken too many. You already have enough of my children. Let me get to keep one. Let me hold one and raise one. Let me have one. All I want is one. Just don't take anymore from me. My heart can't take it anymore.
I am begging you.
Monday, January 29, 2018
The Mark of Loss
This journey is painful. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. Financially.
As I sit here, with no shots to take. No pills to gag down. No anxiety of the next test. Or the next transfer. Or the next...something. I wonder.
When did I turn into this person whose life is measured by how many embryos she has left? Or by how many weeks of shots she has left. Or by how many losses I've had?
I was first diagnosed with PCOS in 2014. We have been on this journey for almost 4 years now. Four years that has changed me. Changed my perspective. Changed my ability to see the good in situations. Because I've been disappointed. And I've been hurt. And sometimes you have to build a wall around yourself and around your spouse so that the next time something awful happens, it might not hurt as much. But the thing is...
Now you have a wall. How do you feel when you're constantly surrounded by a wall? The inside boils and the negativity stays around. And the outside, no matter if it's light or dark, can't get in. Without light, I think that we become a shell of who we once were.
It's hard to not let it affect you. In fact, it's damn near impossible. I know that I see things differently. It's harder to see the good in some things now. Sometimes I go days without having a happy thought. Some days are fine. Some days are pitch black.
I digress.
At one point I was worried that when this was finally over, when we finally had the family we wanted I would forget the babies we'd lost. But let me tell you a story...
...During the transfer part of IVF many doctors prescribe progesterone shots. These go in your butt and the needle is very long and very big. It has to get through a lot to get to the muscle. It hurts like hell.
So I ice it. Icing the area before getting the shot really cuts down on the pain. Then after the shot, I use a heating pad to warm the area so that my muscle doesn't knot. Unfortunately, this plan can backfire.
One night after my shot I put my heating pad on. It was a little too hot, but because of the icing beforehand I couldn't really feel the heat. Until it was too late. Not only had I given myself a huge bruise, but, and I didn't know this at the time, I had burned myself.
I tossed and turned that night. I couldn't sleep. I was in too much pain. My skin felt...prickly. That's not really what it felt like, but it's the closest word I can think of. Actually, that's not true. It felt like shredded skin. Like that area had been completed macerated.
For days it felt like that. And then one day I felt the area and noticed that I had a very large scab, like the area was healing. I realized then that I had burned myself, pretty badly. The healing area was half itchy, half hurting, and it had a very think scab over it.
Now, several weeks later, it's completely healed. I only get little pinpricks of pain every now then. But I have a scar. A scar in the shape of the burn. A scar, that I hope, will remain with me forever.
It's the only physical evidence I have of the most recent loss.
One day, I hope that I can tell my children how much we loved their older siblings. How they changed us forever. And how they were so wanted, but how they couldn't stay. One day, maybe I will show them the scar. One day I will tell them everything we did to bring them here.
But for now, I will look at that awkwardly shaped scar and remember everything we've lost. And hope, that everything we want, is coming.
As I sit here, with no shots to take. No pills to gag down. No anxiety of the next test. Or the next transfer. Or the next...something. I wonder.
When did I turn into this person whose life is measured by how many embryos she has left? Or by how many weeks of shots she has left. Or by how many losses I've had?
I was first diagnosed with PCOS in 2014. We have been on this journey for almost 4 years now. Four years that has changed me. Changed my perspective. Changed my ability to see the good in situations. Because I've been disappointed. And I've been hurt. And sometimes you have to build a wall around yourself and around your spouse so that the next time something awful happens, it might not hurt as much. But the thing is...
Now you have a wall. How do you feel when you're constantly surrounded by a wall? The inside boils and the negativity stays around. And the outside, no matter if it's light or dark, can't get in. Without light, I think that we become a shell of who we once were.
It's hard to not let it affect you. In fact, it's damn near impossible. I know that I see things differently. It's harder to see the good in some things now. Sometimes I go days without having a happy thought. Some days are fine. Some days are pitch black.
I digress.
At one point I was worried that when this was finally over, when we finally had the family we wanted I would forget the babies we'd lost. But let me tell you a story...
...During the transfer part of IVF many doctors prescribe progesterone shots. These go in your butt and the needle is very long and very big. It has to get through a lot to get to the muscle. It hurts like hell.
So I ice it. Icing the area before getting the shot really cuts down on the pain. Then after the shot, I use a heating pad to warm the area so that my muscle doesn't knot. Unfortunately, this plan can backfire.
One night after my shot I put my heating pad on. It was a little too hot, but because of the icing beforehand I couldn't really feel the heat. Until it was too late. Not only had I given myself a huge bruise, but, and I didn't know this at the time, I had burned myself.
I tossed and turned that night. I couldn't sleep. I was in too much pain. My skin felt...prickly. That's not really what it felt like, but it's the closest word I can think of. Actually, that's not true. It felt like shredded skin. Like that area had been completed macerated.
For days it felt like that. And then one day I felt the area and noticed that I had a very large scab, like the area was healing. I realized then that I had burned myself, pretty badly. The healing area was half itchy, half hurting, and it had a very think scab over it.
Now, several weeks later, it's completely healed. I only get little pinpricks of pain every now then. But I have a scar. A scar in the shape of the burn. A scar, that I hope, will remain with me forever.
It's the only physical evidence I have of the most recent loss.
One day, I hope that I can tell my children how much we loved their older siblings. How they changed us forever. And how they were so wanted, but how they couldn't stay. One day, maybe I will show them the scar. One day I will tell them everything we did to bring them here.
But for now, I will look at that awkwardly shaped scar and remember everything we've lost. And hope, that everything we want, is coming.
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
Letter to an Embryo-Part 2
Another goodbye, another loss.
We buried you the other day. The ground was frozen so we couldn't bury you very deep. When it warms I want to put some nice flowers with you.
We were doing so well, too. Our numbers were high, really high. Everyone was excited. It felt different, too. I knew this would be it. We transferred two and I thought how great it would be to have twins, that way we'd be done!
But two days after Christmas, after my parents had left and Daddy went back to work something awful happened. I knew it was bad when I saw all the blood and it just kept coming and coming. We went to the doctor the next day and you were still there. It was just you. Your twin never implanted. But you were still there. But we were warned. Again. One week away from possibly seeing your heartbeat and we were warned that there might not be one. Warned that the likelihood that this pregnancy would continue was small. A small probability. Again. This would fail, again.
And they were right. If I never hear the phrase "This pregnancy is no longer viable" again it will be all too soon. I HATE THOSE WORDS. Instead of calling you an embryo they change vocabulary to "products of conception." I hate those words, too.
Our doctor's answer to why this was happening was chance. It's just chance that so far all the embryos that we've transferred have not been good. We went over options: should we PGS test or not? What are the risk of thawing and then refreezing and then thawing an embryo? No one seems to know. Then that little evil voice in my head kicks in "your eggs are bad." "You have eggs. The PCOS is your fault and now this is your fault. You are the reason you keep losing babies. You are what's wrong."
Less than a week later you were gone. There was nothing left. At least this time I could find you. And we buried you, because that's what humans do. We like to remember our dead and visit them. We plant flowers and plants to keep you company. I wish it had been warmer, it was crappy putting you in the cold ground. But, I will get to see you every day and in just a few months we'll put a gardenia there, maybe.
How many more babies will we lose? How many more times will I be told "this pregnancy is no longer viable"? How much heartache does one person get? I don't know. I thought that we had our share, that maybe we were done.
There are lyrics to a song that I listen to a lot when I think of you:
Who would you be?
What would you look like,
When you looked at me for the very first time?
Today could have been the next day of the rest of your life.
Who would you look like? Whose eyes would you have? When you laughed would you sound like me or your dad? We'll never know, at least not on this earth.
You will always be in my heart. You will always be loved. And I will miss you forever.
We buried you the other day. The ground was frozen so we couldn't bury you very deep. When it warms I want to put some nice flowers with you.
We were doing so well, too. Our numbers were high, really high. Everyone was excited. It felt different, too. I knew this would be it. We transferred two and I thought how great it would be to have twins, that way we'd be done!
But two days after Christmas, after my parents had left and Daddy went back to work something awful happened. I knew it was bad when I saw all the blood and it just kept coming and coming. We went to the doctor the next day and you were still there. It was just you. Your twin never implanted. But you were still there. But we were warned. Again. One week away from possibly seeing your heartbeat and we were warned that there might not be one. Warned that the likelihood that this pregnancy would continue was small. A small probability. Again. This would fail, again.
And they were right. If I never hear the phrase "This pregnancy is no longer viable" again it will be all too soon. I HATE THOSE WORDS. Instead of calling you an embryo they change vocabulary to "products of conception." I hate those words, too.
Our doctor's answer to why this was happening was chance. It's just chance that so far all the embryos that we've transferred have not been good. We went over options: should we PGS test or not? What are the risk of thawing and then refreezing and then thawing an embryo? No one seems to know. Then that little evil voice in my head kicks in "your eggs are bad." "You have eggs. The PCOS is your fault and now this is your fault. You are the reason you keep losing babies. You are what's wrong."
Less than a week later you were gone. There was nothing left. At least this time I could find you. And we buried you, because that's what humans do. We like to remember our dead and visit them. We plant flowers and plants to keep you company. I wish it had been warmer, it was crappy putting you in the cold ground. But, I will get to see you every day and in just a few months we'll put a gardenia there, maybe.
How many more babies will we lose? How many more times will I be told "this pregnancy is no longer viable"? How much heartache does one person get? I don't know. I thought that we had our share, that maybe we were done.
There are lyrics to a song that I listen to a lot when I think of you:
Who would you be?
What would you look like,
When you looked at me for the very first time?
Today could have been the next day of the rest of your life.
Who would you look like? Whose eyes would you have? When you laughed would you sound like me or your dad? We'll never know, at least not on this earth.
You will always be in my heart. You will always be loved. And I will miss you forever.
Friday, October 6, 2017
Letters to an Embryo-Part 1
Are you ok? I mean, I know you're frozen. It's kinda weird, right? You're a frozen five day old embryo and I'm talking to you. I hope you're okay. I hope you don't end up loving cold weather and snow and things like that because of this. I mean, your dad would love that. He'd have someone to go skiing with. The only thing I like doing on cold days is staying by the fire wrapped up. But maybe you'll like that, too. Anyway. You and your eight brothers and sisters went into the cryofreeze together. I wonder how many of you we'll get to meet. I wonder how many of you I'll mourn.
******************************************************************************
Well. It's been two months. We're thawing one of you little embabies out. I hope you survive it. My greatest fear going to the clinic today is that they'll try to thaw all of you and no one will make it.
But you made it! You, little embaby survived the ice age! It was so cool watching you go in. I feel so lucky to be able to have watched it, not many people get to, you know.
Here you are:
Our little thawed blastocyst.
Stick, baby, stick!
******************************************************************************
This waiting is awful. Is that you sticking? Is that you burrowing deeper? Are you the reason I hate the smell of peanut butter now? I am so anxious. And so tired of waiting. I'd thought by now I have a strong feeling either way, but it looks like we'll have to wait until beta day to know. If I can wait that long.
******************************************************************************
Am I a mother now? Technically I AM pregnant. They don't call us PUPO for nothing! But if you don't make it, either now or later, am I a mother? I have loved you, all of you, since the moment I knew there 9 of you. I mourned the 13 of you that didn't make it. Even though you have no consciousness, not yet anyway, no heartbeat, you're still mine. And even if I only get to carry you for two weeks, I will consider myself lucky.
******************************************************************************
Tomorrow is the day! We find out if we are lucky enough to keep you with us!
I wonder what kind of person you'll be? In 9 months will I be able to kiss your nose? Will I teach you about kindness and how to be a friend? Will I watch your daddy snuggle you and teach you how to feed the dogs? Will I find you snuggled up with the dogs, all of you snoring? In 9 months will I be able to hold you, to smell you, to never let you go? Will you let me take care of you and love you forever?
I can't wait to find out.
*******************************************************************************
Well, here we are. Moments after two phone calls. One that brought a little hope. And the other than smashed it all away. The HCG test came back. It was 12. Technically, it means that you're there. But really, it means that you're there and not doing well. We're going to test again in a few days so grow, grow, grow! What could I have done differently? Did I eat the wrong thing? Did I not drink enough water? Could I not provide a nice home for you to snuggle into? Did you know that I started looking at onesies? I thought, since you were making me feel all these things, that you'd get to stick around. And I got my hopes up. I got them up too high and now they're crashing down. But there's still a twinkling of a possibility that you're in there. Really in there. So come on little embaby, grow!
******************************************************************************
Still waiting. The waiting is the worst. At least it's active waiting; we're still doing progesterone shots, I'm still taking medications. But we're still waiting. It's hard waiting, too. Because we're basically waiting to hear if you're real or not. In just a few days we'll know. This is the meanest trick of all. To KNOW that you're there, and to feel all the symptoms. But for there to be the possibility that you're not going to be there for much longer. Your daddy (is he a daddy yet?) is hoping that you're in there. We're all hoping you're there. There's so many people praying and wishing and hoping for you.
*******************************************************************************
Little embaby!! You are growing so much! We got our second beta back and it was 87! That's almost EIGHT times what it was! You're definitely letting your Mama know you're growing because she is feeling just a little bit nauseated most of the time. But that's okay. You just keep growing and growing and getting nice and big and strong so we can meet you in 9 months! We are so excited that our numbers went up; we're so proud of you and are so happy that you're sticking!
********************************************************************************
You are definitely letting your Mama know you're in there today! Nausea and some cramps-but you keep growing! Keep doing what you're doing! Don't you worry about me-I'll do all this and more if it means I get feel you grow over the next 9 months! Keep growing, little one!
********************************************************************************
Well, little one, you did it! I am very proud of you! Beta went up to 466!! We're doing an early ultrasound to make sure you're where you're supposed to be. I can't believe this is happening. I am so excited and so scared that something will happen. Keep getting bigger! We already love you so much and can't wait to meet you in 8 months!
********************************************************************************
So we had our first OB ultrasound today! We saw your little home for the next 8 months! We couldn't see you, you're a little too small right now. But it was so nice to see where you are! We go back to see your little heartbeat in a little over a week! Your Daddy thinks he knows what your name will be but I promise you I won't let him give you ALL those names! We love you so much little peanut!
*********************************************************************************
This is my last letter to you. We had an ultrasound today and you're gone. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't keep you safe. I'm so sorry that I couldn't give you what you needed. We are absolutely heartbroken. Your Daddy says that it was so nice having you for the 7 weeks we did. I wish I had enjoyed it and hadn't worried so much. But I am so so grateful I got to be your mommy. I wish that we could have taken you home. I wish that I could have kissed you goodbye. I'll never know what your laugh sounded like, or whether you like crunchy or creamy peanut butter. I'm so sorry my love. I'm sorry I've failed you. I hate that you're going where I can't follow. I'm your mother, I'm supposed to take care of you. Goodbye, little one. We love you.
******************************************************************************
Well. It's been two months. We're thawing one of you little embabies out. I hope you survive it. My greatest fear going to the clinic today is that they'll try to thaw all of you and no one will make it.
But you made it! You, little embaby survived the ice age! It was so cool watching you go in. I feel so lucky to be able to have watched it, not many people get to, you know.
Here you are:
Stick, baby, stick!
******************************************************************************
This waiting is awful. Is that you sticking? Is that you burrowing deeper? Are you the reason I hate the smell of peanut butter now? I am so anxious. And so tired of waiting. I'd thought by now I have a strong feeling either way, but it looks like we'll have to wait until beta day to know. If I can wait that long.
******************************************************************************
Am I a mother now? Technically I AM pregnant. They don't call us PUPO for nothing! But if you don't make it, either now or later, am I a mother? I have loved you, all of you, since the moment I knew there 9 of you. I mourned the 13 of you that didn't make it. Even though you have no consciousness, not yet anyway, no heartbeat, you're still mine. And even if I only get to carry you for two weeks, I will consider myself lucky.
******************************************************************************
Tomorrow is the day! We find out if we are lucky enough to keep you with us!
I wonder what kind of person you'll be? In 9 months will I be able to kiss your nose? Will I teach you about kindness and how to be a friend? Will I watch your daddy snuggle you and teach you how to feed the dogs? Will I find you snuggled up with the dogs, all of you snoring? In 9 months will I be able to hold you, to smell you, to never let you go? Will you let me take care of you and love you forever?
I can't wait to find out.
*******************************************************************************
Well, here we are. Moments after two phone calls. One that brought a little hope. And the other than smashed it all away. The HCG test came back. It was 12. Technically, it means that you're there. But really, it means that you're there and not doing well. We're going to test again in a few days so grow, grow, grow! What could I have done differently? Did I eat the wrong thing? Did I not drink enough water? Could I not provide a nice home for you to snuggle into? Did you know that I started looking at onesies? I thought, since you were making me feel all these things, that you'd get to stick around. And I got my hopes up. I got them up too high and now they're crashing down. But there's still a twinkling of a possibility that you're in there. Really in there. So come on little embaby, grow!
******************************************************************************
Still waiting. The waiting is the worst. At least it's active waiting; we're still doing progesterone shots, I'm still taking medications. But we're still waiting. It's hard waiting, too. Because we're basically waiting to hear if you're real or not. In just a few days we'll know. This is the meanest trick of all. To KNOW that you're there, and to feel all the symptoms. But for there to be the possibility that you're not going to be there for much longer. Your daddy (is he a daddy yet?) is hoping that you're in there. We're all hoping you're there. There's so many people praying and wishing and hoping for you.
*******************************************************************************
Little embaby!! You are growing so much! We got our second beta back and it was 87! That's almost EIGHT times what it was! You're definitely letting your Mama know you're growing because she is feeling just a little bit nauseated most of the time. But that's okay. You just keep growing and growing and getting nice and big and strong so we can meet you in 9 months! We are so excited that our numbers went up; we're so proud of you and are so happy that you're sticking!
********************************************************************************
You are definitely letting your Mama know you're in there today! Nausea and some cramps-but you keep growing! Keep doing what you're doing! Don't you worry about me-I'll do all this and more if it means I get feel you grow over the next 9 months! Keep growing, little one!
********************************************************************************
Well, little one, you did it! I am very proud of you! Beta went up to 466!! We're doing an early ultrasound to make sure you're where you're supposed to be. I can't believe this is happening. I am so excited and so scared that something will happen. Keep getting bigger! We already love you so much and can't wait to meet you in 8 months!
********************************************************************************
So we had our first OB ultrasound today! We saw your little home for the next 8 months! We couldn't see you, you're a little too small right now. But it was so nice to see where you are! We go back to see your little heartbeat in a little over a week! Your Daddy thinks he knows what your name will be but I promise you I won't let him give you ALL those names! We love you so much little peanut!
*********************************************************************************
This is my last letter to you. We had an ultrasound today and you're gone. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't keep you safe. I'm so sorry that I couldn't give you what you needed. We are absolutely heartbroken. Your Daddy says that it was so nice having you for the 7 weeks we did. I wish I had enjoyed it and hadn't worried so much. But I am so so grateful I got to be your mommy. I wish that we could have taken you home. I wish that I could have kissed you goodbye. I'll never know what your laugh sounded like, or whether you like crunchy or creamy peanut butter. I'm so sorry my love. I'm sorry I've failed you. I hate that you're going where I can't follow. I'm your mother, I'm supposed to take care of you. Goodbye, little one. We love you.
Thursday, July 13, 2017
What Have We Been Up To?
These last few months have flown by. I meant to do a post all about the Race to Parenthood, but I looked up and it's mid-July! So, I'll have to sum up all that we've done these last few months.
The Race to Parenthood was such a wonderful success! It was so much fun and Trey and I were so touched that so many of our friends and family showed up for us. We ended up getting a $4500 grant towards our IVF!
In May we spent the month TRYING to relax in preparation for our upcoming treatments. We spent a week with my family in Ocean City, MD. It was nice to be away for a bit and see some places we normally don't get to see.
I had hoped to start our IVF medications a lot earlier in June but we had a minor setback. At the time, I was devastated. It wasn't the first time I've wanted to cry in my doctor's office, and I'm sure it won't be the last. It felt so huge at the moment, but looking back, yes it was disappointing news, but it wasn't the worst thing that could have happened.
We were finally able to start our IVF medications at the end of June. Having already experienced giving myself shots last year when we were doing injectables I thought that I wouldn't be nervous the first night.
Well. First of all I had been warned by my nurse that one medication burns. So there was that anxiety. Then, I felt just really jittery and anxious and excited because we were FINALLY starting.
Last year I never would have thought that we would need IVF. Signing up for the Race to Parenthood grant was really just something to do, since I was positive that we would be pregnant way before the actual race. Even when we were chosen I still had a teeny tiny bit of hope that we wouldn't actually need it. Fast forward six months and I am excited about starting IVF, something I never, ever thought we would need. When I first started going to support group meetings I remember hearing these women talking about going through two, three, four IVF cycles and using all this terminology (that now seems like a fluent language to me) and thinking how brave and amazing they were, but also feeling thankful because *I* would never need it. HA. Oh sweet, naive Lara.
Anyway, back to the injections. We were finally starting! And I was nervous. I prepped my needles and held them in my hand and had to cheer for myself while I stuck them into my stomach. And yes, it burned. AND IT KEPT BURNING. People told me that ice packs would be my friend-and I wish I had understood what they meant that first night.
It eventually got easier and easier. Take everything out of the box, mix the one med, insert cartridge for the other med, stick needles on, pinch skin, stick it in, and throw away said needle. Simple.
Something else I was warned about was a feeling of "fullness." Fullness, my patootie. It became hella uncomfortable in there. It felt like I was carrying around a whole bunch of golf balls. I couldn't sleep because I am a stomach sleeper. When I tried sleeping on my side gravity tugged all the golf balls down causing extreme discomfort. The only way I could sleep was on my back, but I HATE sleeping on my back so in short-I didn't sleep very well.
The following is an in-depth account of my egg retrieval (it's mostly for my recollection but y'all feel free to read it, too!):
I wish I had a picture of my last ultrasound y'all. There's a term called "hyperstimulation." It can become dangerous, but the doctors are pretty good about managing those of us who develop it. At my last ultrasound, 3 days before my retrieval, I saw the coolest thing. Usually when I get these done, the doctor has to move the wand from one side to another to capture each of my ovaries. This time, my ovaries were so enlarged and swollen that they were literally smooshed together and he didn't have to move the wand at all to go from one ovary to another.
At egg retrieval I was super uncomfortable. I was grumpy because I was tired because I couldn't sleep well and I was grumpy because I was uncomfortable. I had to pee all the time. I was so tired. And I was so ready to get those eggs out of there!
We arrived at the clinic really early in the morning, signed some papers, changed into a gown, and got an IV situated. One of the nurses found a vein in my wrist and she made it pop up so that I could feel it. That bad boy was rolling all around-it felt really, really weird. Once the IV was in (in my hand, not my wrist) I started to feel off. My BP had been elevated when they initially took it so I'm pretty sure they gave me some meds to calm me down. And then I started to feel really overwhelmed. I don't even remember what I was thinking about, if I was thinking about anything at all, but I started to cry. I tried to hold it in because I didn't want to worry Trey (I mean, I was about to go into a room and have things cut open so that eggs could be sucked out, should I really worry him more??!) but he was sweet and so comforting. He let me feel what I needed to and was strong enough that I was ok just letting go.
Then it was time to go in; Trey had to go do his thing so I went in alone. Once I got in there things went very fast. People were scurrying around doing this and that. The anesthesiologist put an oxygen mask over my face and then stuck a tube in it that had a weird smelling gas coming out of it. After several days of thinking about it I now know that was the thing that knocked me out initially.
When I woke up, groggy groggy groggy, the nurses were trying to get me into the chair to wheel me back into the room. Um, hello?? Literally JUST woke up. Turns out they were hurrying because there was another retrieval behind me and we had been there in awhile.
I was really uncomfortable. Actually kind of in pain. They offered me a ginger ale for any nausea I had and I drank some. Then they made me stand up and walk to the bathroom. Apparently I had to go pee before they'd let me go. It seemed like each step the nurse was telling me to open my eyes. Keep your eyes open. Why won't you let me go back to sleep???? Keep your eyes open. Aaaarrrgghh. Sitting was not fun. Going to the bathroom was not fun. In fact, going to the bathroom became my least fun activity for a whole week.
I finally made it back to my room and at some point indicated I was hurting. They gave me a teeny tiny bit of fentanyl which I will NEVER ask for again. My BP dropped and I felt so lightheaded and nauseas. They immediately gave me some zofran which helped immensely. Apparently I had lost quite a bit of color in my face as everyone was remarking how nice it was that I was getting some color back. When I was finally starting to feel somewhat better and they liked where my BP was I was able to get dressed and go home.
Riding in the car-not fun. Every bump and jostle and small movement of wind felt like a knife tearing through my abdomen. That was probably one of the longest car rides home. And the clinic is only about 20 minutes away.
When I got home I parked myself on the couch, in a semi-reclining position, took some pain medicine and went to sleep. Over the next several days I remained on the couch, if I wasn't in the bed. I took my pain medicine. I slept through television and movies. The few times that I really had to pee I prayed for the strength to walk and sit through the pain and stumbled the five feet to the bathroom. I don't know how these women are who go to work the next day but I was not one of them. We retrieved on a Wednesday and that following Monday I went to work, but I really don't think I was ready to.
One of the funniest things that happened at the retrieval was how adamant the nurses were that I not make any legal decisions for 24 hours. I had to sign a piece of paper stating that I would not make any legal decisions. Trey and I could not get over how weird that was!
All in all, we retrieved 32 eggs, 26 of which were mature and could be fertilized, 22 of which were successfully fertilized.
And then we waited for the call to find out how many embryos we had frozen.
I'm so thankful that we had the means and support to be able to do IVF. There's a part of me that's still angry we had to do it at all, but if this is what it takes to get us a baby, we'll do it over and over again.
More later on some other stuff. Remembering all of this, even though it was just a few days ago, has left me feeling overwhelmed again.
The Race to Parenthood was such a wonderful success! It was so much fun and Trey and I were so touched that so many of our friends and family showed up for us. We ended up getting a $4500 grant towards our IVF!
In May we spent the month TRYING to relax in preparation for our upcoming treatments. We spent a week with my family in Ocean City, MD. It was nice to be away for a bit and see some places we normally don't get to see.
I had hoped to start our IVF medications a lot earlier in June but we had a minor setback. At the time, I was devastated. It wasn't the first time I've wanted to cry in my doctor's office, and I'm sure it won't be the last. It felt so huge at the moment, but looking back, yes it was disappointing news, but it wasn't the worst thing that could have happened.
We were finally able to start our IVF medications at the end of June. Having already experienced giving myself shots last year when we were doing injectables I thought that I wouldn't be nervous the first night.
Well. First of all I had been warned by my nurse that one medication burns. So there was that anxiety. Then, I felt just really jittery and anxious and excited because we were FINALLY starting.
Last year I never would have thought that we would need IVF. Signing up for the Race to Parenthood grant was really just something to do, since I was positive that we would be pregnant way before the actual race. Even when we were chosen I still had a teeny tiny bit of hope that we wouldn't actually need it. Fast forward six months and I am excited about starting IVF, something I never, ever thought we would need. When I first started going to support group meetings I remember hearing these women talking about going through two, three, four IVF cycles and using all this terminology (that now seems like a fluent language to me) and thinking how brave and amazing they were, but also feeling thankful because *I* would never need it. HA. Oh sweet, naive Lara.
Anyway, back to the injections. We were finally starting! And I was nervous. I prepped my needles and held them in my hand and had to cheer for myself while I stuck them into my stomach. And yes, it burned. AND IT KEPT BURNING. People told me that ice packs would be my friend-and I wish I had understood what they meant that first night.
It eventually got easier and easier. Take everything out of the box, mix the one med, insert cartridge for the other med, stick needles on, pinch skin, stick it in, and throw away said needle. Simple.
Something else I was warned about was a feeling of "fullness." Fullness, my patootie. It became hella uncomfortable in there. It felt like I was carrying around a whole bunch of golf balls. I couldn't sleep because I am a stomach sleeper. When I tried sleeping on my side gravity tugged all the golf balls down causing extreme discomfort. The only way I could sleep was on my back, but I HATE sleeping on my back so in short-I didn't sleep very well.
The following is an in-depth account of my egg retrieval (it's mostly for my recollection but y'all feel free to read it, too!):
I wish I had a picture of my last ultrasound y'all. There's a term called "hyperstimulation." It can become dangerous, but the doctors are pretty good about managing those of us who develop it. At my last ultrasound, 3 days before my retrieval, I saw the coolest thing. Usually when I get these done, the doctor has to move the wand from one side to another to capture each of my ovaries. This time, my ovaries were so enlarged and swollen that they were literally smooshed together and he didn't have to move the wand at all to go from one ovary to another.
At egg retrieval I was super uncomfortable. I was grumpy because I was tired because I couldn't sleep well and I was grumpy because I was uncomfortable. I had to pee all the time. I was so tired. And I was so ready to get those eggs out of there!
We arrived at the clinic really early in the morning, signed some papers, changed into a gown, and got an IV situated. One of the nurses found a vein in my wrist and she made it pop up so that I could feel it. That bad boy was rolling all around-it felt really, really weird. Once the IV was in (in my hand, not my wrist) I started to feel off. My BP had been elevated when they initially took it so I'm pretty sure they gave me some meds to calm me down. And then I started to feel really overwhelmed. I don't even remember what I was thinking about, if I was thinking about anything at all, but I started to cry. I tried to hold it in because I didn't want to worry Trey (I mean, I was about to go into a room and have things cut open so that eggs could be sucked out, should I really worry him more??!) but he was sweet and so comforting. He let me feel what I needed to and was strong enough that I was ok just letting go.
Then it was time to go in; Trey had to go do his thing so I went in alone. Once I got in there things went very fast. People were scurrying around doing this and that. The anesthesiologist put an oxygen mask over my face and then stuck a tube in it that had a weird smelling gas coming out of it. After several days of thinking about it I now know that was the thing that knocked me out initially.
When I woke up, groggy groggy groggy, the nurses were trying to get me into the chair to wheel me back into the room. Um, hello?? Literally JUST woke up. Turns out they were hurrying because there was another retrieval behind me and we had been there in awhile.
I was really uncomfortable. Actually kind of in pain. They offered me a ginger ale for any nausea I had and I drank some. Then they made me stand up and walk to the bathroom. Apparently I had to go pee before they'd let me go. It seemed like each step the nurse was telling me to open my eyes. Keep your eyes open. Why won't you let me go back to sleep???? Keep your eyes open. Aaaarrrgghh. Sitting was not fun. Going to the bathroom was not fun. In fact, going to the bathroom became my least fun activity for a whole week.
I finally made it back to my room and at some point indicated I was hurting. They gave me a teeny tiny bit of fentanyl which I will NEVER ask for again. My BP dropped and I felt so lightheaded and nauseas. They immediately gave me some zofran which helped immensely. Apparently I had lost quite a bit of color in my face as everyone was remarking how nice it was that I was getting some color back. When I was finally starting to feel somewhat better and they liked where my BP was I was able to get dressed and go home.
Riding in the car-not fun. Every bump and jostle and small movement of wind felt like a knife tearing through my abdomen. That was probably one of the longest car rides home. And the clinic is only about 20 minutes away.
When I got home I parked myself on the couch, in a semi-reclining position, took some pain medicine and went to sleep. Over the next several days I remained on the couch, if I wasn't in the bed. I took my pain medicine. I slept through television and movies. The few times that I really had to pee I prayed for the strength to walk and sit through the pain and stumbled the five feet to the bathroom. I don't know how these women are who go to work the next day but I was not one of them. We retrieved on a Wednesday and that following Monday I went to work, but I really don't think I was ready to.
One of the funniest things that happened at the retrieval was how adamant the nurses were that I not make any legal decisions for 24 hours. I had to sign a piece of paper stating that I would not make any legal decisions. Trey and I could not get over how weird that was!
All in all, we retrieved 32 eggs, 26 of which were mature and could be fertilized, 22 of which were successfully fertilized.
And then we waited for the call to find out how many embryos we had frozen.
I'm so thankful that we had the means and support to be able to do IVF. There's a part of me that's still angry we had to do it at all, but if this is what it takes to get us a baby, we'll do it over and over again.
More later on some other stuff. Remembering all of this, even though it was just a few days ago, has left me feeling overwhelmed again.
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