Well, no one has any insight as to why I am not getting pregnant. I am, at this point, still unexplained so we are throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks. I am now on glucophage- just in case it makes a difference although I don’t actually have PCOS. So we are hoping as we add pieces to the puzzle something will just “click”.
OK- so the 12 rounds of Evil clomid did nothing except make me think I was crazy and my husband and I could not go on like that. So in July of 2006 we moved on to injectables. You all know how I just LOVE needles so I am sure you can figure out how much conversation and fear went into that decision. Not to mention that the cost is out-of- sight scary to someone who is still struggling with the idea that she has an IF issue at all. I mean, I am unexplained, every test comes back perfectly fine and every cycle I respond well. So the idea of thousands of dollars of drugs a month is pretty intense but we want to be parents and we will do what we have to do to get there.
Now the nightmare really begins – namely, The Insurance Company. Good lord – do they think people take these meds because they are fun? Whoo-hoo! Let’s stimulate my ovaries until they feel like they are going to pop!!! Who needs crack lets take Follistim!! Not. So after a couple of weeks of arguing back and forth, over and over, a more than a bit of begging, they agree to pay for three whole months of medication- oh boy. What sports. Their thought process is that if you don’t get pregnant in three months than you never will. WTF is that? No pressure or anything. Good grief.
So I get my period for that first injectable cycle – I go for my baseline and even though I knew I’d be starting meds that night I was still pretty rattled at the possibility. They gave be a little “class” at the doctor’s office but come on- who really absorbs all that?
After dinner that night, I spread all of the drugs on the table and take a deep breath. Now the only other shot I have ever administered from a vial is when I had to shoot up my aunt’s cat while she was away- great place to learn my skills. OK- Lupron first. Slowly, slowly, methodically I choose the needle, wipe the top of the medication, and draw it into the syringe. Then I check in probably 800 times to make sure it really is on the 5. I tap it like I have OCD to make sure there are no air bubbles that could kill me (yes, even then I knew that it is a subcutaneous shot and nothing would happen if there was a tiny bubble- but it didn’t prevent my paranoia). Ok, now I set that aside and dial up my Follistim. I follow the same, dial, check, check, check again, push it up a bit to make sure a drop shows, more OCD behavior. All right, I am ready. Now due to the fact that I am a wimp, my husband will be administering all of my shots. I have now also convinced myself that by actually letting him give me my shots that I am allowing my husband to remain involved and be an active part of the process so that we are truly doing this as a team which sounds better than that I am a wimp.
The actual giving of the shot ritual remain unchanged, TV up loud, me lying on the couch staring at the ceiling so I don’t see the needle and pretty much always realizing it is not one-hundredth as bad I think it is going to be. But that idea that this is going to be EVERY NIGHT for 2 weeks freaks me out. Man, is this kid going to have a big pile of guilt first time it says it hates me!
So, every night for two weeks, the same slow, OCD ritual plays out at my house. Now I trust my husband but for whatever reason (possibly that I have some control issues?) I will not let him get the meds ready. I am afraid he will forget a step or do it wrong- he is a great guy but he is not a detail-oriented person- and this is a time I REALLY want a detail oriented person. [I’d like to admit that since we did this first injectable cycle I have lightened up with him preparing the shots…but no.. I am still the only one allowed to draw up (and now mix) the meds].
Every other day during this time I get to take my lunch and drive to the doctor’s office to get “wanded” and stabbed. I used to DREAD my annual and am pretty freaking shy so having all of these different people poking around up there is really hard for me. So as much as I love the girls at the doctor’s office it gets pretty old, pretty quick. Trying to drive the 15 minutes each way, have my appointment and be back at my desk within an hour doesn’t leave time for food so this was a very hungry time for me until I figured out how to make it work. And if you think I hate the sub-q shots I am getting at night I am sure you can imagine my hatred of having blood drawn.
At the end of almost 2 weeks my ovaries feel like the size of grapefruits, I am peeing every 30 seconds give or take 3 seconds and I can’t wear pants. I wasn’t really aware how I would feel but good god. Then those magical words “ok- we are on for tomorrow – take your ovidrel tonight”. Oh my gosh- even though we have been through the iui process six times by then- this is different- this is the ONE- I mean, how could it now? We brought out the big guns, I paid my dues, I had at least 25 shots not to mention all the blood drawn – it just HAS to work.
So we have the iui and the next day I realize that if I thought my ovaries were grapefruit before NOW they are bowling balls. I am walking hunched over, I can’t wear anything that even thinks of touching my abdomen, I whimper when I pee, and cry when I try to poop. I hate my ovaries.
And. Then. We. Wait.