Feeling Bad About Feeling

I feel a bit like the Grinch today; my heart feels three sizes too small.  I am angry at the universe for so many things.  Upset every time I hear about another person who is having an “oops” baby at my age.

I didn’t choose  to wait this long.  That’s the thing that just kills me.  I didn’t meet my husband until four years ago, and then I had a blood clot that forced us to put off trying for a year while I was on a highly dangerous medication.  I know I’m “old” for trying to conceive.

And I felt absolutely awful when my husband lost it yesterday when we got the negative results because this is all on me.  He’s fine.  I’m the one who can’t do this.  Me.  My body.  It’s the most awful feeling in the world.  I feel… empty.  And mean.

I am such a green-eyed, jealous monster that I almost can’t talk to my friends who recently had babies or who are currently pregnant.  I want so badly to be happy for them, but the jealousy that flares up is almost painful, and then I feel awful for being so selfish.  It’s a vicious circle of not-so-happy feelings.

How do people cope with this? 

Momkey on My Back

My mom has changed her tune.  She has gone from telling me to adopt a crack baby to talking about this time next year when John and I have a baby.

Yikes.

I reminded her (and my aunt) that they only give this about a 20% chance of working.  My aunt replied that the problem with statistics is that humans are not statistics, they're people.

Double yikes.

So... on top of dealing with my own roller coaster of emotions, I suddenly have the weight of familial expectations on my shoulders. 

There is a giant part of me that wishes I could have gone through all of this without telling anyone other than a select few friends.  I am going to need my own time and space to process things, and I know there will be a lot of people asking questions sooner than I am ready to deal with them.  Good or bad news. 

Yes, good news will take some time to process because I will still be apprehensive at first.  Having miscarried at seven weeks, a first positive test won't feel "safe" to me, yet I know my mom is going to go nutty with excitement should we get a positive result. 

It's hard to explain the fit of the shoes you walk in when you do this.  Even my husband fully admits he doesn't understand exactly what I am feeling, and he's going through some of it right along with me. 

Just gotta keep remembering the only feelings I am responsible for are mine.

Happy Turkey Day

I get to start my Thanksgiving at the doctor's office having a look at my eggs.  Yesterday they weren't growing the way they wanted them to, so I got to increase the amount of medication I shoot into my stomach every day.  Not the worst thing, but I'm so anxious to get on with the retrieval that I can't wait for them to grow.  Hopefully we see some progress tomorrow!

That's all I've got, haven't had much to say lately since it's been all about ultrasounds and injections.

Percentage Purrception

Percentages are odd creatures.  They’re as black and white as my cute little tuxedo cats, but, like my kitties, sometimes I want to snuggle up and love them and others I want to lock them out of my bedroom and pretend they don’t exist because it’s 2:00 in the morning and they scared me out of a good dream by dashing madcap across my back and onto the nightstand, knocking over a lamp in the process.  But in the morning they’re the same kitties they were at 2:00 in the morning, even if I did look at them completely differently.

Today is the last day of my pre-IVF cycle birth control cycle.  I have been having some spotting, so I checked with the doctor to see what they would consider to be day one of my cycle.  They set up my baseline ultrasound.  So me being me, I immediately went to the internet to see what they look for on this first ultrasound.  The article I read then went on to talk about future ultrasound and the possibility of a cycle getting canceled. 

It said about 10% get canceled.  I freaked.  10%.  That’s a LOT.  Like, one in ten (I know, brilliant).  What if that happens to me?  Do I lose what I’ve paid so far?  How does this work?  I’m still panicking a little, but I know there is nothing I can do until it actually happens.

On the flip side, at our first consult, the doctor told us he gave us about a 20-25% chance of this working.  My reaction?  That’s nothing.  Those odd are awful.  20% is so LOW.  This is never going to happen.

So, in my illogical brain, the thing that is a one in ten chance will definitely happen to me, the thing that is one in five will not.  Makes perfect sense, right?

I guess it all comes down to my always expecting the worst.  I’ve heard a term for this, awfulizing.  If you can imagine the most awful outcome possible and you know you can get through it, it makes things easier.  That’s how my brain really works.  Not as illogical as it seems.  More like… defensive preparation.

All I can do, I guess, is prepare for the worst and hope for the best.  I’d say the percentages of feeling better about all of this will increase exponentially once I sit down on the couch and have a purry little kitty in my lap.

Prescription Crabbies

I just got my giant box of needles with a side of medication in the mail today, and for some reason this has made me crabby as hell.  I am angry.  Seriously angry.

Angry at the universe for having to go through this. Angry at insurance companies for not covering treatment. Angry at myself for being unable to do this the fun, inexpensive way.

Honestly, though, I would not trade my husband for anything, and it’s definitely not my fault that we didn’t meet until I was already in my mid-thirties.  Not his fault, either.  Nor could either one of us control the blood clot that put me on Coumadin, and off of trying to get pregnant, for a full year. 

I wonder sometimes where we’d be if it wasn’t for that intervening medical issue.  Where I’d be.  It’s certainly a smack in the face to wake up in ICU being told your condition is very serious.  Though in all honesty, I missed the very serious part.  Pain killers.  John heard it, but no one really filled me in for another week or so.  Really shook me when it finally sank in.

Now I’m just… sad.  I feel like I might have missed getting in through a closing door by having to set so much aside for that year.  I want this so badly, but I am so afraid to hope because I don’t want to hurt.  I already hurt enough.

Incom-cat-able

I’m a bit stressed out and kind of frazzled today after charging $4,500 worth of medications and submitting my loan paperwork for the IVF.  I was about $25,000 less in debt yesterday.  And so far I have nothing to show for it.  At least once I start injecting the meds, I’ll have bruises worth a couple hundred a piece.

I really could kind of use a laugh today.  So let’s talk about my mom’s objections to IVF.  Because at least one of them is so absurd that it’s funny.  The rest… well… there is some truth in all of them, but none of them are enough to dissuade me from at least trying to have my own baby.  One that gets my crazy frizzy hair, weird knees, and freakishly long toes.  Which might be canceled out by my husband’s freakishly short toes.  Don’t know, but I want to find out.

1.      You’ve had a miscarriage, that was extremely painful, why would you set yourself up for that kind of pain again?  ZenBecca says, Mom, because without pain there is no joy.  I shouldn’t try for the joy and fulfillment that a baby can bring just because it might not work and I’ll get hurt?  By that logic I shouldn’t even try to get pregnant because there is a letdown every single month when it doesn’t happen, but she doesn’t experience that with us.  Perhaps I should start calling her when my period starts.  As I recall, I didn’t want to tell her when it started when I was thirteen, not sure I feel any better about doing it at nearly 40.

2.      Adoption is a guarantee.  Go for the guarantee.  Yes, you’re right, it is a guaranteed child at the end.  I didn’t really refute this, it’s sound logic.  But it doesn’t take into account how much I actually want to be pregnant, to experience that.  Now, I’m sure I’ll feel differently once I am in labor, but for the most part I want that experience, good and bad, pukey and painful.

3.      IVF is a money making scam.  Well, there is some truth to that.  It is a money maker, that’s for sure, but it’s also a baby maker.  Scam is probably a poor choice of words.

4.      No one I know has ever had IVF succeed.  Um, where do I start with the flaws in this logic?  It’s pretty simple.  If people don’t have kids, they either explain that they don’t want them or explain what they’ve tried to no avail.  No one says, this is a picture of my two-year-old IVF baby.  Want to see her embryo pictures?

5.      You should just go through the foster system and adopt a cocaine baby, but you’d have to give up your cats.  This was one sentence.  Seriously.  I don’t even need to say all that is so effed up about that statement, it says it all without any help.

Thank you for your support. 

Leftovers

Been reading a bit today on Mississippi’s proposed legislation to have it on the books that legally, life begins at conception.  As someone beginning the in vitro journey, this frightens me.  Oddly, I can and do see both sides of the argument, but that doesn’t mean I agree with the premise.  Something definitely begins at conception, but I do think at its very core, life needs to be living.  It’s a long journey from the romantic interlude between sperm and egg to a place where the result is actually able to live on its own.

But still, I hesitated a bit when signing the bit about what to do with embryos voted Least Likely to Succeed.  There aren’t a lot of choices, only destroy or put ‘em in and let them do what they will do.  I admit I kind of wanted donate them as a choice, but they would have to go for research as, if they weren’t cut out to grow in me, they certainly aren’t cut out to grow in another woman. 

I’d like to give the little bunch of cells a chance, even if it is a slim one, but what if that means they’re putting five or six embryos in me, leading to the possibility of having a litter rather than a baby?  It’s a tough call.

And not one I want anyone else making for me. 

Had a dream this weekend that we got 20 eggs, 12 fertilized, and 8 became Grade A Free Range Organic Blue Ribbon embryos.  That would be absolutely amazing given that the doc says he'd be surprised if we get enough to store any totsicles. 

It's not quantity, it's quality, right? 

Walk Like an Egyptian

I totally understand why most health insurance companies do not cover most fertility treatment.  Why would they pay money in order to possibly end up paying even more to maintain the health of your offspring?  Bad business all around, though frustrating to those of us who have to choose among a bunch of uncomfortable options to have the opportunity to go through with in vitro.

So far both my hubby and I have asked our parents for help.  My mom’s answer deserves a post of its own, so I will save that for a day when I am in better spirits as it will make me cry if I am not emotionally in a place to laugh at it, which is the other choice.  The in-laws have graciously agreed to help, but as of right now neither hubby nor I know exactly what that means.  He has been trying to reach them for over a week (or so he says, this is so uncomfortable for him that I suspect he’s calling about half as often as he says he is) to no avail, so we’re pursuing a loan so we can go through with the procedure in early December.

I hate debt.  Hate.  I suspect I am violently allergic to it as it makes me nauseous and gives me headaches.  I have never in my life carried a credit card balance.  We have a small car payment and a modest mortgage that will be paid off ahead of when it is scheduled.  I think I am the only person who looks forward to pay the mortgage day because it means one more payment checked off of the list.

Many years ago, in an effort to pay off my student loan as quickly as possible, I took a second job doing catering serving.  It’s hard work, but they are very flexible with scheduling, so I’ve kept with it even after kissing that loan good bye, albeit with occasional six month breaks.  But now, with the possibility of a huge loan hanging over us, I have agreed to more hours than I would like to work.

Tonight I get to work the opening of the Cleopatra exhibit at our local museum.  There is nothing I enjoy more than being told I need to be exceptionally pleasant to the guests because they are museum benefactors.  *forehead smack*  And all along I thought my job was to be horrible to people.  Guess I have to reserve that for people of modest means.

Then there is the fun of being nearly forty and working with a bunch of college kids.  Most of them are fantastic and I enjoy them immensely, but there are a few that I want to pelt with left over dinner rolls when they’re not looking.  Lazy, whiny, and more concerned with where they’re going drinking after work than filling water glasses, leaving me to tote load after load of plates of half eaten food to the kitchen.

The part I am most looking forward to (they really need to perfect that sarcastic font for statements like these) is finding out if I know any of the guests.  Because that’s not awkward.  No matter how cheery and confident I am as I explain why I am wearing and ugly tie and offering them a crab cake, they almost always look at me with pity.  I have a good job, I can pay my bills, but I want something more.  I guess I just have to know that I am there for good reasons and let them think what they want, even if high school me just wants to go crawl in a locker and hide.

Pain in the...

My husband just laughed when the nurse said he’d have to be the one to stick me in the… tush every day with that GIANT needle. I have two fears. Other than the giant needle. My husband is a kind, gentle man. He’s not going to want to hurt me with that giant needle. This could go one of two ways. The first one will make me late for work because he will go so s l o w l y and c a r e f u l l y that I don’t get out of the house until the very time I am supposed to be at my desk.

The second is more frightening than displeasing the bossman. My husband has had some EMT training. He understands that quicker is better. At least when it comes to injections. I am afraid he is going to take the big-enough-to-slay-a-dragon needle and jam it into my backside like he’s trying to throw a javelin through my pelvis.

I see bruises in my future.

And marriage counseling.

And hopefully a baby. Because that’s what this is all about after all, isn’t it? Bringing new life into this world through the miracles of modern science. I guess if I have to become a progesterone junkie for it to happen, I can accept that. At least the track marks will be well hidden.

Infertility sucks, there's no two ways about it. I figure my choices are to try to find the lighter side of the adventure or to simply curl up fetal on the couch and pretend none of it is happening. While the latter has quite a bit of appeal, it won't pay the bills and eventually the cats will want their dinner and I'll have to stand up anyway, so I might as well try to find the lighter side.

I'd start at the beginning, if I knew where that was. All I know is that I somehow went from one little "oops" pregnancy to starting the in vitro process in about six months. I'm pretty sure that's some sort of land speed record. The "oops" was only because I was on medication that it was dangerous to be pregnant on, which I immediately stopped, and led to a miscarriage at about seven weeks. While I cried my eyes out and took the couch/fetal plan for a test drive, my doctor decided to run some tests as we moved forward to actual trying since I am, well, old.

One thing after another wasn't quite right. We tried on our own to no avail, with the help of Clomid to no avail and with the added fun of hot flashes, and now, here we are, all geared up to go to an injection teaching class tomorrow and soon we'll shell out more than my car cost so that some scientist can do in a petrie dish what everyone else seems to be able to do in their own bedrooms.

Such is life, I guess. Or the attempts to create one.

Back to the old thing. I seriously did not feel that. At. All. I work out. I run. I play a contact sport that involves me being on a large field with grown men swinging sticks. Now I feel like all of the spam I get from AARP might be justified. There has to be a nicer way for reproductive endocrinologists to put into words what my biological clock is already trying to tell me every day.

My husband doesn't get that. The clock thing. The only thing he finds alarming is the price tag. But he wants this as much as I do. Which is why, tomorrow morning, we will have a nurse teaching him how to give me shots in a place I'd rather not have to stick into his face on a daily basis. All I can do is hope that the end result is worth it. And that he pays attention. I've heard it's pretty friggin' painful if you shoot the wrong spot.