After the Green M&M told me it was time to give this a “fair try”, I suddenly got very nervous. There were PLENTY of instructions on how to take the pills, administer the injections, and follow the “doctor speak” about my progress so far in the cycle. But no one had told me if there were certain things I needed to do to actually “try”?! By that point the Green M&M was gone, and I was too embarrassed to ask Elvira in billing if there was some trick to it all. So the second I got home, I went back to Google School. I know, I know what you’re thinking. Bad choice, Erin. But I had been able to so carefully control everything up until this point, and all of a sudden I was just supposed to wait and see? That seemed way too risky.
First I Googled, “The best sexual positions for conceiving.” Let me be the example for the class on this subject forever and ever: NEVER ENTER THE WORD "SEXUAL" INTO A SEARCH STRING. IT WILL NOT BE WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR. I clicked away from that screen so fast, I felt like I was trying to keep THE NEIGHBORS from knowing what those websites were called.
Next, I Googled, “How to get pregnant.” Well, that was the hot ticket to the baby train right there. Hundreds of woman had posted personal stories of how they got pregnant. Pillow under the back, legs straight up in the air, thinking positively, headstand, leaning to the side you ovulated on…it was all there. So I took every single one of them seriously and decided that if this was all I had control over, then this is what we would have to do. I mean, we’d spent good money to get this egg out and who knew the next time we’d get another one!? We had to make this time COUNT!
When David got home, I explained to him that this evening we would be “trying” while I laid on my side on a stack of seven pillows with my legs hung from the ceiling fan and directly afterward, his job was to stand me on my head and hold me there for 30 minutes. Oh, and then think positively. He assured me that millions of women became pregnant without doing any of these things. And even after I referenced the Yahoo chat room highlighting the importance aligning your Chi in the hours before trying to conceive, he still insisted everything would be fine.
After the trying had commenced, we made an appointment with a nutritionist. It seemed important to both of us that my insulin resistance be controlled if I were to get pregnant, but not by eating meat and fat. It didn’t seem healthy, and my body sure wasn’t happy about the change in diet. And when we met Dr. Kale, he seemed positive that we could come up with a solution that met both the needs of my fertility doctor and my falling-down butt. Both David and I were very excited about a new way of eating, and about getting through the next two weeks when we could finally take a test. The waiting game began.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
BabyGate 2009 - Part 10
It was around Halloween when I was finally ready for my last ultrasound. They had to get one last look before I got THE BIG SHOT. As long as everything had continued growing in the right direction, nature could take it’s course. You know, after all the pills and the injectable drugs and the ultrasounds, NATURE could finally take it’s course. There were plenty of moments along the road that I wondered if this was really the right decision. It sure didn’t seem like I was the one making the babies anymore.
When I checked in at the front desk, Amy greeted me dressed like a 1970’s rocker chic. I remind you, it was Halloween, and it appeared these folks took their holidays very seriously. I guess if you’re looking at women’s uteruses and ovaries all day, you long for a break from the norm.
The Wicked Witch of the West called my name and led me to Ponte Vedra for my ultrasound. I joked in my head while waiting on the table about what or who would be walking in to examine me. Harry Potter, maybe? Chucky? Kate Gosselin?
Would you believe it was none of those? No modern media news story character on crack could have topped what I saw walk in the door. It was sperm. A grown woman dressed as a giant, 5 foot tall sperm. A human-sized sperm had come to help me get pregnant. Now, if this isn’t an ancient Chinese proverb, or at least a sign of good luck, I don’t know what is.
She sat down and I couldn’t stop moving from giggling and laughing out loud. What made the whole situation even more hilarious is she kept having to reposition her head within the giant sperm’s head to see out. When she finally gave me the thumb’s up (do sperm have thumbs?), I watched her long sperm tail drag behind her as she left the room. I’m pretty sure that’s the most times I’ve ever typed the word “sperm”, so thanks to her for that.
Another one of my nurses, a demure Green M&M, came in all smiles. “You’re ready to release your egg!”
There aren’t a lot of responses to this that seem appropriate in the moment, so I just stuck with the smile and the thumbs up right next to the face. I warned her that I might get woozy, so she propped me up against the table so that if I fainted I would land square in the outline of my butt in the exam table sanitary paper. She got out THE BIG SHOT and I closed my eyes. I told her no counting. Just do it! I was pretty nervous, and rightfully so. She grabbed my thigh muscle and shoved that thing in deep! It felt like it went all the way down to my ankle, but within a few minutes the pain was gone. I had survived THE BIG SHOT, and I would finally have my chance.
“Great job!” the Green M&M shrieked. “Wait about 12 hours, and then you guys can give this a fair try!”
You got it, M&M. We're going to give this a fair try.
When I checked in at the front desk, Amy greeted me dressed like a 1970’s rocker chic. I remind you, it was Halloween, and it appeared these folks took their holidays very seriously. I guess if you’re looking at women’s uteruses and ovaries all day, you long for a break from the norm.
The Wicked Witch of the West called my name and led me to Ponte Vedra for my ultrasound. I joked in my head while waiting on the table about what or who would be walking in to examine me. Harry Potter, maybe? Chucky? Kate Gosselin?
Would you believe it was none of those? No modern media news story character on crack could have topped what I saw walk in the door. It was sperm. A grown woman dressed as a giant, 5 foot tall sperm. A human-sized sperm had come to help me get pregnant. Now, if this isn’t an ancient Chinese proverb, or at least a sign of good luck, I don’t know what is.
She sat down and I couldn’t stop moving from giggling and laughing out loud. What made the whole situation even more hilarious is she kept having to reposition her head within the giant sperm’s head to see out. When she finally gave me the thumb’s up (do sperm have thumbs?), I watched her long sperm tail drag behind her as she left the room. I’m pretty sure that’s the most times I’ve ever typed the word “sperm”, so thanks to her for that.
Another one of my nurses, a demure Green M&M, came in all smiles. “You’re ready to release your egg!”
There aren’t a lot of responses to this that seem appropriate in the moment, so I just stuck with the smile and the thumbs up right next to the face. I warned her that I might get woozy, so she propped me up against the table so that if I fainted I would land square in the outline of my butt in the exam table sanitary paper. She got out THE BIG SHOT and I closed my eyes. I told her no counting. Just do it! I was pretty nervous, and rightfully so. She grabbed my thigh muscle and shoved that thing in deep! It felt like it went all the way down to my ankle, but within a few minutes the pain was gone. I had survived THE BIG SHOT, and I would finally have my chance.
“Great job!” the Green M&M shrieked. “Wait about 12 hours, and then you guys can give this a fair try!”
You got it, M&M. We're going to give this a fair try.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
BabyGate 2009 - Part 9
First of all, did anyone hear them say BabyGate on Glee last week? David and I both jumped off the couch. Clearly they've been reading my blog. Hi Mr. Shu!
The third shot was easy and quick. In fact, Dave administered the fertility goodness while I was laying on the bed watching TV and while he was drinking a beer.
After three days, it was as easy as and peeling a hard-boiled egg and pairing it with bacon every single morning for the rest of my life God I wish I could stop eating all this meat…
It was around that third shot that I began to feel tired and lumpy. I wasn’t getting much exercise because the doctor told me cardio would release the “wrong hormones”. I was eating more meat than I had in my entire life. My body was no longer lean and mean. It was kind of soft and apathetic instead. My butt, three months prior a taught and stand-up gal, just kind of laid down for a nap. My arms previously sported a hot little line that shouted “Check me out! I’m muscles!” The skin used to stretch tightly over my well-defined thighs and calves, but no more. And my stomach. Oh my stomach. I’m not sure I even want to say something witty about it. It’s that bad.
And because my body was taking the A-Train south, I was losing interest in my yoga and ball pilates. The alarm clock still went off every morning at 6:15. And I still hit the snooze button. The only difference was that I hit the “alarm off” button right after I hit the snooze button and slept until 7:30. I started to get the idea that my food might be making me depressed.
At about the same time, a couple David was working out with recommended we see a nutritionist to help me regulate my sugar when I eventually became pregnant. He came home and told me we HAD to go meet with this doctor because from everything he heard, this guy could really help us. Great idea, right? ANOTHER doctor. As if the bills we had piled up on our credit cards were getting lonely and needed a new doctor to play with. But he wouldn’t let it go. Everyday he left me a reminder to call them. Every night he asked me when I might want to go. Finally, one morning, he sent me an email from our house reading, “Put a star on this email. Tomorrow, when you start work, call and make an appointment and then you can remove the star.” Damnit. He appealed to the joy I carry in marking things off a checklist. He got me.
Before we could go meet this new doctor, I had to go into the fertility doctor’s office to see if my follicles had responded to the shots. We had to go in on a Sunday, much to the doctors’ and nurses’ delights I’m sure. The ultrasound was fast and the picture that flashed on the screen dazzled our eyes!
“17cm.” The doctor said.
“Woooooow.” David and I said. We’d never made one that big!
“You’ll be ready for the HCG shot tomorrow. You can do that one at home too…”
“NO.” Maybe I shouted it a little too quickly, as to somehow imply that I didn’t trust my husband with the longest needle in the world. “I mean, I would rather a nurse do that.” Both the nurse and the doctor set their pens down and looked at me. David put his head down. I started explaining. “No no, he did a great job with the other shots. I mean there was that little mishap with the wrong needle and almost puncturing my uterus, but we’re over that now and I totally trust him to….”
The nurse laughed. “It’s fine. Just come in tomorrow morning and we’ll fit you in.”
“Thanks.”
It was the last step before we could actually try and get pregnant. The last thing we needed to do in a doctor’s office. After this, it was just us and nature. Nature had let me down before, but I was willing to lay back and trust that it would happen when it was meant to happen. And everyone in the office knew it would be this time. And secretly, I thought they were right.
The third shot was easy and quick. In fact, Dave administered the fertility goodness while I was laying on the bed watching TV and while he was drinking a beer.
After three days, it was as easy as and peeling a hard-boiled egg and pairing it with bacon every single morning for the rest of my life God I wish I could stop eating all this meat…
It was around that third shot that I began to feel tired and lumpy. I wasn’t getting much exercise because the doctor told me cardio would release the “wrong hormones”. I was eating more meat than I had in my entire life. My body was no longer lean and mean. It was kind of soft and apathetic instead. My butt, three months prior a taught and stand-up gal, just kind of laid down for a nap. My arms previously sported a hot little line that shouted “Check me out! I’m muscles!” The skin used to stretch tightly over my well-defined thighs and calves, but no more. And my stomach. Oh my stomach. I’m not sure I even want to say something witty about it. It’s that bad.
And because my body was taking the A-Train south, I was losing interest in my yoga and ball pilates. The alarm clock still went off every morning at 6:15. And I still hit the snooze button. The only difference was that I hit the “alarm off” button right after I hit the snooze button and slept until 7:30. I started to get the idea that my food might be making me depressed.
At about the same time, a couple David was working out with recommended we see a nutritionist to help me regulate my sugar when I eventually became pregnant. He came home and told me we HAD to go meet with this doctor because from everything he heard, this guy could really help us. Great idea, right? ANOTHER doctor. As if the bills we had piled up on our credit cards were getting lonely and needed a new doctor to play with. But he wouldn’t let it go. Everyday he left me a reminder to call them. Every night he asked me when I might want to go. Finally, one morning, he sent me an email from our house reading, “Put a star on this email. Tomorrow, when you start work, call and make an appointment and then you can remove the star.” Damnit. He appealed to the joy I carry in marking things off a checklist. He got me.
Before we could go meet this new doctor, I had to go into the fertility doctor’s office to see if my follicles had responded to the shots. We had to go in on a Sunday, much to the doctors’ and nurses’ delights I’m sure. The ultrasound was fast and the picture that flashed on the screen dazzled our eyes!
“17cm.” The doctor said.
“Woooooow.” David and I said. We’d never made one that big!
“You’ll be ready for the HCG shot tomorrow. You can do that one at home too…”
“NO.” Maybe I shouted it a little too quickly, as to somehow imply that I didn’t trust my husband with the longest needle in the world. “I mean, I would rather a nurse do that.” Both the nurse and the doctor set their pens down and looked at me. David put his head down. I started explaining. “No no, he did a great job with the other shots. I mean there was that little mishap with the wrong needle and almost puncturing my uterus, but we’re over that now and I totally trust him to….”
The nurse laughed. “It’s fine. Just come in tomorrow morning and we’ll fit you in.”
“Thanks.”
It was the last step before we could actually try and get pregnant. The last thing we needed to do in a doctor’s office. After this, it was just us and nature. Nature had let me down before, but I was willing to lay back and trust that it would happen when it was meant to happen. And everyone in the office knew it would be this time. And secretly, I thought they were right.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
BabyGate - Part 8
The morning of the Gator game, I packed my syringes and little glass jars in a lunch box that I used to take to work with me. The doctor told me David could administer a shot in a stadium bathroom if need be, which I desperately wanted to avoid.
I also packed cookies. You know, typical game day, syringes and cookies.
We arrived way too early and spent an afternoon baking in the sun. I kept checking to make sure my lunch box was safe in the car and that the ice hadn’t melted. I checked it so many times you’d think it WAS a baby. I thought about it the entire time I was inside the game. I wonder if the lunchbox feels lonely? I wonder if it’s too hot or too cold? I doner if it knows I’m coming back for it.
It’s normal for my family to leave a Gator game early if it’s clear our team will win. This happens more often than not. So at about 7pm, when our team was CLEARLY winning, I asked Dave if we could leave early. He looked at his mom and asked, “Can we leave early?” I gave her the Puss in Boots big eyes from Shrek. She said, “Ask your father.” We all turned our heads in a big, waving moving towards David’s father, who said, “Oh, I’d like to stay.” Now, David’s father rarely expresses an opinion. He is very happy to go with the flow of the family. So when he says he wants to stay, we stay. Damnit, we stay.
I stared at my watch until 7:30 when the game finally ended. I knew we could do the shots at home (where I WANTED to do them) if we could just make it there by 9. There was just one problem: the entire city of Jacksonville was parked in the stadium parking lot. By the time we got to the car it was already 8pm. And to top it off, David’s parents drove so our car was back at their house, 20 minutes away from home. I envisioned David and I in the back seat of his parent’s van with syringes and vials trying to hold steady over the potholes and sudden stops to avoid hitting drunk Gator fans. Then I ate an entire bag of chips.
We got to my in-laws house at 8:45. I rushed, lunchbox in my arms, to our car. If we booked it, we could do the shots at home. If we didn’t make it, we would have to pull over. Dave was driving fast but I still repeated, faster, faster! When my phone rang and I saw that it was my best friend, I picked up for a nice distraction.
“Where have you been?” was the first thing she asked.
“I was a the Gator game all day! Sorry!”
“I’ve been trying to call you!”
“Oh! I didn’t mean to worry you. Everything ok?”
She sighed. “Yes. Everything ok with you? Pregnant yet?”
“No, I’m not pregnant. Other than that I’m fine.”
“Sorry babe,” she said.
She always asks if I’m pregnant. She has been with me every step of the way through this process, which has been so wonderful. She’s always checking in to see what the latest doctor appointment revealed and how I’m feeling on the pills and the shots, etc.
“So what’s new with you?” I asked while we drove off the interstate. Almost home.
“Well, I was calling you all day to tell you…” I immediately started screaming. I knew exactly what she was about to say and I couldn’t get any words out except for the highest-pitched scream ever. I broke glass. Dogs came running from everywhere. David almost wrecked the car. My best friend was pregnant.
I completely lost track of how important the shots were and I wandered around the house talking to her about how she was feeling and how thrilled I was for her. We always said we would be pregnant together and I never expected it could actually happen. And here she was, pregnant and waiting for me to hurry up and meet her there.
I hung up and David was already ready to give me the shot. I had so much adrenaline rushing through my veins from the phone call that the shot didn’t even hurt. In fact, it felt good knowing I was one step closer and could actually be pregnant with my best friend this month.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
BabyGate - Part 7
The morning of the day David was to stab me in the stomach with our first injection of fertility goodness, I had to take a pregnancy test. This is standard procedure. Depressing. We knew we weren't pregnant, but just like everything else, the doctors wanted to make sure insult was thoroughly mixed with injury. Shaken, not stirred.When it was time, I pretended like nothing was going to happen that evening. Maybe I would be cooking and bloop! David stabs me in the stomach and I serve dinner!
When David got home from work, he stood at our kitchen counter carefully mixing and combining the liquids with the powders while I stirred a lovely chicken sauce on the stove. I got an ice cube and held it on my belly in the spot he would stab me. I stood, stirring and icing, waiting for the panic attack to set in.
And then, David turned around with a syringe bearing the longest needle I’d ever seen. It was longer than my arm. I gasped and shouted, “THAT’S NOT THE RIGHT NEEDLE!”
David responded calmly. “Yes it is, sweetie. It’s the same need the nurse showed us in the office.” Mind you, the nurse clearly stated that the needle should be plunged IN ITS ENTIRETY into my stomach. If that needle went all the way into my stomach, he would have injected hormones directly into my uterus. It was THAT long.
I started hyperventilating. This can’t be right! You cannot give a man permission to stab his wife with a needle that long! I dropped the ice cube (which Charlie promptly ate), and I started rummaging through the boxes on my kitchen counter. I pulled out bags of extra syringes and all sized little glass jars. I frantically looked through every baggie and small box, praying that the needle in my husband’s hands was the wrong need.
And guess what?
IT WAS THE WRONG NEEDLE.
David didn’t read the baggie he took the needle from, and the baggie happened to be for the BIG SHOT that I wasn’t supposed to get for another week! My husband was about to skewer me like so much teriyaki beef on the BIG SHOT! THIS IS WHY HUSBANDS SHOULD NEVER GIVE THEIR WIVES SHOTS IN THE KITCHEN!
I was very upset, not just about nearly becoming a human kabob, but because of what this little mistake might have cost us. There was currently $160 of liquid floating in a little syringe with the wrong needle on top. How the hell were we going to get the liquid into the right syringe with the right needle? Was it possible to transport the liquid out of the wrong needle, through the right needle, and down into a new syringe?! Can you siphon it out with a bendy straw? Do you run to the hospital with the syringe in your hand and scream, “My husband isn’t a doctor and tried to be one in my kitchen!”? WHAT DOES SOMEONE DO IN THIS SITUATION?
While I panicked, David stayed very calm. He held the syringe in one hand while sifting through
the pile of needles on the counter. He picked up the right needle and looked at it carefully. He then looked back at the BIG SHOT, studying both of them. And in a moment of brilliance, he carefully unscrewed the BIG SHOT from the syringe and replaced it with a smaller needle, without losing a drop of fertility goodness. Syringes now come with screw top needles. Finally the medical world is taking cues from the wine world.When the correct needle was in place, I leaned back against the counter and closed my eyes. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, just do it.”
David squeezed a little hunk of flesh on my belly.
“Deep breath.”
“JUST DO IT, DAVE.”
He took a short breath and started to count. Counting is the last thing I wanted him to be doing at this moment. But it was happening and before I could shout, “STOP COUNTING!”, my brain interrupted with the thought that David could drop the syringe if I screamed or he could accidentally stab me straight through the belly button and THEN where would we be?!
Boink!
In all that thinking, it was over. I was red and sweaty and breathing really fast, but it was over. We had just successfully completed our first injectable. We both took a deep breath.
“You were so calm,” I told Dave.
“Well, of course, babe. You needed me to be calm. I’m here for you.”
I smiled and sat down in a chair, staring at the injection site on my belly. I quietly rejoiced in how lucky I am to have a man who has the foresight to know how to deal with stressful situations. Never once did he lose his cool or allow my stress levels to make him nervous. I am truly blessed.
Then David said, “Man. That was really scary, huh? I almost peed my pants!”
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
BabyGate - Part 6
After breaking the news that my husband would be stabbing me in the stomach in order to try and help us have a baby, Dr. New York The Man left the room so I could get dressed. I dressed in silence until David finally said, “It’ll be fine. They wouldn’t let me do the shots if it wasn’t routine. I’m sure plenty of people have done it themselves before.”
I tried to keep my composure, and instead of saying, “David, doctors give shots. In a DOCTOR’S office. With a sterile environment and years of medical practice. You have a theatre degree and work in commercial real estate. You aren’t qualified to give me shots in our kitchen next to the COFFEE POT,” what I really said was, “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right, dear.”
Winnie met us in the hall and told us to head over to Lake Como to meet Sally. She also told us we could play with the model of a diseased uterus sitting on the table there, which was awesome. David did a short puppet show before Sally came in with the bag of injectable show-and-tell things. That type of behavior, doing short puppet shows using a model of a diseased uterus, is mainly why I married him.
After the puppet show, I sat thinking about the boxes of needles on my kitchen counter.
Eeeeerin! We're gonna geeeet you!
Sally interrupted my little daydream and whipped out a needle and some little glass jars. She showed us how to mix the liquid and the powder, suck it up into the syringe, put the right needle on the top, and then PUNCTURE my stomach. She used a fake little tummy to demonstrate. When she was all finished, I asked her if she could do the entire demonstration again. She laughed, and I told her I wasn’t kidding. She left the room and came back with an informational DVD that she said “no one ever actually watches.” I said thank you.
At this point I’m sure a lot of people would consider my behavior “control freakish”. But let me tell you something: if your husband is being instructed to stab you in the stomach with 1cc of liquid that is worth more than all of your crystal wine glasses combined (which you can’t drink out of because you can’t have sugar), YOU’LL WANT TO MAKE SURE HE GETS IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME, TOO!
We got a calendar at the front desk highlighting the three days David would give me the injections. Each one should happen between 6pm and 9pm. There was only one problem: We had tickets to the Florida game on the 2nd night. I went back and asked the nurse what we should do!
“Oh, just go to the bathroom at the stadium and do it.”
Now, getting an injection in my kitchen was a terrible idea. It’s where we cut raw meat and spill sticky sauces on the counter. But I could live with it.
Getting an injection in the bathroom at a Gator game was unconscionable. It’s where 20-year-old college students spend the second quarter puking their brains out on the floor because they couldn’t make it to the toilet. Not to mention there was poo.
So I was left with a choice: Convince my husband to leave the Gator game early, or face certain death in a stadium bathroom. When I weighed out the risk/reward factors of both, I decided to adopt.
I tried to keep my composure, and instead of saying, “David, doctors give shots. In a DOCTOR’S office. With a sterile environment and years of medical practice. You have a theatre degree and work in commercial real estate. You aren’t qualified to give me shots in our kitchen next to the COFFEE POT,” what I really said was, “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right, dear.”
Winnie met us in the hall and told us to head over to Lake Como to meet Sally. She also told us we could play with the model of a diseased uterus sitting on the table there, which was awesome. David did a short puppet show before Sally came in with the bag of injectable show-and-tell things. That type of behavior, doing short puppet shows using a model of a diseased uterus, is mainly why I married him.
After the puppet show, I sat thinking about the boxes of needles on my kitchen counter.
Eeeeerin! We're gonna geeeet you!
Sally interrupted my little daydream and whipped out a needle and some little glass jars. She showed us how to mix the liquid and the powder, suck it up into the syringe, put the right needle on the top, and then PUNCTURE my stomach. She used a fake little tummy to demonstrate. When she was all finished, I asked her if she could do the entire demonstration again. She laughed, and I told her I wasn’t kidding. She left the room and came back with an informational DVD that she said “no one ever actually watches.” I said thank you.
At this point I’m sure a lot of people would consider my behavior “control freakish”. But let me tell you something: if your husband is being instructed to stab you in the stomach with 1cc of liquid that is worth more than all of your crystal wine glasses combined (which you can’t drink out of because you can’t have sugar), YOU’LL WANT TO MAKE SURE HE GETS IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME, TOO!
We got a calendar at the front desk highlighting the three days David would give me the injections. Each one should happen between 6pm and 9pm. There was only one problem: We had tickets to the Florida game on the 2nd night. I went back and asked the nurse what we should do!
“Oh, just go to the bathroom at the stadium and do it.”
Now, getting an injection in my kitchen was a terrible idea. It’s where we cut raw meat and spill sticky sauces on the counter. But I could live with it.
Getting an injection in the bathroom at a Gator game was unconscionable. It’s where 20-year-old college students spend the second quarter puking their brains out on the floor because they couldn’t make it to the toilet. Not to mention there was poo.
So I was left with a choice: Convince my husband to leave the Gator game early, or face certain death in a stadium bathroom. When I weighed out the risk/reward factors of both, I decided to adopt.
Monday, November 9, 2009
BabyGate - Part 5
It was at this point that I was writing in my journal everyday about “feelings” and “dreams”. I wrote so much that I started to lose the focus of my life. Everyday became a big pity party.
Waaah, we have no money.
Waaah, I can’t eat cookies.
Waaah, I’m infertile.
So I stopped writing in my journal. I dropped out of the Google School for Doctors (much to my mother’s dismay, but at least I’ve still got Google Law School). I quit reading books related to pregnancy and, I know you won’t believe this, but I stopped watching A Baby Story. Instead, I made a game out of cooking on the cheap and reusing old clothes to make new outfits. I planned fun and free things to do with my husband and dogs. I watched funny movies and went to football games. I got so wrapped up enjoying life without fertility-cycle-on-the-brain, I almost FORGOT to take my first million dollar fertility pill!
The injectables with all the needles made it to my house in a box on the porch. That seemed ridiculous to me. "Hey Erin, where are the needles we need to have a baby?"
"Oh, they're on the porch in a box."
The box sat out on my kitchen counter next to the receipts basket and the dog treats. I figured setting them out in the open gave them less power than hiding them in the cabinet. “The vegetables are just up the counter from you. And I’m not scared of vegetables. What, now, needles?”
The first ultrasound visit of the cycle came a week after the first million dollar pill. The nurses, who all knew me by name at this point, said hi and asked about my life. I was a person to them, not just a patient. I almost felt like we were all friends who met up once a week to look at each other’s ovaries. This made it a fairly weird friendship, but a friendship none-the-less.
I sat up on the table waiting for Winnie or Pam to come in and see me. Dave sat next to me reading a pregnancy magazine. I was taken aback when Dr. New York walked in. Dr. New York is A MAN. A MAN who wanted to give me an internal ultrasound. I started getting flushed and flustered. I automatically started talking about football, hoping we could relate and find common ground before he started “working.” Unfortunately, I didn’t listen to any of his responses. I just watched his hands as they stretched the gloves and reached towards the ultrasound machine. Thankfully, my husband continued the football-related fodder while I sat stunned. Winnie popped her head in and smiled. I looked at her, sending her telepathic messages hoping she could read them and understand this was an urgent situation! Code Blue! A man is in this room attempting to do my internal ultrasound. A MAN!
Winnie does not understand the fundamentals of telepathy. She just waved and walked back out. So I held my breath and hoped I could focus on his questions without crying and yelling, “YOU’RE A MAN!”
It all went away when I saw the screen. The pills worked this month! I grew 11cm follicles! This was twice the size they were at the same time during the previous month. And there was more than one! “Great,” Dr. New York The Man said. “We can go ahead and start the injectables! I just hope you don’t have too many follicles grow because you are responding so well!”
You hear that?! OVERACHIEVER!
“We don’t want you to be the next octo-mom, so we’ll keep a close eye on everything, but so far this is great.” Hahaha! We all laughed and slapped our knees. Oh Dr. New York The Man! Octo-Mom Jokes! Ohhh, what a hoot. What a gay old time this is! Progress and jokes. Could this day get better?!
“Sally will take you into the other room to teach you how to do the injections.”
What?
“What?”
I looked at Dave.
“Who does the injections?!”
“You do. Or your husband, if that makes you more comfortable.”
Husband sticking me with needles: COMFORTABLE FAIL.
Waaah, we have no money.
Waaah, I can’t eat cookies.
Waaah, I’m infertile.
So I stopped writing in my journal. I dropped out of the Google School for Doctors (much to my mother’s dismay, but at least I’ve still got Google Law School). I quit reading books related to pregnancy and, I know you won’t believe this, but I stopped watching A Baby Story. Instead, I made a game out of cooking on the cheap and reusing old clothes to make new outfits. I planned fun and free things to do with my husband and dogs. I watched funny movies and went to football games. I got so wrapped up enjoying life without fertility-cycle-on-the-brain, I almost FORGOT to take my first million dollar fertility pill!
The injectables with all the needles made it to my house in a box on the porch. That seemed ridiculous to me. "Hey Erin, where are the needles we need to have a baby?"
"Oh, they're on the porch in a box."
The box sat out on my kitchen counter next to the receipts basket and the dog treats. I figured setting them out in the open gave them less power than hiding them in the cabinet. “The vegetables are just up the counter from you. And I’m not scared of vegetables. What, now, needles?”
The first ultrasound visit of the cycle came a week after the first million dollar pill. The nurses, who all knew me by name at this point, said hi and asked about my life. I was a person to them, not just a patient. I almost felt like we were all friends who met up once a week to look at each other’s ovaries. This made it a fairly weird friendship, but a friendship none-the-less.
I sat up on the table waiting for Winnie or Pam to come in and see me. Dave sat next to me reading a pregnancy magazine. I was taken aback when Dr. New York walked in. Dr. New York is A MAN. A MAN who wanted to give me an internal ultrasound. I started getting flushed and flustered. I automatically started talking about football, hoping we could relate and find common ground before he started “working.” Unfortunately, I didn’t listen to any of his responses. I just watched his hands as they stretched the gloves and reached towards the ultrasound machine. Thankfully, my husband continued the football-related fodder while I sat stunned. Winnie popped her head in and smiled. I looked at her, sending her telepathic messages hoping she could read them and understand this was an urgent situation! Code Blue! A man is in this room attempting to do my internal ultrasound. A MAN!
Winnie does not understand the fundamentals of telepathy. She just waved and walked back out. So I held my breath and hoped I could focus on his questions without crying and yelling, “YOU’RE A MAN!”
It all went away when I saw the screen. The pills worked this month! I grew 11cm follicles! This was twice the size they were at the same time during the previous month. And there was more than one! “Great,” Dr. New York The Man said. “We can go ahead and start the injectables! I just hope you don’t have too many follicles grow because you are responding so well!”
You hear that?! OVERACHIEVER!
“We don’t want you to be the next octo-mom, so we’ll keep a close eye on everything, but so far this is great.” Hahaha! We all laughed and slapped our knees. Oh Dr. New York The Man! Octo-Mom Jokes! Ohhh, what a hoot. What a gay old time this is! Progress and jokes. Could this day get better?!
“Sally will take you into the other room to teach you how to do the injections.”
What?
“What?”
I looked at Dave.
“Who does the injections?!”
“You do. Or your husband, if that makes you more comfortable.”
Husband sticking me with needles: COMFORTABLE FAIL.
Friday, November 6, 2009
BabyGate - Part 4
I spent the next three weeks ignoring the entire situation. I buried myself in work. I cooked a big (sugar-free) meal every night and kept the house looking like something out of Better Homes and Gardens. I spent a lot of time at Target, which most women will tell you can cure even the worst fertility depression. Until one night…
David and I sat down to do the finances. We realized that after all the medical bills piled up, we were starting to accumulate credit card debt, something we’d never had. Even if we began paying off next month’s medical bills in full, injectables included, we wouldn’t have any money leftover to pay the minimum on the credit cards! So THIS is how America got into the worst economic situation of our time. FERTILITY DRUGS!
We put a spending freeze on all credit cards and broke down to the BARE essentials every month. We ate out ONLY once a week (with a coupon from the Mint) and never bought breakfast or lunch. I stopped buying things for the dogs, I used coupons and followed the sales, and (dun, dun, dun) I stopped going to Target. Seeing as how I’d already cut out all sugar from my life, cutting everything else out was just insult to injury.
When it was time to go back to the doctor, I had very low expectations. I was over getting all excited or nervous.
Winnie walked in to do the ultrasound and whispered, “Today we want quiet ovaries. Let’s be quiet, too!” So we whispered for the entire ultrasound. Thank heavens my doctors and nurses get me.
And low in behold, my ovaries were quiet and ready for an onslaught of drugs. “This is great news!” she whispered. “Now you just need to order your new meds and we can get this party started!!”
“OK!” David and I whispered together.
I called the far-far-away pharmacy and asked if they had my prescription on file.
“Hi, Ms. Cohen! I have your prescription right here! And you also qualify for our medical assistance program.”
“Huh? I didn’t sign up for that.”
“Oh, you don’t have to. We automatically apply it to all accounts without fertility insurance.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is the total that high?”
“Well, you are ordering the injectables today. Those cost…”
“WAIT!” I interrupted. “I don’t want to know.”
“You don’t want to know the price?”
“Nope.”
“Ok. Well, I can just give you the total of the order so you know what we’re charging you.”
“Nope. Don’t want to know that either.”
She paused. She was clearly surprised. This wasn’t one of the options in her script. “Ok, Ms. Cohen, well, we’ll be charging your debit card a total of…um, we’ll just be charging it. And if you have any questions about the cost, then you can…um…you can call us.”
“Sounds great!” And I hung up, called Dave, and told him not to look at the credit card this month.
It ain’t just a river in Egypt.
David and I sat down to do the finances. We realized that after all the medical bills piled up, we were starting to accumulate credit card debt, something we’d never had. Even if we began paying off next month’s medical bills in full, injectables included, we wouldn’t have any money leftover to pay the minimum on the credit cards! So THIS is how America got into the worst economic situation of our time. FERTILITY DRUGS!
We put a spending freeze on all credit cards and broke down to the BARE essentials every month. We ate out ONLY once a week (with a coupon from the Mint) and never bought breakfast or lunch. I stopped buying things for the dogs, I used coupons and followed the sales, and (dun, dun, dun) I stopped going to Target. Seeing as how I’d already cut out all sugar from my life, cutting everything else out was just insult to injury.
When it was time to go back to the doctor, I had very low expectations. I was over getting all excited or nervous.
Winnie walked in to do the ultrasound and whispered, “Today we want quiet ovaries. Let’s be quiet, too!” So we whispered for the entire ultrasound. Thank heavens my doctors and nurses get me.
And low in behold, my ovaries were quiet and ready for an onslaught of drugs. “This is great news!” she whispered. “Now you just need to order your new meds and we can get this party started!!”
“OK!” David and I whispered together.
I called the far-far-away pharmacy and asked if they had my prescription on file.
“Hi, Ms. Cohen! I have your prescription right here! And you also qualify for our medical assistance program.”
“Huh? I didn’t sign up for that.”
“Oh, you don’t have to. We automatically apply it to all accounts without fertility insurance.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is the total that high?”
“Well, you are ordering the injectables today. Those cost…”
“WAIT!” I interrupted. “I don’t want to know.”
“You don’t want to know the price?”
“Nope.”
“Ok. Well, I can just give you the total of the order so you know what we’re charging you.”
“Nope. Don’t want to know that either.”
She paused. She was clearly surprised. This wasn’t one of the options in her script. “Ok, Ms. Cohen, well, we’ll be charging your debit card a total of…um, we’ll just be charging it. And if you have any questions about the cost, then you can…um…you can call us.”
“Sounds great!” And I hung up, called Dave, and told him not to look at the credit card this month.
It ain’t just a river in Egypt.
Monday, November 2, 2009
BabyGate 2009 - Part 3
I went in for my first ultrasound feeling very positive. It was in the New Orleans room, complete with pictures and beads. David and I fell in love in New Orleans 6 years ago, so I took it as a good sign.
Winnie was my nurse that day and she was very excited to see if my follicles grew. She turned on the machine, and I could quickly tell by the tone of her voice that we hadn't made progress. It's that faux, perky kind of "OoooKay! This is oookay!" voice that gave it away.
"Winnie," I said, "I ordered the BIG SHOT that I'm supposed to get when my follicles grow. If my follicles don't grow, what do I do with the BIG SHOT?!"
Winnie explained I should keep that big shot at home (that big needle chuckled when she said that) and just wait a few days; maybe my follicles were late bloomers?
I went home and panicked for 3 days until the next ultrasound, starting each morning by putting my hands over my tummy and singing, "Grow, follicles! Grow! Yooou can dooo it!" David occasionally sang back-up. "Grow, Grow!"
Winnie greeted me in Kauai for my next appointment and smiled. My friends honeymooned in Kauai. Was that a sign?
"You ready for some follicles, girl?!" I was, but I had a gut feeling that nothing else had happened. And my guts have a pretty high IQ.
Winnie told me that the next step was to add injectable fertility drugs into the cycle to try and get things rolling. I was in NO way ready to hear that and even FURTHER away from making a decision about it. Injectable fertility drugs were for people who really couldn't get pregnant. After I had a mild panic attack, she told me how much they cost. This took me straight from panic attack to delusional. I'm pretty sure the Carebears and the Smurfs walked in right after she told me and started fighting and sticking each other with needles, screaming, "AHHH! WE'RE GOING CRAZY!!! EVERYTHING'S GONE WRONG! AHHHH!"
David's immediate reaction was, "Alright, let's do it." Easy for him to say. My reaction was, "With every step we take to try and have kids, I become less and less a female and more and more a BattleShip Game Board. Do I hang out and let them continue sticking me until they sink the whole ship?!"
I couldn't do it. Instead, we waited 2 more days in case the follicles decided to grow, but I never had much hope. I knew this cycle was a complete wash and that we were going to have to wait weeks until we could start the process over again. I was very depressed.
Pam did the final ultrasound, and even her infectious joy couldn't bring me back up from the depths of fertility pergatory. And because we waited an extra 2 days, it was too late to try the injectables. Pam, trying to be helpful, told me, "It'll happen! I had 3 girls today, boom boom boom, all 3 pregnant with just the oral drugs. We'll get there!" Awesome. Three girls, all pregnant. So that makes me the barren 28-year-old with no hope of ever fulfilling my purpose here on Earth: to scream in unintelligable pain for 20 hours or so, raise a child and care for it's every need for the next 18 years, and send it away to a school that costs more than Trump Tower. Wait...why am I doing this?
I was sent back to Telluride to wait for a nurse to talk to me about our options. I've never been to Telluride, except for the day Pam told me I had PCOS. I hated Telluride.
I cried a few tears while Dave said, "It's fine. We'll be fine."
“It’s not fine!” I snapped. “It’s my only job! I’m the girl and I make the babies! And I can’t do my job if my follicles won’t grow.”
Pam came back in and saw tears in my eyes. She put her hand on my back and said, "No! Don't cry! We just have to find the recipe, sweetie. We will find it and I promise, we will get you pregnant."
"Promise?" I asked, like a crying 5-year-old.
"Promise." Pam smiled.
Isn’t Pam cute?
Winnie was my nurse that day and she was very excited to see if my follicles grew. She turned on the machine, and I could quickly tell by the tone of her voice that we hadn't made progress. It's that faux, perky kind of "OoooKay! This is oookay!" voice that gave it away.
"Winnie," I said, "I ordered the BIG SHOT that I'm supposed to get when my follicles grow. If my follicles don't grow, what do I do with the BIG SHOT?!"
Winnie explained I should keep that big shot at home (that big needle chuckled when she said that) and just wait a few days; maybe my follicles were late bloomers?
I went home and panicked for 3 days until the next ultrasound, starting each morning by putting my hands over my tummy and singing, "Grow, follicles! Grow! Yooou can dooo it!" David occasionally sang back-up. "Grow, Grow!"
Winnie greeted me in Kauai for my next appointment and smiled. My friends honeymooned in Kauai. Was that a sign?
"You ready for some follicles, girl?!" I was, but I had a gut feeling that nothing else had happened. And my guts have a pretty high IQ.
Winnie told me that the next step was to add injectable fertility drugs into the cycle to try and get things rolling. I was in NO way ready to hear that and even FURTHER away from making a decision about it. Injectable fertility drugs were for people who really couldn't get pregnant. After I had a mild panic attack, she told me how much they cost. This took me straight from panic attack to delusional. I'm pretty sure the Carebears and the Smurfs walked in right after she told me and started fighting and sticking each other with needles, screaming, "AHHH! WE'RE GOING CRAZY!!! EVERYTHING'S GONE WRONG! AHHHH!"
David's immediate reaction was, "Alright, let's do it." Easy for him to say. My reaction was, "With every step we take to try and have kids, I become less and less a female and more and more a BattleShip Game Board. Do I hang out and let them continue sticking me until they sink the whole ship?!"
I couldn't do it. Instead, we waited 2 more days in case the follicles decided to grow, but I never had much hope. I knew this cycle was a complete wash and that we were going to have to wait weeks until we could start the process over again. I was very depressed.
Pam did the final ultrasound, and even her infectious joy couldn't bring me back up from the depths of fertility pergatory. And because we waited an extra 2 days, it was too late to try the injectables. Pam, trying to be helpful, told me, "It'll happen! I had 3 girls today, boom boom boom, all 3 pregnant with just the oral drugs. We'll get there!" Awesome. Three girls, all pregnant. So that makes me the barren 28-year-old with no hope of ever fulfilling my purpose here on Earth: to scream in unintelligable pain for 20 hours or so, raise a child and care for it's every need for the next 18 years, and send it away to a school that costs more than Trump Tower. Wait...why am I doing this?
I was sent back to Telluride to wait for a nurse to talk to me about our options. I've never been to Telluride, except for the day Pam told me I had PCOS. I hated Telluride.
I cried a few tears while Dave said, "It's fine. We'll be fine."
“It’s not fine!” I snapped. “It’s my only job! I’m the girl and I make the babies! And I can’t do my job if my follicles won’t grow.”
Pam came back in and saw tears in my eyes. She put her hand on my back and said, "No! Don't cry! We just have to find the recipe, sweetie. We will find it and I promise, we will get you pregnant."
"Promise?" I asked, like a crying 5-year-old.
"Promise." Pam smiled.
Isn’t Pam cute?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)