Our next IUI was scheduled for the 2nd or 3rd of December - which would mean we'd find out if things "stuck" right before Christmas. So, we've decided to take the month off. No sticks to pee on, no early morning ultrasounds, no waiting and worrying. We're trading it for lots of champagne and merryment and generally enjoying the season.
Over the turkey holiday, one of our parents who will remain nameless, told us that God wasn't going to allow us to get pregnant until we got out of debt - that He wants us to be able to afford a baby.
I had NO comeback. I couldn't even comprehend what was being said. Maybe that's true, I don't know, but I would hope there's a different way to deliver that message. Because that one was really horrible. Not only are we depressed because we can't get pregnant, but now we're also depressed because we're in debt with no way to get out of it in the near future.
What do I do what that little tidbit of info? "Oh, thank-you for your divine wisdom. We'll start praying for the winning lottery ticket instead of a baby." Not that God can't do both - why put a limit on his power? He could decide to give us the cash to pay off our bills and give us a baby. He is, after all, God. But, I have to believe that He isn't basing one on the other - "pay off your bills and the next month you'll get a baby." That just isn't the God I know.
Pulled out the Target brand Super Absorbancys last night. It's true.
I guess all I can do is chalk that one up to experience. I mean, really. There's a 10-25% chance that an IUI will actually work. I really didn't think it would - but in my heart-of-hearts, I sure did hope and pray.
Today I actually feel semi-normal. There's a brief respite before the copious amounts of hormones begin coursing through my veins again causing weeks and weeks of emotional tidal waves. For most of last month I sobbed at virtually every sight of a baby or child - online, on TV, at church, on the street. At the stoplight downtown, sobbing, snot running down my face with a big billboard of a baby in front of me. Quite a site, I'm sure.
SO, to feel a little normal is nice. It's good, too, just to know one way or the other. The waiting and waiting and waiting is horrible. Nothing you can do but wait. And obsess. At least I know for sure - at least for two more weeks.
It's never a good sign when your specialist greets you with, "so, what are we doing today?" You're asking me?
So, chalk it up to me not understanding IUI protocol, or maybe her assistant not clearly explaining it, I was a few days premature with my appointment. They want me to WAIT until I get a period or a positive on a stick. Technology people! Take advantage of it! It's called a blood draw! Come on...really.
They didn't pass the opportunity though, to stick the wand up my hoo-hoo and take a gander. They couldn't see any developing lima bean shaped items, but they gave me the double thumbs up for another round of Clomid (a.k.a. The Witch Inducer) if the need be. Then they slapped me on my rear and said, "giddyup on outta here - we need the exam room. Go home and wait, just like the olden days."
I held out as long as I could and didn't pee on any of my tests until Saturday morning. There was no double line. Disappointing, but it could have been too early, really. I'm learning that there are different types of tests: sensitive, normal, and super-fast-results. My Costco 4-pack are the super-fast-results kind, which mean it'll give results in one minute versus three. So if you're really anxious, you'll know a whole two minutes earlier! Wow! But, my understanding is that the rapid-result-types aren't very sensitive, either.
I retook the test on Sunday morning. Still no double line. I also invariably left the stupid test sitting out on the bathroom counter while our out-of-town visiting house guests all took their turns taking their morning showers. Hey! Everyone! I'm not pregnant! See! There's proof! Sitting on the counter! Right next to the hand soap! What an idiot.
I'm not feeling particularly pregnant. So I have a funny feeling that those pre-tests are accurate. But, I head into my dr's this afternoon for my first "beta test." This is a blood pregnancy-test and tells how much hcg is in your bloodstream - this time created naturally from being being knocked up, not from the stuff from some other pregnant lady that was injected into my derriere that made my body think I was preggo. I guess they check it a few more times over the course of the next few days to see if the hcg level increases - which means you're really truly pregnant.
As I sit at my computer, my pants are unbuttoned. Not because I'm some weird sicko, but because I am so incredibly bloated that nothing but the elastic-banded-sweatshirt-type of pants are fitting right now. I guess the fertility meds and the IUI/trigger thingies make your ovaries swell up like a balloon.
So, I sit here at work, hoping no one can tell that I've failed to button my suit pants, but have instead, folded the unhooked bits over, and then pulled my shirt over that.
In addition, my suit jacket is really being tortured. It's stretched oh-so-unflatteringly across my midriff. If I leave it unbuttoned, it's a dead-giveaway for the aforementioned compromised pants.
I'm pretty sure I'm fooling no one. They just politely stare at my chin, refusing to look anywhere near my mid-section for fear my zipper may fail altogether and my pants will end up around my ankles.
It's five days past IUI, so probably four or five days past ovulation - if I ovulated at all. I don't think I did. Or, if I did, it wasn't until two full days after they ejected my hubby's essence into the black abyss. That means that maybe there were a few little men still swimming when the queen made her grand entrance. By then, they were probably so tired, they were like, "hey, how are ya, nice to see ya, excuse me while I take a long terminal nap, zzzzz."
But then again, I have been having tons of cramping in the groin area. It's kinda like I'm going to start my period - or maybe I've eaten some bad chicken. One or the other.
At our tour de Costco this morning, I saw lots of baskets full of baby wipes and diapers. Ours had a 4-pack of pregnancy tests and a case of Coors Light. One step at a time.
Is it a little check-box on your form at your obstetrician's? "Would you like to donate your urine so infertile women can have a shot at motherhood? BTW - it's injected INTO THEIR BUTT. Yes or No. Check the box.
I don't think any of my girlfriends have ever donated pee while pregnant. I'm definitely going to ask. Geesh - maybe I could get it at a discount rate? Maybe even FREE!
I guess it's touted as a weight loss injection, too. If I have to get the pee shot again, maybe I'll ask for an extra couple dozen so I'll lose all that marble on my rump.
It looks like men even use it to counteract the side-affects of steroids along with Clomid.
On one of my little internet binges, I stumbled across a definition of hcg - that lovely shot they injected into my butt.
PEE! Human pee! Human pee from a pregnant woman!
Wait a minute. Some pregnant lady, somewhere, peed in a cup, and it ended up in a little vile that was then injected into my upper left cheek. No wonder they don't tell you what it is.
"So, Mrs. Barnes, we'd like to give you a shot of some random woman's pee. Who was pregnant. We'll put it right into your butt. How does that sound?"
"Oh, yes! Please! I've always wanted pregnant-lady pee shoved into my derriere. Sign me up!"
I think my body is rejecting the pee. It's been 36 hours since my shot of knocked-up urine, and my butt still hurts like a banshee. Perhaps I'm allergic to other people's pee. "Are you allergic to penicillin, Mrs. Barnes?" "Oh, no, just pee."
Friday was the start of a really strange weekend. I had to go in to the clinic so they could take a looksie at my fallopian tubes and see if any follicles were waiting in the wings. They weren't quite up to par yet. 18 mm is the magic number. Mine were just under. So, the PA sent me away with orders to come back on Sunday. Yes, Sunday.
It still seems so strange that a clinic would be open on the weekends. But then again, ovaries wait for no man. So, it was off to the fifteenth floor of 1101 Madison for an 8a.m. appointment. The ultrasound revealed two follicles that were ready to rumble. One a woppin' 20 mm, and the other just breaking the minimum at 18. We were in business.
The PA revealed that, lucky me, I had to have a shot of HSG (human chorionic gonadotropin hormone). This is the hormone that makes the follicle burst and shed its priceless little egg. I had to ask where they were going to give the shot to me - butt or arm? I don't think I've had a shot since I stepped on a rusty nail in college and the big health clinic nurse gave me a tetnus. Lucky me, this time my arse was the target. Then it occured to me that I had no idea what position I was supposed to be in for this little proceedure - when was the last time someone gave me a shot in my butt? When I was four? I'm sure at that time they strapped me down and hoped I didn't bite. I was instructed to bend over the exam table. I sure was glad I wore my fancy underwear. I feel so close to her now - maybe she'd like to be my friend.
Oh, yes, one more visit the next morning to Pill Hill. This time with hubby in tow. We had to be at the office at 7 am where DH gave his contribution to the affair to the gray-haired nurse who didn't bat an eye at the little cup filled with, um, junk. We went off for breakfast while we waited for my turn. A few hours later I got to hop up on the exam table for my first turkey-baster-slash-IUI experience. Seriously two minutes later it was over. I leaned over and asked Brian if it was as good for him as it was for me, oh, and did he have a cigarette.
It was seriously anti-climatic. I waited all weekend, drove 15 miles and fought traffic three times, got multiple ultrasounds with a big wand shoved up my wahoo, and then the moment that is supposed to be my infertile salvation was over in 60 seconds.
They shooed us out the door and told us to come back in two weeks. Either for a pregnancy test, or to start another round of clomid.