then imitate the action of the tigerPosted: May 9, 2013
I’ve stolen that shamelessly from May. She pulled from Shakespeare, but he’s dead and so cares very little what May or I do.
The trick here is that I am, maybe, going to try to knock myself up again. Clearly, this is not for public consumption. See the password you entered above. Ahem. Prior to hitting publish, there were six people to whom I’d spoken about this. Which seems like a lot when I count it up on my fingers, but really, for me, isn’t very many. I’m the girl who had her boss chase down the fedex guy to take his picture when he delivered my first shipment of sperm (*sniff* – so long ago…) to school. I’m still firmly in the camp of “share the story” because it might make other people feel less alone, but this go-round, or possible go-round, I’m just so damn tired of having to fucking explain everything. And, believe it or not, I am still fending off well-meaning comments about how relaxing/doing it “naturally” might work. From my peers. Picture me on my couch rolling my eyes.
I’ve resisted the phrase ttc for years now. Because post the Summer 2010 debacle (IVF itself wasn’t so bad, but Meghan leaving and the miscarriage pretty much sucked), I didn’t need to *try* to conceive anymore: it was already done. In vitro, if you will. But, as you may or may not know, I ran through all 10 of those embryos, plus an even dozen of donor embryos (What? Did you know? Right. I didn’t tell you.) and so now, if I want to continue on This Journey (N.B. skilful use of capitalization), I will have to, in fact, try to conceive. Again.
The jury (made up of one, rather hot, doctor) is currently out in just how to do this. Dr. Hot, because I call ’em like I see ’em, is an RE at the other hospital in town. I’ve stuck loyally with the public, research-y one, but now I have taken to heart my non-monogamous leanings and been wanded by Another Doctor. It feels like cheating, y’all. I do love my old RE. I do. But a second opinion seems smart, right? Justify my wandering eye for me, internet. No, really, I feel ok about it, but it still feels like cheating. Maybe because I didn’t tell him first.
Regardless, I had my wanding at the cheater RE’s and Dr. Hot was hot and also smart and clear and all those things and, wow, do private hospitals ever have fancier water coolers in their waiting rooms then public full-spectrum endocrine disorder clinics do. There is also a nice view of the mountains from said waiting room. Sorry I didn’t take a picture. But the radio (radio in the waiting room?!) was playing Cyndi Lauper, among other great and cheering songs, and so I was distracted.
To cut to the chase, my wanding showed 18 antral follicles. Whoa. So that’s good, according to Dr. Hot. She is currently refusing to weigh in with anything other than a desire for labs (re-do and new-do) and a saline infusion sonogram (the idea being that while my uterus looked good, back on the HSG films, maybe there’s been some strange goings on in there, post the miscarriages). After all that, then maybe things will move along.
Maybe. I was pretty clear with old Dr. Hot that I came to her looking for information, not necessarily for treatment. I told her twice that I was willing to hear anything – from “get the hell out of this office, you’ll never get pregnant let alone carry a baby to term” to “This looks like a fun challenge! Let’s go order so sperm!” We shall see what she says. (Those aren’t real quotes. There was no cussing. Dr. Hot and I don’t know each other that well yet.)
You’ll remember, or maybe you won’t, that my plan was to keep trying until I ran out of embryos or ran out of money. Well, I am out of both. But I just can’t quite give up yet. Not quite.
Once more unto the breach, y’all. Once more.