Category X

I’ve never met a pill I didn’t like. They help me sleep, calm me down, make the outdoors bearable, and they’re supposed to make me more fertile too. These new pills though – little blue ovals of estrogen – these suppositories (you know, the fun kind) are different. My too-little too-late estrogen party was started on trigger day when a nurse mentioned (after I asked, mind you) that my lining was “a little thin”, which according to everything else I’ve read is actually a lotta thin. I should’ve swatted away the trigger shot at that declaration and exclaimed, “Whattaya mean thin?! How are we just now discussing this?!” but I’m shooting for normalcy at this office so I stayed silent. I was given very little instruction for what are affectionately dubbed the ‘smurf cooch pills’, beyond being told “if it feels weird, you’re doing it right” (if I had a dollar for every time….) and as far as I’m concerned, I’m the first of my kind. Estrogen for a full two weeks – no progesterone, no monitoring, a plethora of uncertainty. Why did I feel like I was patient zero for the TWW estrogen test? How come I’ve never heard of this being used on it’s own? It’s like a riddle ever trying to get direct information from a doctor’s office though, and I’m still left with my mind running mad – If you have to medicate me, then you must answer these questions three:Read More »

The Infertiles

At my consultation with my new RE (I feel so officially infertile now!) she told me to not feel intimidated on my cycle day 3 appointment when I walk in and find fifty other women sitting in the waiting room at 7AM. It seemed funny and a little obnoxious, until I walked in on Day 3 and holy shit she meant fifty women.  

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It’s a strange feeling to be sitting in a room full of fellow Infertiles when nobody wants to talk about it – like meeting someone who looks like your identical twin and no one says a damn word. Sure, let’s NOT address the fact that for all intensive  purposes, we’re the same person. Like, hellooooo – where’s the table of bagels being swarmed by hormone-fueled women and the rotating list of who’s on mimosa duty?! We could all sit and sip as a group while hold-my-beer-ing each other, one upping on the “shit that’s wrong with me” scale. Instead, we wait in silence while our struggles stare back at us from tens of different faces. Couples quietly bowing their heads as they whisper about upcoming procedures, lone women knotting their fingers, all while I’m itching to turn to the Infertile next to me and say, “So, what are you in for?” We’re all prisoners of our own bodies here, might as well share with people who are equally frustrated with their reproductive organs.

Not including a sign-up sheet for cycle buddies at the RE seems like a real missed opportunity. You know that the women you’re sitting with are local, you know that you’re on the same schedule, and you know that they’re just as over this BS as you are. Why aren’t we swapping numbers and planning weekly brunches? They say that people are more likely to bond over something they hate, so: infertility is my nemesis – and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Let’s get together to build friendships based on medications that play with our emotions and the dream to one day not be violated by an ultrasound machine. We should make t-shirts and have a secret handshake and a bitchin’ code name (even though I’m partial to The Infertiles, regardless of its lack of subtly).  

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The Trio of What Not to Say

So, your friend/coworker/relative is trying to conceive and you’re mucking it up as her number one support system. It’s okay, it happens. What I want you to understand more than anything is that unless you’re a member of The Trio, we’re not looking for anything more than someone who will listen. We don’t expect you to fix our broken uteri, and we especially don’t want to hear your forced positivity because it sounds utterly ridiculous at the moment. I’ve experienced the entire trio of trying to conceive: the struggle, the loss, and, my newest addition, the infertility. Here’s the number one thing I hated hearing during each saga, and alternative (might I even say, BETTER) options that’ll prevent you from earning a face full of moscato.  Read More »

The Infertility Markup

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As a general rule of thumb, I won’t buy anything unless it involves free shipping and a severely discounted product.  No Ann Taylor, I’m not going to buy your $60 peasant top.  So having to accept the cost of my (in)fertility treatments was a hard pill to swallow – like fish oil, except bigger and smellier.  There are so few states that want to play a part in saving the human race by offering coverage for infertility treatments, but in this one regard: I lucked out.  My treatments are “covered”, and I’m using typed out air quotes because “covered” still doesn’t mean free.  And free is my favorite.  Now, don’t be the brat who has to go and say, “well having kids is expensive!”.  I know that they’re expensive, but I was hoping to be on more of a pay-as-you-go plan rather than feeling like I’m being conned by a woman in a white lab coat with a crystal ball.  And you’re sure I’ll get pregnant after all this…?  I hope that our future children don’t mind when we tell them they don’t have any college funds because we couldn’t figure our shit out and had to involve an entire medical team in order to conceive them.  

When I initially met with Doctor Kate to discuss how we’re going to need a little help from science if we want to have a baby before my eggs shrivel up, I was provided with a list of prices that should’ve also come with a shot of vodka on the side.  This is going to cost me how much?!  Was I supposed to pick and choose what I wanted done like the world’s most expensive a la carte menu?  “Yes, I would like the IUI with a side of bloodwork and ultrasounds please. And can I get the bloodwork without the Rubella test?  Thanks!” They generously offer to reduce your costs by 50% if you don’t have any insurance coverage, which means that if you have three rounds of ultrasounds and bloodwork with your IUI, instead of costing $4,635 you’ll get it for the low price of $2,317.50!  For one IUI.  Fingers crossed that we all morph into first-IUIers and don’t need more than one!  Read More »

HysterosalpingoGETMEOUTTAHERE

Welp. There is no eloquent way to put this: two men stared deep into my cervix earlier this week, and neither one of them was my husband. “They’re doctors, they focus on science, this isn’t weird.” Stop it, yes it is weird! It was just one procedure – fine, I’ll allow it. But I’m not about to go searching for Mr. Right to perform all my future pap smears. I mean, why would a man want to pick a career where he stares into vaginas all day?? Never mind, I know why…but why on a not-pervy level? I guess I should quit my bitching and just be happy that there are so many men AND women who are willing to spend their days staring up cootchies, because otherwise I would be having an even more difficult time with this whole getting-pregnant thing. “Sorry that you’re having trouble conceiving, but looking up your skirt makes us squirm!” Having a male doctor was just another new experience, and I love new experiences! Just kidding, I have anxiety and anything out of my normal routine makes me frantic and overheated.

I will admit, I appreciated it when main Doctor Dude was explaining to Sideline Male Doctor that he thought one thing was less painful than the other and he stated, “Well, I don’t have a cervix, but it’s what I hear.” Damn straight you don’t! I didn’t need him for anything more than a dye injection, but I can’t imagine talking about cycles or discharge with a stranger man. There’s just something relatable about a female doctor (you know, because we got the same bits), but maybe I’m the only weirdo who feels that way.

Regardless of the gender of my doctor, I found out that my tubes are (still) open. Now, can we all agree that I never have to do this again?! I didn’t want to have to experience both of these procedures, but now that I have, I might as well help guide you a little if you’re torn between the two (even though, like me, you’ll probably be assigned a procedure and not given an option).Read More »

Shit’s Getting (RE)al

Whenever I see someone apologize for being unavailable blog-wise it makes me want to roll my eyes. I’m not annoyed by apologies or unaware that some readers get used to a schedule, but it’s more like: yeah, life happens; don’t worry about it girl – you do you! I will say that I’ve been a bad blogger lately, and that’s because I was busy having another (fake) ectopic pregnancy. Turns out that the only thing slightly less-worse than having an ectopic pregnancy is thinking you’re having an ectopic pregnancy. To give you the my-size version of what was one of the more traumatic weekends of my life: I thought I was having another ectopic pregnancy because I was late, spotting, experiencing lower back pain, and had a negative pregnancy test (that’s right, I think I’m pregnant when they’re NEGATIVE). Needless to say, I didn’t handle the three days of “is this ectopic?!” very well, and I now have a scary looking credit card bill since retail therapy is the only therapy that I invest in. Besides buying all the shoes I could find, and a new iPad (seriously, WHY DID I THINK I NEEDED THIS?!), I began to make hysterical plans for this ectopic and decided we were going to St. Barts during the Twelve Week Wait (fuck Zika!) and that we were moving on to IVF as soon as possible (give me that 2% ectopic chance!). Even with a negative HCG test at Doctor Kate’s office (with no further explanation for my missing period), I didn’t feel like I was officially safe from an ectopic. On a pretend-optimist note: going through an ectopic scare really put all my not-pregnant months into perspective. Who cares that I didn’t get pregnant – still better than another ectopic (and that’s as positive as I’ll allow myself to get!) Apparently this post has turned into me seeing how many times I can say ‘ectopic’ before I annoy myself.

Ten. The answer is ten.Read More »

Where My Beaches At?!

Did you know that this is National Infertility Awareness Month?  Well, I’M AWARE! I’m also aware that I haven’t left the Midwest in almost a year.  If you’re familiar with the Midwest at all – you’ll know to be horrified by that revelation.  After a depressing combination of trying to conceive for a year and being a Midwesterner, I have to say: I am struggling.  I can’t even handle the simple task of dressing myself anymore – it’s that confusing freezing to warm to freezing temperature that always accompanies the start of spring.  Like, do I just layer like crazy every day or…? Ugh. Screw it! I want to trade my temperature-confused outfits for bikinis and flip flops (and a pair of six pack abs, if we’re making beachwear requests).

“I think the only time you’re not complaining is when you’re at a beach.” – Direct quote from my husband.  He gets me.  Can’t blame a girl for claiming the beach as her happy place: toes in the sand, drink in your hand, other lyrics from country songs.  There’s a reason it’s called paradise. I’ve been begging my husband to take me on vacation for months – I’m in desperate need of some space between me and my hoard of sticks and lubes.  I want to spend my next two week wait sprawled across a swim up bar – thoughts of pineapple core and symptoms far from my mind. Picture this with me: white sand, clear water, frozen cocktails, and…zika?  My happy place has been infected. Read More »