Infertility Quirks

microblog_mondays

When I first went to the fertility clinic to start injected medications, I remember literally choking on something I was drinking when I called the specialty pharmacy and they told me how much foll.istim cost.  It’s still pretty mind-boggling that I only did a spit-take over the cost and then more or less went, “okay, so where do I sign?”  (Back when I was going through it, a vial cost just slightly less than $1 USD for 1 unit of the drug.  And if I bought the smaller size vial, the vial was usually overfilled by about 30-50 units, so it brought the cost down slightly.  But yes, a *lot* of money.)

Anyhow, this induced a really bizarre association in my brain that persists to this day: I measure the cost of just about everything in terms of how much infertility treatment cost.

New couch?  About one to one and a half vials.

New flooring? Around the cost of the drugs for two fresh IVF cycles.

Chimney cap? About the cost of clinic fees for a TI cycle.

Down payment on a house?  About two fresh IVF cycles plus the FET thrown in.

This last was particularly good when the mortgage banker gave us a sort of startled look after he quipped about the down payment being the biggest check most people ever write and I just started laughing.  It wasn’t really funny, but it was either laugh or cry.

The kicker in all of this was that when we wrote the checks for house-related stuff, it was a guarantee – we were actually getting a house, the flooring had a delivery date scheduled, and we could look at samples and touch fabrics for couches.  We weren’t paying for a 25% chance that we’d get the house or a 30-50% chance that the flooring would come.

There’s still a sense of unreality about every check I wrote during infertility, especially now, pitted against the tangible things that money can buy.

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want to read more, please head over to Stirrup Queens!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.

 

 

Advertisements

Thinking Through my IVF/RE Experiences: Part 2

This is the second part of my coming to terms with my IVF/infertility treatment experiences, picking up when I switched doctors.  Read Part One here.

I’ve written in a Q&A format, mostly because that seemed easier than trying to form this as one narrative piece.

What was the difference between the first and second RE?

I switched because my second RE was the doctor who “officially” diagnosed my miscarriage.  He was kind and compassionate through that awful moment and promised that he would *personally* talk to my OB/GYN to help arrange the D&C.  I was super surprised the next day when my OB/GYN told me that 2nd RE had, in fact, actually called and talked to OB/GYN.  It was probably one of the first times I’d been promised something in that office and it actually happened.

I mean, that was the biggest difference.  2nd RE actually followed through on his word consistently.

I also appreciated the fact that 2nd RE wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable with the really strong emotions that come with IVF as 1st RE (2nd RE was a lot younger than 1st RE, so I wonder if that played a role).  After my ectopic/miscarriage (following my FET), I walked in for the follow up appointment loaded for bear, so to speak.  I cried for pretty much an hour plus, and I really appreciate that he didn’t try to cut me off or tell me that it was okay, we could try again.  He told me that it made total sense that I was upset, that we did need to take a break at this point.  Also, he was in favor of limiting the number of IVFs – 3 fresh was his personal max in my situation, and as he put it, that was only if we wanted to go that far at all.  It was helpful to hear that he wasn’t advocating for more and more and more and that it was okay to say enough.  In that follow-up, we decided we’d do one more round of fresh IVF, but if that failed, we were probably done.  He supported that decision.

2nd RE also was willing to try things that helped me get through.  I asked, prior to my FET, if my embryos could be grown out to blastocyst stage (they were frozen at 3-day) prior to transfer – and if they couldn’t get that far, then at least I’d be spared the 2 week wait.  Even though this wasn’t clinic protocol, he was fine with that.  He also would call me personally if things were changing/not going well/etc.

Did things go perfectly after that?

No, I mean, there were still communication issues at times between staff in the clinic, but it was better.

What helped?

I mean, honestly, it’s amazing how far listening and basic compassion goes.  Don’t sell false hope.  Follow through on your promises.  Keep in communication with patients.  Respect limits and boundaries.  None of this is reinventing the wheel – it’s stuff clinicians should be doing.  Unfortunately, it’s time consuming, and I think this is where problems come up.  My clinic offered a complimentary session with an infertility counselor with IVF, but it’s not really enough.  It’s not something that can be entirely outsourced – the doctors and staff at clinics have to be involved.

One thing 2nd RE did that I found helpful was that he gave me his personal work email – the one that went directly to him.  Funny enough, I never wound up using it.  But it took a HUGE load off me mentally to know that if I had one of those questions that wasn’t serious enough to call the on-call physician at 2am but was bothering me, I could send an email.  It also helped to know I could contact him using my own words and not have to rely on someone else passing the message along.

Also, when 2nd RE had bad or mixed news, he would sit down with us – I mean, physically, sit down.  I know this sounds sort of strange, but it helped because he wasn’t sort of “standing over” us and could make eye contact that way.

What are some thoughts on clinics and the experience?

I think one thing I would say to infertility clinics/staff is that even a single failed cycle, whether that’s IVF, IUI, whatever, can represent an enormous loss to the patient.  It’s time lost, emotional endurance lost, and as crass as it feels to mention money, it can be a big financial loss.  I mean, a single cycle of IUI or TI with injected fertility meds for me cost around $800-$2500, plus the time and emotion that goes into it.  Even clom.id or fem.ara, with timed intercourse, while cheaper, still ran about $150-$300 including the ultrasounds.  That’s not impossible, but it’s not an inconsiderable expense either.  By the time my husband and I got through infertility treatments, we had spent >$40,000.  For perspective, we spent about as much on a down payment for a 4-bedroom house + some new furniture + some new flooring.  We don’t live in a super expensive area, admittedly, but it’s still a boggling comparison.  Having a cycle fail doesn’t just mean all the emotional losses (which are considerable as well) but also a sickening amount of money and financial stability in many cases.

I was really grateful when the fertility clinic I used took down all the baby collages that patients could see.  I’m fine with clinics having stuff like that in strictly staff-only areas, but I remember really clearly passing the “baby board” with my miscarried fetus still hanging out in my uterus and feeling like someone had kicked me in the face.  I did not find it “hopeful” or helpful to have those out.  It made me feel like a defective failure.

It would also be nice to see “success” and “failure” re-defined when it comes to infertility.  I’m not a “success” because I had kids – I have absolutely no idea how I managed to pull that one out.  In other words, it’s not because I did something “right” or “wrong”, it’s just how things worked out.  Likewise, I wasn’t a failure when my cycles weren’t working and I miscarried twice in a row.  I would love to see clinics be much more mindful of patients as whole human beings who have intrinsic worth and dignity regardless of whether or not they have children.  I view success – when it comes to infertility – to be comprised of having a life one considers full and meaningful no matter what that looks like.  Basically, coming out on the other side is a huge victory.

Thinking Through My IVF/RE Experiences: Part 1

Over the years, I’ve sat down more than once to try to write about my experience with my first RE and IVF in general.  It’s proved trickier than I thought.  Some of it, I’m sure, is that women are socialized not to express certain (negative) emotions.  Some of it is that it seems like something I should be over.  A big part of it is survivor’s guilt.  I mean, I have kids at this point, so it seems sort of ridiculous to complain.

And yet, parts of this story still bother me because they should not have happened.  In real time, I was so deeply invested in the process, I couldn’t really dig into considering them, even in my own head.  I was all about acknowledging that something had happened, but also sort of glossing over at the same time.  At this point, it’s not so much about my personal stuff as entering a conversation about how to improve care for infertility patients in fertility clinics.

I’ve written in a Q&A format, mostly because that seemed easier than trying to form this as one narrative piece.

What went wrong with the first RE?

I’ve mentioned before on the blog that at the first consult with him, I expressed that I understood with PCOS that wasn’t responding incredibly well to drugs like Clo.mid and Fem.ara, it could take some time to get to the point where I was pregnant and that I had a wedding in June (this was in March) that we’d need to work around.  He sort of smiled and went “Oh, I think I can have you drinking water at that wedding instead of wine.”

I hate to say this, but while the rational part of my brain was going nope, nope, nope, the sad, worried, fearful part of me really wanted to hear that.  Because here was a guy who was confident and felt good about the whole situation.  He brushed away my concerns about being able to come in for ultrasounds during cycles because of my work schedule (“We deal with that all the time”).

Things escalated a little when I got a cyst after my first cycle on injected fertility medications, which I hadn’t realized could happen.  So I had a cancelled cycle and had to rest on birth control for a month.  The next cycle resulted in a huge overstimulation for TI/IUI and was cancelled as well.  I was getting concerned because I was going in for ultrasounds quite a bit – which hugely negatively impacted my work schedule, contrary to my doctor’s reassurances at the initial visit.  I then did a cycle with Fem.ara + injected meds, which was cancelled by a different doctor in the practice due to under-response (my doctor was on vacation) and told to consult with my doctor when he got back.  It was late June by this time.

My doctor was hard to schedule with because he was “so busy” according to the clinic.  We agreed to a phone consult.  My doctor told me he wouldn’t have cancelled that cycle, would rebate my clinic fees (which we appreciated) and would personally supervise my next cycle.  “Good,” I told him, “because my period is starting.”  We booked the next cycle and I started shortly thereafter.  A week later, I was told by the nurse at the clinic that one of the other doctors would review my lab/ultrasound results because my doctor was on vacation.  I was furious.

The July cycle went wonderfully, a really good stim, but I didn’t get pregnant.  I asked to talk to my doctor again, was able to get another phone consult, and expressed that I was a bit upset he hadn’t personally monitored my cycle as he had promised.  He basically told me that he got to go on vacation and implied that my expectation that he would personally monitor my cycle was expecting far too much.  He was so convincing, I remember doubting my memory and asking my husband if he too had heard the doctor promise to monitor the cycle personally.  My husband was certain he’d heard the doctor say that too.

We decided to move to IVF because we were losing a *lot* of money on drugs, fees, and lost work for cycles that were being cancelled.  It was obvious that my ovaries were super touchy and didn’t necessarily respond predictably.  I was going in a lot for monitoring.  We figured that if we did IVF, we’d be able to do one cycle with all the monitoring and have a higher chance of pregnancy.  I again phone consulted with my doctor in late August, explained to him that I had started a new job, and that we were thinking IVF.  I had planned to possibly do the IVF in February or March of the next year and settle into my new job.  “We could get you in this fall,” my doctor told me.  Because I really, really wanted to be pregnant, I agreed.  I explained what I did at work and asked if there was anything I should know about IVF that would affect my job differently than any other TI/IUI cycle with injected meds.  He told me to plan to take one day off for egg retrieval and two days for transfer.

A couple weeks later, I called the clinic to finalize some details and the nurse mentioned in passing that I would have a 25 lb lifting restriction and restrictions on bending.  My job involves a lot of lifting and bending.  I just about hit the roof.  But my doctor was out of the country on a 3-week mission trip and I had to make decisions right then or delay the cycle.  We had already scraped together the money and I was desperate.  I made a poor choice and went ahead.

The cycle proceeded, I was very anxious, and 15 eggs were retrieved.  The day after my egg retrieval I went back to my job, where I would be on my feet for 8 busy hours.  I had to leave partway through the shift because I was in so much pain.  Two 3-day embryos were transferred, 2 were frozen, and I went home to wait.  I had my beta a day early because my husband and I were both off work that day.  Though the clinic nurses called me to tell me I had a positive beta and was pregnant, my doctor also called me personally to congratulate me.  I appreciated that enormously.

Of course, I got googling (ugh) and realized that even for the day it had been done, my beta seemed…low.  But it doubled appropriately, then exploded.  Even so, I could not shake a nagging feeling that I didn’t “feel” pregnant at all.  Nothing.  No tender breasts, no nausea, nothing.  When I went for my first ultrasound with a different practice doctor, the doctor found that I had 2 gestational sacs, both with something inside but only one with a heartbeat.  The next week I went for another ultrasound with my doctor to check on the one with no heartbeat to see what was going on.  Still no heartbeat in the one, but a beautiful, perfect heartbeat in the other.  He was effusive, excited, and told me to send him photos.

The bad feeling never went away.  Finally one weekend, I found myself almost hysterical with anxiety.  I knew something was wrong.  I called the clinic Monday and they scheduled me for a scan to reassure me (with one of the other doctors in the practice, my doctor wasn’t at my location that day).  I remember feeling the cold wash over when I saw the baby come into view.  I knew there was no flickering of a heartbeat, and the ultrasound tech’s immediate “I need to go get the doctor” told me everything I needed to know.

My doctor never called.  Never said a word.  Never told me how sorry he was that I’d miscarried.

Do you blame your first RE for the miscarriage?

Not at all.  I had known in my gut something wasn’t quite right from the start and unfortunately, miscarriages aren’t particularly uncommon.

In hindsight, are there some things you would have done differently?

I would have changed doctors after the situation where he told me he would personally monitor my cycle and then didn’t – particularly after he tried to play it up like he never would have said such a thing.  I work in healthcare.  It is totally good for healthcare workers to take breaks, vacations, etc.  I absolutely support that need.  I also totally understand that emergencies happen, but based on what the nurses said at the time, they specifically said vacation and he later confirmed that.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with taking vacation.  But I had/have a huge problem with the dishonesty.  The truth is, I suspect that he just completely forgot what he said to me and really didn’t care.

I really regret not putting the brakes on that first IVF cycle.  It made things much more stressful at work (even though I had an extremely supportive boss and coworkers, thankfully) and once I realized that my doctor (again) hadn’t been 100% forthcoming with me, I wish I had insisted on waiting until I saw him to talk about the situation to do something as major and expensive as IVF.

I wish I had listened to the part of my brain that threw up the red flag in our first consult instead of playing it off as a bit of a misspeak and proceeded with more caution.

One other thing that, in hindsight, would have been good would have been getting a second opinion from a different RE before going for IVF (it’s worth noting that my first RE did not push IVF for us – we were spending so much on TI/IUI cycles that by the time we’d gone through a few, we were getting to the point where we couldn’t keep doing those for the lower chance of pregnancy, so we brought it up).  I was really intimidated by the idea of finding someone (the clinic I went to was the only one that had a local satellite office).  But even if I’d needed to go to the city where the main office was located or somewhere else entirely, I wish I had had someone review my chart/tests/treatments to that point just to sort of double-check things.

What are some things you would have wanted to see from your first RE?

The other day, Mel at Stirrup Queens posted a link to a project about the worst things people said to women who miscarried or had stillbirths.  I know, unfortunately, exactly what my chalkboard would say:

“Not one %$#%& thing.  Absolute silence.”

It still makes me really angry that my doctor could take the time out of his “busy” schedule to call me and congratulate me on being pregnant but when I miscarried, he couldn’t be bothered to take three minutes to say “I heard.  I’m so sorry for your loss.”  This is basic.  It’s not an onerous request, and I would argue that it’s an essential part of reproductive healthcare.

I also would have appreciated it if he had been much more careful when he was advising me what to expect from IVF.  He did not tell me about the lifting/bending restrictions, which were incredibly relevant to my job that I had told him about (I think he figured the nurses would go over IVF instructions and didn’t think it was his job).  I am also really frustrated that he didn’t encourage me to take a day off after the egg retrieval, especially since he knew I didn’t/don’t work a desk job where I might be able to take time to sit down.  I was in a lot of pain as a result.

Confidence can be a good thing, but I felt like his statement about water at the wedding instead of wine wasn’t a helpful thing to say.  It gave me some unrealistic expectations for the process/timeline and honestly, I felt horrible – like I had done something wrong – when I wasn’t pregnant by the time of that wedding.

He also came across as pretty dismissive when I would ask about how the various treatments would affect work or my life.  These were reasonable questions on my part and should have been treated/answered seriously.

 

Planning to have Part 2 coming soon…

Flipping The Script: Solidarity, not Pressure

microblog_mondays

When I was actively going through infertility and treatment, I heard a lot of stories.  I think everyone who goes through any sort of medical or social crisis hears stuff like this, you know, the “the doctors told them they’d never get pregnant/recover/etc., but they did!”  Sometimes this was helpful, particularly when related firsthand by the person the story had happened to, and often, those storytellers (whether in person or on blogs) would point out that while it had worked for them, they knew it wasn’t necessarily going to work that way for others.  It was solidarity, not inspiration.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t always the case.  Sometimes the stories were told more prescriptively (often by people that they hadn’t happened to), in the “if you just hang on, it will happen!” or “if you do _______, you’ll have a baby!”  Often, it occurred when I was already beating myself up and wondering what I could have done differently or when we were making painful decisions whether or not to continue treatment.  Those stories made me feel guilty, my decisions unaccepted, and left me second-guessing whether or not I’d done “enough”.

I’ve lurked this year for National Infertility Awareness Week, mostly because reading everyone else’s blog posts proved interesting and the topic – “Flip the Script” – is one I’ve had to mull over a bit.  Finally, though, I’ve realized the script I want to flip: be careful with stories.

A couple of years ago, I realized I’d become that cliché, walking urban legend of infertility stories: IVF works on the third embryo transfer after losses, rare, tragic complications, and out of that, a beautiful, healthy child.  Getting spontaneously pregnant with my second with no interventions or treatments only added to it.

I’m grateful for how things worked out.  But it is by the most bizarre circumstances and strange, against-the-odds events that I am where I am in life right now.  There is absolutely nothing that is able to be generalized to someone else struggling with infertility.

It’s not because of my hard work.  It’s not because of my persistence.  It’s not because I’m somehow “special”.  It’s not because of my good attitude or positive thinking (please, ask anyone in my life – I did not accept infertility/PCOS with any grace whatsoever, still dislike many pregnancy announcements/going to other people’s baby showers except under special circumstances, and hated pretty much every moment of treatment).  It’s not because of “baby dust”.  It’s not because I deserved it more than anyone else.

Truthfully, I have no idea why things worked out the way they did.  I’m grateful, but I really don’t have an answer to the “why/how”.  And I resent the idea that if things had not worked, I would have been any less worthy.

Basically, what I’m saying is this: I hope no one (including me) ever uses my story as a cudgel or as a prescription or as a “this could be you too if you just keep trying!”  Because anyone who is struggling with infertility, needs to take a break, or needs to consider their options (including resolving without children), does not need that pressure or guilt.  It’s great to tell our stories and truths.  But there’s a way to do it without generalizing out-of-the-ordinary happenings to others or giving false hope.

Let’s flip that script, straight up.

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want to read more, please head over to Stirrup Queens!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.  

And Then There Was One

A little over a week ago, I got the call I had been awaiting and dreading in equal measure.  “We’re thawing your embryos this morning,” the biologist at the IVF lab informed me.

Both embryos thawed, needed an assist with hatching, and then were watched overnight to see if they would grow enough for a biopsy (they had originally been frozen at a 2 stage for expansion, not quite enough to biopsy properly).  I found out the next morning that the blasts had expanded, samples had been dispatched to the genetics laboratory for testing, and both embryos refrozen with a newer vitrification technique.  The biologist stated that she estimated about a 75% chance for each embryo to thaw and re-expand properly for transfer in the future.  This was, essentially, the same chance we’d had before (since an earlier, less advanced form of vitrification had been used when the embryos were originally frozen in 2014), so despite the thaw and re-freeze, we really hadn’t lost anything in terms of the chances that the embryos would thaw properly later.

Then we waited.

Tuesday, I got the call from the RE.  We have one embryo that is genetically normal.  The other one had multiple chromosomal abnormalities, not ambiguous at all.  We chose to leave the sex off the report from the lab because personally, neither of us felt comfortable knowing.

I’m so glad we chose to do the test.  Interestingly, the genetically normal embryo is the one the lab had given a slight edge (though both technically scored the same in terms of grading) and would have thawed and attempted to transfer first even without the genetic testing.  However, if it didn’t thaw properly or simply hadn’t implanted, we would have probably attempted to transfer the other that turned out to be aneuploid.  We would have wound up with nothing to transfer or negative pregnancy test (at best) or a miscarriage/loss.  If the first one had implanted and resulted in a live birth, we would have been left in limbo, wondering what we should do with the final embryo.

There’s still a huge gulf between a genetically normal embryo and a baby.  There’s a chance the embryo won’t thaw correctly to even get to transfer since it’s been frozen, thawed, biopsied, and refrozen.  If we can transfer, even with a genetically normal embryo, not all implant.  Even if it implants, I know how easily the sh*t can hit the fan at any point in pregnancy.  There’s a lot of logistics and life and plenty that’s still up in the air or could change in a couple of years.

But, and this is the key point, the whole point of doing the test for us, we now know where we stand in terms of the health and potential of the embryos.  We can make whatever decisions we need to make with that knowledge in mind.

The Loose Ends

Content note: I’m going to discuss our final two embryos and decisions related to them.  

Over the last few months, Arthur and I have an ongoing conversation that sounds something like this:

“If we were three or four years younger…”

“Yeah…”

“If we hadn’t had the infertility issues or the miscarriages or NICU…”

“Yeah…”

“But we did.”

“We did.”

“I’m tired.”

“Me too.”

It’s easy for me sometimes to focus on the good parts, those final easy months of my pregnancy with M that culminated in a term birth and a beautiful newborn and think, “oh, I could do that again”.  And if that was what was guaranteed, the answer would be easy.  Both of us had always assumed that if we hit the lottery (aka got pregnant and had a live birth on our own), we’d just be excited to try for a third child.  What – as the dust settles – we’re only now truly starting to account for in a meaningful way is how much the whole journey has taken out of us.

This isn’t a complaint.  We are fortunate beyond all belief in so many ways.  With some distance, all the infertility, IVF, miscarriage, and premature birth has ceased to be the constant it once was and has slowly begun to sublimate into the normal fabric of our life.  There are moments, of course, but there’s no doubt that it’s better.

Recently, however, I was reading a book where the miscarriage scene triggered a strong, painful memory of sitting in a darkened ultrasound room, pregnant, but not really any longer.  “I can’t keep putting myself through this,” I told my husband.  “I just can’t go through everything and then hold my breath for months.”

~*~

We met with the RE last week to discuss what to do with our final two embryos.  It’s truly a conversation I never thought we’d need to have.  When I went through the transfer that ultimately resulted in E, it was not a good day.  I’d had 22 mature eggs retrieved, 18 fertilized, and plenty of embryos growing beautifully on day 3, which pushed the transfer to day 5.  On the appointed day, we arrived at the clinic, got prepped and then handed a photo that I expected to contain our perfect blastocysts for transfer.  Instead, the photo showed two cavitating morulae.  Our best embryos out of 18 fertilized eggs were a full day behind.  Let’s just say there were a lot of tears that day.

I didn’t even think about the last few embryos the clinic had decided to continue growing to day 6 and see if there was anything to freeze.  A day or so later, I got the call that the lab had frozen two day-6 blastocysts.  Truthfully, I was so disheartened by infertility and circumstances I just sighed.  It was too much at the time to get excited.  We were more or less broke, emotionally and financially.

As the infertility cliché goes, though, you only need one good one (and in our case, a bizarre, stressful, high risk pregnancy), and E came into our lives.  At the advice of the perinatologist and my OB, we decided to try on our own for a year when we were ready for a second child.  Much to our immense surprise and joy, M came to us.  Which left us having the conversation I recounted above.

Like I said, none of this is a complaint.  We’re lucky and I don’t discount that in any way.

Neither of us feel as though we can discard the embryos.  The embryos have a form of dual existence for me.  They are somehow both not fully human and also, simultaneously, my babies.  I’m aware other people have different feelings about embryos, and that’s absolutely their prerogative.  I’m certainly not going to judge anyone for their feelings or what they choose to do with their embryos – it is such a difficult, personal decision.  This is just what works for us.

We finally determined that our best course is to find out, as much as possible, what we have frozen.  We know we have two day-6 expanded blastocysts with a “b” grade inner cell mass and a “c” grade trophectoderm.  The biologist at the lab described them to us as “average” – certainly high enough quality to potentially create a baby, but not top rated.  Due to my high-risk pregnancy with E (and the increasing trend towards single embryo transfers regardless of pregnancy history), the embryos have to be transferred one at a time, meaning we would potentially need to go through two FETs.

We don’t have the energy (or finances) to put into treatment that we once did.  The idea of going through another miscarriage (or worse) scares me.  Doing two FETs means a good bit of logistics to make them work just in terms of getting to the clinic as required, not to mention the expense and the two week waits.

This led us to genetically testing the embryos, which is a little cheaper than a single FET at our clinic by the time we add in medications and everything else that goes into an FET.  It means thawing, growing the embryos out overnight, having them biopsied, and then refreezing.  It’s not without some risks, but in return, we’ll have some idea of whether or not the embryos are euploid, and the refreezing will be done with a newer, better form of vitrification.  If one or both of the embryos turns out to be euploid, we’ll have a higher chance of implantation and a lower risk of miscarriage once we transfer.  If one or both of the embryos turn out to be aneuploid, well, we’ll save ourselves the cost of one or two FET cycles, the two-week-wait, and potentially a miscarriage.

It’s not an easy decision.  I’m aware that there’s definitely some controversy right now in the world of embryo genetic testing.  A couple of days after Arthur and I made the decision to go ahead with genetic testing, this landed on our doorstep:

IMG_0486
Not the most helpful coincidence.  I mean, I’m glad doctors and scientists are considering these variables, just sort of strange timing for us…

I’d be lying if I said that the idea of a lab making a mistake about whether or not the embryos are good doesn’t scare me.  However, given all of our particular variables, genetic testing is still our best option going forward.  We’re working on getting the consents signed currently.

And then…we’ll see.

The Old Guard

microblog_mondays

Arthur and I went to see the RE today to talk about the two remaining embryos we have frozen.  The embryos are a discussion for another post, but as we stepped into the clinic, I had this odd sense that I no longer belonged there the way I once had.  It reminded me of going back to my alma mater, walking around the campus, seeing the current students going to classes, realizing I was an alumnus now and that era of my life was over.

We sat in the waiting room.  A couple came in.  They seemed happy, and I watched as they were ushered back in the direction of the ultrasound room and suspected they were here for a pregnancy check.  Unless the routine had vastly changed, I knew ultrasounds for follicle counts were done much earlier in the morning.  I hope that they got good news.

Eventually, we were ushered back to talk with Dr. E.  As we discussed the remaining embryos, it was clear that we were no longer there with that mixture of fear, anticipation, and hope that we had originally come into the clinic carrying four years ago.  Instead of trying to begin, we were bringing the journey to an end, working to figure out the last steps.

I’m not nostalgic about IVF or treatment.  A few days ago when I went write about a particular experience during my first IVF, I was surprised at how p*ssed I still felt when reliving that memory.  I don’t miss the uncertainty, the worry, and the torturous waits for everything from follicle checks to the infamous two-week wait.

I am slightly nostalgic for that nervous but hopeful person I was when I first walked into the clinic.

Many of the times I’ve gone to the clinic, there’s been the sense of doors opening.  Of possibilities and plans and fresh starts.

Today, we walked out with all but the last two doors closed behind us.

Want more Microblog Mondays posts?  Head over to Stirrup Queens and check them out!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.