Queen of Pain

I wonder every once in a while about superstitious people and their deep-down feelings about their own actions. Is their fear of black cats somehow a comfort to them? Do ladders actually pose a threat the rest of the world should be made aware of? Who's supposed to hear you when you knock on wood?

Then there's the mojo section of the equation; "I don't want to talk about my job interview, lest I jinx it." Now, most of the people who travel in my social circles shy away from the word 'lest', but don't let that stop you.

Anyway. So, I'm a little superstitious, if you hadn't already gathered, so much so that I've been hesitant to tell you about the past week. This morning I woke up strangely confident that it'll change nothing to spill the beans now. What's done is done, right?

Let's go back in time to a week ago last Thursday. I had shown up at the doctor's office for my umpteenth ultrasound of this cycle. As I settled in to enjoy watching my uterus close up my ultrasound tech Bassam frowned; it's been my experience that very few good words follow a frown. My mind began to compute all the bad news I could think of to soften the inevitable blow. I wasn't prepared for Bassam to suggest what he did: conversion to an IVF cycle.

See, I've been going the IUI route for over a year. It's less invasive, considerably cheaper and less of a bulldozer over my emotions. And those of you who read me will recall that this process did actually work. To a degree. So, after speaking with my doc in February we decided to move ahead with the same med levels as last time and hope for the best.

Little did I know my body would rise up and accept the challenge in a way that would astound everyone.

I was such a keener I had produced five workable follicles, way too many to risk continuing with the IUI cycle. Quints, as fun as that would be (not), are not in my future. I'm unsure if I would even be able to step up and be a Good Mother to twins for heaven's sake.

My decision now (that I was required to make by myself since The Boy was at work) was to cancel the cycle and begin again or convert to IVF and grow the follicles for a few more days before harvesting them. Little did I know what that would entail and I think I have issues with my team for not warning me what lay ahead in terms of physical pain and the emotional toll it would take.

I was already so invested in the cycle and had waited for what seemed like six months (even though it was only two) before even starting this cycle after my Previous Loss that I couldn't bring myself to throw in the towel. So we proceeded.

Sunday morning found me, starving and nervous, in the waiting room of the ninth floor of the hospital. After heading down to the One Day Stay room down the hall I disrobed, accepted my spankin' new hospital bracelet and signed away all rights to sue if something went horribly wrong down the line. I was peeing every five minutes to keep my bladder empty and cracking jokes with The Boy about hospital procedure to calm myself. The IV nurse was wonderful and accommodating and all of the sudden I was taking that long wheelchair ride to the ultrasound bay.

My Super Doc stood by my left shoulder, injecting various drugs through my IV and standing The Office Fertility God on the counter facing me for extra good luck. Technology be damned, I'll take me some backup voodoo juju anyday! The Boy sat behind me with a good view of the monitor and at a good angle to stroke my hair, a task that would become invaluable in a very short while. Everyone else took up residence on the wrong side of my knees and if that weren't enough they made sure they could see every little bit of my nether stubble through the use of a million-candlepower halogen light. The last coherent thought I had after I had fired up Michaela on 'shuffle' was not to allow the same parade of learned types should I ever actually become pregnant.

The harvesting procedure takes about 7-10 minutes overall and is very interesting if you're not the one with your legs in the air. After popping in with a needle to inject a local freezing into each side, another longer needle attached to a vacuum revisits the areas to Hoover up every follicle. Thing is, my bits are 'bouncier' than normal and caused the tech to literally chase them around my insides. The pain became so great that I lost track of all the separate voices in the room; everything melded together until the only thing I could concentrate on was the fact that I was duty bound to keep my bottom firmly squashed on the table and my vaginal muscles relaxed. Heh.

Then, out of nowhere, the tears came. I am not a weeper, yet I absolutely could not stop the flow down my face. Everyone became very concerned and I tried to seem sincere while I assured them I was fine and to just continue. The Type-A in me was screaming in my head at my inability to just shut the hell up but even my misdirected anger couldn't manage to stop me.

Finally it was over. My legs were arranged in a ladylike fashion for me, since I could no longer move them myself. Then it happened - my saving grace: the trembling leg syndrome. I had a case of the jimmy legs the likes of which you've never seen. The mere sight of them dancing around without any permission from me was enough to start me giggling and that was enough to start everyone else giving me worried looks. Still, the damn crying stopped and that was a huge relief.

The lab lady popped her head through the hole in the wall and infomed us that I had made 8 eggs. My team was seriously impressed with my egg production, my stoicism and my general need to be informed that they told me my file would receive a gold star. I knew it was a joke but at that point I was so strung out and exhausted that I didn't care.

After a good long nap back in the hospital room and armed with Tylenol 3s we headed home instead of out to breakfast like I had looked forward to earlier; the pain was just too much. Damnitall, I wanted eggs!

Two days later the lab called with excellent news to report: eight eggs had been harvested, seven had fertilized and six were already at 4-plus cells. They predicted they would have three quality eggs to transfer the next day and probably another good three to freeze ($500 for the first year!) for later use.

Wednesday was transfer day.

No pain, no contortions and I got to see my children! On the big screen in the office! Three bubbles with clusters of grapes in them would be the best way to describe what I saw. I guess it's one of the perks of being involved in the program; getting to see your child at 10 cells of age tickles the geek in me absolutely pink.

So now I must coddle myself until April 21. No lifting (light grocery shopping only), no grabbing Murphy the Tank and being jerked around by his hulking frame and no swimming (sadness) until the puncture sites from the egg retrieval heal.

I think I might also stretch the boundaries to include no housework, but that would be wrong wouldn't it? So shhhhhhh.

Posted at 1:57 p.m.