off to a very hot start, cycle 4, day 3

I woke up with a fever and thirty-six hours later I was suddenly on my fourth round of Clomid.

Or at least that’s how it feels. On Wednesday morning I woke up bright and early so that I could endure the indignity of a nurse-administered pregnancy (blood) test[1] when, hello-don’t-you-see-my-pockets-stuffed-full-of-tampons. Anyway, feeling a bit resentful woozy and what I would later realize was, what’s the word I’m looking for? feverish! I stumbled into the doctor's office in the pre-dawn hours, coughing all over anyone in my path. I dismissed the motherly words of the tech who told me I looked like hell said I looked like I “could use some sleep” and desperately tried to stop the exam room from spinning. Afterwards, thinking that maybe I should consider calling in sick, I went home, took my temperature and was sort of bewildered when it turned up at 102.

It was all downhill from there and the next 12-16 hours are a bit of daze. Having a fever basically makes me feel like I’m five years old and “adult fever” sounds like either a 60s throwback album or a sexually transmitted disease[2] offered at a discount through this service[3].

precautionary measures: cycle 3, day 6

Sunday night was my first night back on the bottle Clomid so as I popped those two round gems of hormonal promise, I gamely asked C what he had done to prepare for this, the third round of Clomid.

Very seriously, I deadpanned: What measures have you taken? What safeguards have you imposed?

He thought I was kidding (I was sort of kidding). Of course, I had my own precautions in mind – padding the corners of all tables/chests/dressers/beds, finally confronting the seriously low supply of chocolate in this house, removing sharp objects, etc. C of course, thought this was all very funny – in a laughing at me kind of way. While I panic about just what shape, form and frequency my ensuing Clomid-induced-terror will take; while I lose sleep over just how much of a bitch I’ll be this time, C doesn’t seem all that worried (which is suspicious given that he is typically the target of my unregulated emotion).

But bewildering or not, it was kind of a relief. Sure, he jokes about how there are days when I am prone to, ahem, antics, and he reminds me often of one day during my last cycle when I pointedly – but lovingly? – told him I was having a hard time liking him that very moment[1] (you know what, I am never going to live that down). But it was actually something of a relief to hear that he wasn’t anxious about the imminent BitchCon V preparing to descend on our home. So instead of seeing this as a challenge – I could try to be more bitchy? – I decided to embrace it and <seamless transition here> also to take the opportunity to make some vows for this, thirdtimesthecharm, cycle. Here goes:

(1) Post-coital headstands: I will continue them.

(Because, umm, I can’t prove it didn’t work. Actually, maybe I can. Over share, move right along: if the interwebs are right – don’t even get me started on that – then we conceived after having a quickie, sans headstand, at an out-of-town woodsy cottage before our friends arrived for the weekend. But anyway. Why not incorporate acrobatics?).

(2) Sex: I will have more of it. (please.cover.your.eyes.)

(Timed intercourse can be, umm, transactional. Sex on demand, sex on cue, sex multiple times a day – well, that just sounds like college – it can be tricky to fit in between two busy schedules, erratic working hours and sleep deprivation. But <breaks into song> We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall over-c-o-o-m-e, etc. #firstworldproblems).

(3) Balance: I will try to find it?

(Sigh. It’s like I’m all in or I ain’t. Before this whole fertility bizness started in earnest, I was a bit of a slave to my work – even when not working, I agonized over things I could not control, clients whose needs were far beyond those I could fill and all kinds of other stuff, big and small. But the last couple months I have been perennially distracted. I work hard, sure, but not in the I’m-a-martyr-for-the-cause way I once did. Perhaps this is just growth, maturity and healthy balance. Perhaps I’m just so focused on whether or not I have birthing hips that I can’t exert all of my energy on legal theory. Either way, I’m going to try to be a bit more zen this time around. Less chin-deep in the infertility vortex and more dipping-my-toe-in when the weather is nice. Plus, you know, all the other good stuff: cookie binges and marathon reality-tv-watching, regular exercise, a (relatively) balanced diet, adequate sleep, time with C and friends, etc.)

And with that, I’m off to the (protracted, agonizing) races.

---

[1] Not long before this, a friend who is fighting her own fertility battle had nearly the same conversation with her husband. I think it’s safe to say we both like our husbands a hell of a lot. Sometimes our true feelings are just, um, cloaked in hormonal overdrive.

round three of Clomid, I will seat you now

A few days ago I wrote about being my own worst advocate and made big promises about standing up for myself, feminism, changing the world through interpretive dance, etc.

Well, as long as I’m being candid with the interwebs: I failed. Literally 48 hours later I was given the opportunity to be a demanding bitch assertive, and I blinked. Sure, I fought the nurse a little bit; I offered my own personal “alternate treatment plan” that didn’t involve 10 horrid days of birth control prior to another cycle of Clomid. But at the first sign of resistance, I surrendered.

Last week I met with the reproductive endocrinologist and he basically called my bluff. Straight up, he told me that he figured he’d get a call back after he ordered that I take 10 days of the deceptively named "Apri". After the nurse made the call he "suddenly remembered" that I had a strong reaction to birth control[1] and anticipated an incensed Saturday phone call. But because I’m a total coward, he was left to enjoy his weekend undisturbed. You guys: by his own admission, he probably would have caved and let me skip the extra barrel of hormones if I had just effing stood up for myself.[2] *Palm to forehead, invective laden, self-deprecating tirade. *

Anyway, this most recent visit with the reproductive endocrinologist was our first since the early miscarriage and boy was I looking forward to rehashing those turbulent times. Naturally, I shed some unexpectedly heavy tears we had a lot of questions – which I had furtively typed out on my iphone during a particularly dull morning in court.

they must be joking, cycle 3, off to a slow start

When the nurse called with the news, even she laughed. The damage: I am still, effing, pregnant. My HCG is almost down to zero. But not quite. I clock in at a breathtakingly-so-close-to-being-un-pregnant 1.45 (down from a high of 69).

On one hand, I’m not surprised – my pelvis has felt oddly busy the last 48 hours. On the other hand, umm, really?

The nurse at my usual weekday-clinic had casually said I could start on Clomid prior to my appointment with the doctor on Tuesday. But Saturday-other-clinic-nurse was cheery and breezy as she informed me of what she thought I already knew – Clomid? Yeah, sure. But not before 10 days of re-regulation birth control, sucker!

Because I’m an assertive, strong-willed, stand-up-for-myself lady, I made a short, but impassioned, plea to skip the birth control, quickly rattling off a list of (made up and probably not medically sound) reasons why birth control was wildly unnecessary, even medically contraindicated (possibly throwing around medical jargon I heard C use). After politely hearing me out, she, ahem, declined to entertain my “alternative treatment plan.”

my own worst advocate, cycle 3?

Nearly a year into this whole (in)fertility adventure and fanatical passionate lawyer that I am, I’m apparently my own worst advocate when it comes to my own medical care.

I don’t get it. I’m the kind of law-talking-blog-lawyer who spends a not insignificant amount of time in court, fighting zealously on behalf of clients who aren’t exactly the most lovable on paper. But when it comes to asserting myself in the pursuit of the one thing I want the most, I gotta get it together.

Earlier this week, when I found out I was getting successfully less pregnant by the day, I let the nurse’s instructions run over me, not questioning a thing. At this point we need to make sure your HCG gets to zero, then you’ll meet with the doctor and make a plan for what’s next. Though I balked at how long I’d have to wait to see the doctor – 10 ever-loving days! – I did little else. But two rounds in, I know full well how the game is played – get your period, call the nurse, fill the Clomid prescription, order the GMO Chinese Hamster Ovary and have a sort of uncivilized dispute with insipid insurance trolls over covering it, give them your blood, perhaps several times, early morning wandings, carefully-timed-but-super-romantic sex and bam, chemical pregnancy pregnant!

So why, when I actually got my period, did I not call the nurse, demand Clomid and get on my merry way? Well, because she didn’t tell me I could. She told me to wait. And so I did. Dutifully (albeit somewhat fitfully). I waited (in pelvic agony). Until today. When I began to wonder what all this waiting was about. An absolutely riveting internal monologue followed:

Why are you waiting? Why do you apologize when you “bother” the nurse with a question that you, paying-out-your-ears-patient, is entitled to ask? Why don’t you stand up for yourself? Why have you eaten so many cookies today and don’t you know a scone is just an excuse to have cake before noon? You're a lousy feminist, etc. <End scene.>

Emboldened by my inner advocate, I asserted myself and, after apologizing to the nurse for god knows what, confidently inquired whether I might begin taking Clomid. After conferring with the doctor, she scheduled me for yet another blood draw to confirm that I’m totally, 100%, not even the littlest bit, pregnant. If I’m not – and I say this with all of the irony I can muster, please, please, please let me not be pregnant – then round three of Clomid begins tomorrow. It's going to be a wild Saturday night.

my body is a deceitful bastard, part 1

I wrote this on Friday morning. I didn’t post because terror, JINX, etc. But now, here you are.

For those playing along at home, you may be wondering whether I had any symptoms that would foretell this dramatic turn of events (I’m just guessing, seeing as I google “symptoms of pregnancy” about 30 times a day).

The answer is yes – but I didn’t know it. As exquisitely described in this hilarious post, the net effect of infertility is that you lose all trust in your own body. Your body is a deceitful bastard, sending up phantom pregnancy symptoms on the regular. A subtle twinge anywhere near your pelvis/abdomen/ovaries/breasts/eyeballs – start painting the nursery!

Putting aside the most striking of symptoms – i’m. not. menstruating. – I actually did have other signs. While the hot flashes were probably just the Clomid talking (REMEMBER ME, said the Clomid), I was also suffering from excruciating gas pains. Yes strangers and friends, I was, in a word, gassy. But it did not occur to me that this could be explained by anything other than totally plausible non-pregnancy reasons – my period was about to arrive, I have a diagnosed gastrointestinal auto-immune disorder, I just ate a bunch of red onions, etc.

Thankfully, I had asked a good friend (and veteran pregnant lady) what her earliest symptoms were. Her only answer? Gassy. Well, well, well. False sense of confidence in tow, I started noticing other (kind of real, but probably just psychosomatic) signs – I was really tired, I was craving citrus, I felt a kick!

For a second, for just a very quick, blink and you’ll miss it, second, I allowed myself to believe that I might in fact be carrying a ball of fingers[1] smaller-than-one-millimeter gaggle of cells[2] that could one day turn into a living, breathing, baby who grows up to spend her teenage years resenting me. But anyway, because I was still living in utter terror, I let that moment pass.

And today? Well. Gas pain. I think. Or something else. That’s the problem; I still don’t trust anything my body does. While my pelvis is calculating the due date and picking out cribs, my mind is spinning with doubt. Any pain in any place between my neck and my ankles feels certain to portend some horrible fate previously unknown – Ectopic pregnancy? Early miscarriage? Appendicitis? IMMINENT DEATH. You know, reasonable things.

Is Xanax compatible with pregnancy?

---

[1] You will pay The New Yorker to break through this pay wall. Because Tina, Jeff, Alice and ball of fingers are WORTH IT, goddamit. (Or you will coerce your richer, more sophisticated friend into giving you her New Yorker password. Either way, really.)

[2] Murder of cells? Flock of cells? Quiver, pack, school, herd? Really, I have no idea.

on the increased chance of twins while on Clomid: cycle 2, day 21

With Clomid comes an increased chance,

Of twins, each time we baby dance <cringe>.
With Clomid, extra hormones flow,
To help the eggs mature and grow.
With more than one egg released at ovulation,
So does grow the expectation,
That both will fertilize and then, oh my!
We’ll have two, but it’s not enough, C cries.
His ears perk up, an increased risk of twins?
He's now intrigued, eyes a-spin,
A challenge afoot, this more than one.
Why only two? Why only double the fun?
Alas, he declares, “If we just had twins, we’d be quitters!”
He won’t be happy until we have, in his words, “a litter.”[1] 

[1] This is totally a joke. A terrible, only-funny-to-the-trying-to-conceive-set joke. It's also an astute reminder of C’s primary role in our relationship: unrestrained proposer of harebrained hijinks. We’re not from the land of the medically-reckless, greedy-baby-freaks hoping for anything more than one healthy, gender-non-specific, set of lungs and a diaper. In truth, the thought of multiples paralyzes me with fear. Fear and months of bed-rest.

reflections on the simple arithmetic that crushed our holiday dreams: cycle 2, days 3-7

Exactly five days, an out of town vacation,

Calendared and planned with hopeful expectation,

That we’d have the green light, to try to conceive.

Instead? Exactly five concurrent days of Clomid. We. Were. So. Naïve. 

i got the swag: cycle day 10

This morning as I sat down at my desk, at my office where not a single person knows I am HELLOTRYINGTOCONCEIVE, and where taking a nurse's phone call in the grimy stairwell full of recyclables and speaking to her as though I'm in a bomb shelter is-like-playing-with-fire, I felt something. (A something that was not the dull, ever present headache that arrived on day two of Clomid-the-wonder drug. Also a something that was decidedly not the oh-my-god-I-just-started-crying-during-  Teen Mom Schindler’s List “thing” that started on day four). No. This was something else. This was a subtle…twinge. Near my hip. Well, not so much my hip but more my pelvis. And not so much my pelvis but deep in my… holy shit that is my ovary. And it dawned on me right then and there, that I have never been aware of my ovaries before – like really, really acutely aware that I, WOMAN, have a pair of appears-to-be-functioning (hallelujah!) ovaries! And they’re mine! And they’re for baby making! (and like, other stuff, like hormones and… okay I honestly have no idea what ovaries do. Sorry mom, I totally never read that copy of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” that you insisted I purchase along with my subscription to Cosmo. Also, why did you let me have Cosmo?).

But where was I? Right. I got the swag and it’s pumpin out my ovaries!. Winning (but also kind of losing).  

on the count of three: cycle days 1-8

(So this first week was kind of a wash, wherein we made up the start date for my first round of Clomid by randomly selecting what would become the infamous “cycle day 3” – umm, how about this Wednesday? Whatdyasay? Yes? YES! – and then, for a few days over Thanksgiving, I took 100 mg of Clomid each night in abject terror of what the morning would bring which obviously, in my totally rational mind, was nothing short of projectile vomiting and complete organ failure and full-on-no-holds-barred-batshit-psychosis, because if nothing else I am totally realistic and a GLASS HALF FULL! kind of gal and then like, it wasn’t quite that bad, and then I went back to work.)

let the games begin

Well, there I was. Battered and breaded and bruised up like a heroin addict[1] following a series of blood drawing, wanding, MRI-ing (now with contrast!) and even some iodine-dye-ing, for FUN good measure. (Ed. Note: during this time there was also birth control. ten VERY IRONIC days of birth control which I obviously had blocked out of my mind as a psychological coping mechanism until now. and during which time I ate-all-the foods-in-the-house-and-cried-all-the-tears-in-my-eyes because I basically just PMSed for 10 solid, miserable days). And so, I was probably a little too excited for my second meeting with the doctor man and the delivery of my DIAGNOSIS[2] *cue horn section.*

Anyway, after an hour that felt like thirty seconds, during which time big words were thrown around, pictures were drawn (ohmygoddoctor please stop drawing GIANT follicles on the back of my official medical record), and instructions were given (when a man and a woman really love each other, sometimes they will show that love by…. ok, not those kind), I left the office with two prescriptions, a confusing looking chart, that is obviously just a list, and was clearly made on Word Perfect in 1991, and which coldly instructs me exactly when to have sex, not that I can really read it friendly-sounding “cycle calendar” and basically, not a clue what any of it meant.