biopsy completed

The wretched biopsy happened last Friday. There was a small blessing to having it on Friday. As I've awkwardly described on this blog before, I live in Pleasantville, but work and receive fertility treatments in Fertility Treatment Town (FTT). 90 minutes of driving separate the two cities. The biopsy was supposed to occur on Saturday or Sunday, but at the last minute, got scheduled for Friday. This meant that I could just skip out of work 20 minutes before the procedure, make my way to the hospital and be right back at work within an hour or so, instead of driving home on Friday, and driving back and forth for the procedure on the weekend.

The rest, my friends, was pretty much pure awful.

It started on Thursday. I had to go to that hospital, the one where our clinic is located, for a matter unrelated to my fertility. New psychology interns were being welcomed and I was asked to talk to them about my experience as an intern in the program. I noticed that I was very anxious to be back at the hospital. I always get nervous about speaking in public, so I tried to explain away my case of nerves by that simple fact. But admittedly, I was also nervous about seeing a friend of mine who was scheduled to speak with me. I saw him last the night before I learned of the miscarriage and I wasn't sure if he had been told that I was no longer pregnant. I pictured a very awkward "you look great" statement, meant to refer to a pregnancy that is no longer there (and the ensuing embarrassment over the very unfortunate weight gain associated with it). Luckily, he had been told of what happened to me in late March.

I was nervous again on Friday, not surprisingly. I had a meeting at work, and something to write up for a conference I was missing at 11am while I would be busy spreading my legs a few blocks away. I took about 1000mgs of tylen.ol, knowing Dr. RE didn't want me to take adv.il. That was of little help when the time came for him to tear a chunk of my insides, quite unfortunately. When I finally was called (around noon), I changed and stepped into the procedure room. The nurse settled me in and went to get Dr. RE. Very suddenly, I became overwhelmed by the objects in the procedure room. The u/s machine, the pictures of embryos, the little door to the lab, the computer screen. The last time I was in this procedure room was when we had ultrasound one and ultrasound two. I just started sobbing and as if on cue, the doctor and nurse came in, my sob momentum too strong to make the ugly crying stop. The doc said he would come back later and left me there with the nurse to compose myself.

He did eventually return and my crying stopped long enough to get the procedure over with. It hurt like jaw (I am borrowing shamelessly from Roccie's colourful repertoire of expressions) and continued to be crampy for a good hour, although the pain evolved in a merciful decrescendo (also, thanks to the addition of 600mgs of ibuprofen). I'm not sure what possessed me to return to work after that. I had another sobfest in the car and all the way back to work and again in my office. An hour after I returned - where admittedly, I just hid in my office and prayed no one would call or knock on my door - my friend the speech and language pathologist saw me in the hall. She took one look at me and said I was to go home immediately. She then came into my office and packed my stuff. This lady wasn't going to take no for an answer so I just got the car and drove back to Pleasantville.

That day seems like another nightmare in the series of nightmares I've been having. I've been reflecting on my reaction and of course, being a psychologist, I realize that what got me was the environmental cues. Those are pretty powerful suckers when it comes to triggering memories and emotions. I also had worked very hard to shove down any anxiety or emotions I had about the procedure to the dorsal chambers of my heart so that I could just not deal. Well, had I been this woman's therapist, I would have reminded her that things catch up, no matter how far back the emotions are shoved.

I asked about my lining, since it had seemed to displease him so in the past. He told the nurse 8.65 during the u/s, and then when I asked, gave me a noncommittal response that I think was in the neighborhood of not bad. I have a follow-up appointment on Sept. 19 to find out the results. I am not expecting much out of that, to be honest. I'm putting my money on inconclusive. I guess dismal endometrial cytology would suck royally, but would offer a clear direction in our efforts.

Pissing in the ocean: our latest steps to babymaking

I started a mega pumped up cycle last weekend. Those descriptors are to characterize the amount of estrogen I am taking, and certainly not how my spirits feel about it. There won't be an IVF or any other attempts at pregnancy during this cycle, but instead an endometrial biopsy on labor day weekend. Something to look forward to, indeed.

Dr. RE put me on 8mgs of est.race (which includes a nightly vaginal dose resulting in bright green discharge the next day. fun). I am also on an estrogen patch (oes.clim). I change the patch every 3 days and I feel a bit dizzy on the first day of the new application. I wonder if he shouldn't have also prescribed estrogen eye drops, an estrogen nose spray and estrogen bath salts, just to make sure we had all the routes of entry covered.

What's the point of all this? Dr. RE wants to look at the cells of my endometrium to see if they look normal and to rule out serious lining issues before we try another expensive, time consuming, emotionally draining and third-party involving method of having a baby.

Like all of you, I am a very good patient. I am a doctor's dream. I am compliant; I ask good questions, but not too many; I don't pester the clinic; I understand directions readily and follow them to the letter; I avoid investing my medical team with powers they do not possess; I am polite and friendly. This buys you squat in the babymaking department. But this is the mode I find myself in right now. I'm not questioning it and not thinking about it beyond the immediate pill-taking and patch-sticking. I am apprehensive about the biopsy. I had a cervical biopsy many years ago and it hurt like hell.

A negative outcome of the endometrial biopsy is the end of road in terms of ever trying to have a baby through pregnancy. Thus, the end of the road might be near. There is also the other outcome: an inconclusive one, an outcome where we go ahead and contemplate another donor egg or donor embryo cycle, knowing all too well that the chances of success are far from favourable.

This is what led us to get on with the adoption process right away. We had a consultation with an adoption counselor in July and discussed our options. We already knew that our preference was for private domestic adoption, but the consultation confirmed it. We heard hard things during the consult: only about 80 newborns a year get placed with adoptive families in this province through domestic adoption. The average time it takes for couples to be chosen is 2 years. I would have liked to know the standard deviation, but I didn't want to appear like too much of a geek. I might have also been afraid of the answer. Mr. A with his deep well of optimism thinks that we will be chosen right away because we are so awesome. Ha! I'm not so sure about that, but it's nice that one of us is optimistic. 

I realize that efforts made towards having a baby are not in vain, but it just fucking feels like they are. Still, I worked on a farm for long enough to know that if you don't plant any seeds, you will not get any lettuce or tomatoes. So these seeds need to be planted, no matter how crummy my spirits feel these days.