I’m an ingrate
This morning’s pregnancy test was… unnecessary, given the rivers of blood. My clinic doesn’t do betas with IUI, which I personally appreciate. I can see how it would be nice to have a decisive answer, but I’m all for avoiding trips to the clinic, and the whole waiting for a phone call part sounds sooo sucky. So that’s that. I’m weirdly not upset. I’m not sure why, and certainly not sanguine (blood pun! ha!) that misery won’t leap out and attack me at any moment, but maybe I’m going to be okay this time. Maybe because I’ve finally got something to look forward to.
MENOPAUSE. I get to try it out for 8 weeks! I’m super psyched. Maybe if I take good care of it–walk it every day, don’t forget to feed it–they’ll let me keep it.
After the first negative test I did a flurry of research and then e-mailed my RE with a bunch of questions. Yesterday he responded. As I’d suspected from my research, I get to do a course of Lupron to shrink the fibriods. So yay on that front. Really looking forward to injections and side effects. And I hear it’s cheap, too. But after the horror story he told me about performing an emergency hysterectomy to keep a patient from bleeding to death, I’ll gladly sign up for menopause if it will protect my uterus.
In addition to the news that an eight week treatment would be needed prior to surgery (which never came up before, even when we were talking about possible timelines. Dude! It’s important to mention things like this! Don’t you know your patients think about every damn thing in terms of how soon they will have a shot at pregnancy?), the conversation contained two more shockers. First was his response when I asked how soon after the surgery I could do IVF. Six to twelve months. What? He’d made it sound like we’d hop on the IVF train the moment I was recovered. And as you can tell from my last post, my bags were PACKED! So at first I was devastated. But then he informed me that eight weeks post surgery I can start trying naturally. WHAT?!?! WHAT?!?!
This next part will make you want to smack me, and that’s okay. I was disappointed to be told that I can try making a baby through sex. Part of this has to do with the fact that changes to my expectations always come with high emotion. I’m a planner and I don’t like to have my plan revised unexpectedly. And part of the disappointment comes from the fact that IVF, for all it’s tremendous agonies, does have a higher success rate than natural conception. And since I want a baby NOW NOW NOW, seeing that higher success rate recede a year into the distance was painful. But then my rational mind spoke up and I was like, Isn’t this every infertile person’s dream? To be returned to the land of fertile people? To have a shot at getting pregnant without some medical professional up to the elbow in your vagina? So I was happy. But THEN I remembered that I’m still going to be one fallopian tube down after this surgery (he doesn’t think the left tube will be functional again), so I’ll only have a shot every other month. And it’s unclear to me how much this surgery is really going to help with egg pickup on my right side, the side where it’s supposedly been possible all along. And where I’ve always had good follicles for my four failed IUIs.
So this is not actually a dream come true. But it’s not bad. If I were part of a couple with male factor or problematic eggs or other issues that close off the natural conception path quite decisively, I’d be smacking me for sure. How can I not be over the moon about the possibility of getting pregnant on our own? Well, it requires me to be patient, which I hate. And I’m a fucking pessimist already.
I’m trying to be positive, and while a 50% conception rate in the year following surgery seems to be average, I read one study with a 70% rate for women my age. (The same study also reported a 60% pregnancy LOSS in women before myomectomy. Um. HELLO! That’s enormous! Get these fuckers out of me NOW! How could anyone have recommended IUI for me?!?!) But then I think about moving into my third year of infertility, about all those months of negative tests rolling by, about the possibility for recurrence of the fibriods, about missing my chance for a year of the rabbit baby…so virtually smack me if you need to, but I’m not happy. Maybe it’s the menopause–you know cranky these hot flashes make me.