I spent much of yesterday reading the boards over at IVF Connections. Everyone who posts about Dr. Brash loves him. He's probably gotten every other woman in Ohindinois pregnant. Also, everyone else with a spouse with CF has already gotten pregnant. They come post on the CBAVD board to tell the posters (most of whom have just been gotten a surprise diagnosis) that everything will be all right.
Have I mentioned that we have long-term houseguests? I love them dearly, but it's been rather difficult to have the deep conversations we should be having about our reproductive future. We also have a deadline: the second appointment with Dr. Shrinkhead is Wednesday.
Yesterday was Beaker's birthday. (No, I didn't get him anything.) The guests suggested that Beaker and I go out for a private dinner. Beaker pooh-poohed this, suggesting we all go out together. SNARL. While he was changing into a decent shirt, I cornered him and whined. His response: "I need to take get the car inspected tomorrow. Why don't you come along?" It's a good twenty miles each way. I took what I could get.
So this morning, as the rusty old box his parents gave us many years ago putt-putted south, I told him about what I'd been reading. Cornell sounds great: intense monitoring, greater adjustment of medication during the cycle, the fanatical lab, plus co-culture. Not to mention the size of the program. Feed me into the assembly line! My only fear is that they won't be willing to use the sperm we have on ice.
At the inspection site, after Beaker handed over the keys to our rustbaby, we sat out at the edge of the parking lot facing a swamp. He does want to do a third cycle. He's still uncertain whether we should change clinics. He's never left a doctor he didn't get along with, but knows from (lots of) experience that that can be a lousy strategy.
But he's very clear on not being willing to get another biopsy, and he's right. Too damn much risk to his health, which is more fragile than it was a year and a half ago. I teared up, even so. The waves of hope and despair run so close together.
The ladies at the inspection station shouted out for us. The poor old car had failed. Fortunately, they run a shared-risk program: you're not charged until your car passes.