Barely tenured

Losing bets

Talked to an old, old friend yesterday. We hadn't spoken for years.

I told her: how we're cycling again, how it's eating all my free time and lots of what should be work time too, how I'm glad that there is an end in sight, how frustrating it is that that end just got moved by several months.

She told me: what she paid for a McMansion (her word!) on the outskirts of an interior city, what the mortgage balance is, how much lower than that the current offering price is, and what the impact on her personal and professional life will be if (when) it doesn't sell.

Defensive napping

She'd slept badly the night before -- mosquitos? dreams? hard to say -- and I'd had to wake her up to take her over to Cornell.

I'd been planning to get lunch at Grand Central, but she fell asleep the moment we got to the main concourse. I took a picture of her slumped in the stroller in front of the information booth. Hustled her and her stroller down to the train, and she slept in my arms the whole way to Weatherwood.

Really, it was glorious snuggling, sweet in a way that hasn't happened so often now she's getting bigger. She woke up as we got off the train. I thought about how long it had been since she'd eaten, and just tortilla wedges and raspberrries so far that day, so we went to the coffeeshop. I ordered her her own pancakes and scrambled eggs and she ate ate ate, dipping the eggs in the little cup of soft butter, stabbing the dripping pancakes with her fork. We were sitting by a window and she was happy in the sun there, inhaling grease and watching traffic go by.

When we got to Nana's, only Nana was there. Miss T. was happy; she flew her little helicopter around, she went to play with Nana's teddy bears, she read books, she smiled and laughed. She acted as if this was familiar territory, not someplace new, and I was grateful.

My grandmother had told me that I would have to pick up my birthday gift from her when I was there. It turned out to be a glass bowl, one that used to sit in the middle of the dining room table. I have no idea how she expected me to get it home -- it was sitting with a poor little dishtowel on top, as if that could protect it. It was spooky that she'd decided to give away one of her treasures -- but I knew it would hurt her if I left and it was still in the house. Then I remembered the shipping store in downtown Weatherwood -- if I gave them a naked bowl and enough money, they'd pack it up. So I ran down there with Miss T., the bowl in the diaper bag.

That last walk was too much for her. (It should have been too much for me too, but if I'm cancelling what does it matter?) When we got back to the apartment, my uncle was there. He put on the loud loud loud television. Marina came in a few minutes later. And Miss T. froze. She stared, she stood still, and finally she crawled in my lap and fell asleep again. I put her down on the bed in the living room while we ate dinner. Three feet from the blaring television. She was out cold.

Dinner was silent and awful. The TV blared over everything. My uncle was depressed. My grandmother didn't want to eat the steak. She couldn't hear my uncle's weak efforts at occasional politeness, so she kept yelling at him to be nicer. Marina was just dog-tired. She's working 7 days a week now. No one wants to know anything about my cycles. Plus, I think they're not even talking to each other -- my grandmother handn't told them I'd been in New York for a week, and Marina hadn't told my uncle I was just there for dinner.

After dinner there was a blow-up over their tax rebate having not arrived. Then Ricky went down to the mailbox and it had come in -- but then some other check had gotten lost. I was glad Miss T. didn't hear it all.

I filled a tiny Tupperware with potatoes and steak for Miss T., and headed out to the train. I had to be back by 8:00 for my shots. They were all shocked that I left so soon. Miss T. barely woke up as I put her in the stroller. On the train her eyes were open, but she wasn't really awake. She did wake up in the hotel and wanted dinner. She ate the leftovers I'd brought along, and somehow went to sleep at a normal time -- and slept through the night.

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I feel bad that Miss T. missed what were supposed to be the "fun" parts for a toddler: the big train station, the train itself.

I also feel bad that my less-loved relatives missed seeing her being herself; they saw her staring, then snoring.

But: this trip, this city, is overwhelming for her. She likes to watch, to understand, before she acts. New! things! every! day! is hard. Noise! always! is hard. Days with three or four or more episodes (waiting room/hotel room/bus/train/lunch/visit/train) are exhausting.

I've only had one day with no checkup since my in-laws left. We went to the Museum of Natural History. She liked the dinosaurs; she liked the little stairs and ramps in the exhibits, and the cupcakes at the cafe. After two hours she said, "I want to go back to the hotel." We got caught in the rain on the way back, but it was warm, so fun, and we got new clothes when we got back.

Today I think she has relaxed a bit more into the city. That was maybe a problem in the waiting room, and also later at Pain Quotidien -- but at the 77th St. playground she played! On the slides! On the shakey bridge!

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The recent Ask Moxie posts on being an adult child, and on not parenting too much in reaction to your own childhood, and on accepting and celebrating your children as they are, have struck a nerve. I worry about Miss T.'s needing to watch, her silence around strangers, her sitting on the sidelines until she's ready to explore. I was the child who never smiled, and everyone blamed that, I think, on the tragedies lurking behind me. So I wish she would smile and run off happily in the sunshine at every new playground.

One of the biggest reasons I want a second child is shameful, in that context. I was never raised by just my mother -- well, only for a few months in second grade, between my grandparents' bankruptcy/house loss and my mother's grand crackup -- but it was always what I feared most, that she'd make good on her threat to move out of my grandparents' apartment and take me along.

It's not impossible that I will raise Miss T. on my own for some good portion of her youth. And isn't that dyad, mother and daughter only, what I was so scared of? You know, if there was another child there, it'd be different.

But I am not my mother. And Miss T. is not me.

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While I've typed this up, Miss T. has had lunch, had a poop in her potty, and strewn crayons and puzzle pieces all over the room. My utmost respect for all you SAHM bloggers -- oh dear!

Now I'm going to see if I can use the overwhelmingness of the city to get her to nap... out for another walk, while we wait for the phone call from Dr. Data. Only one of the little follicles grew at all, so I think we're out of here.

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The new Typepad edting stuff just sux rox, doesn't it? So fucking slow. And "assign multiple categories" is totally broken. Not like Firefox for Mac is some obscure browser, either...

Flirting with cancellation

Well, what I said about hormone levels last time wasn't entirely fair. I'm on a microdose Lupron flare protocol, lead-in with birth control pills, and I took some strange (for me) drugs between that baseline and the first checkin. Who knows what was supposed to happen?

Since then the estradiol's been going up 46% a day, hitting a whopping 188 last night, after 7 days of 8 vials. Today Dr. Data took a look -- and only one follicle on each side is moving. Two smaller ones on each side, so still the same 6 total we saw at baseline.

Given our limited sperm situation -- if this is going to lead to just two mature eggs -- that's not worth defrosting for. But, Dr. D. says that there's a chance the little ones will break out today, that can happen on this protocol, so he wants me to keep on taking drugs for tonight, at least.

I am trying to be grownup about this -- I knew it could happen, and I've seen plenty of people on line who did crappily on this protocol and better on EPP/antagonist, say -- but I feel tired and sad. And angry at my ovaries, which feel swollen and grumpy. Another betrayal-by-the-body physical symptom, kinda like the 2ww in miniature.

I also remember how crazy I thought people who kept going after a cancellation were, back when I was a young and cruel IVFer. We probably wouldn't be able to fit another cycle in in August, so that'd make it January again.

I'm taking Miss T. up to Weatherwood today on the train. That prospect is also making me tired and sad.

Simple declarative sentences (mostly)

I turned 38 today.

I am cycling again.

I am on 8 vials a day (for those of you who still measure in vials).

My estrogen level today was 28. Five days ago it was 29.

The book is not done. My coauthors are unhappy.

I am drowning my sorrows in Nixonland.

Maybe I don't want to

All spring I've had to hold myself back from everything having to do with the upcoming IVF cycle.

I made a little color-coded schedule with cycle forecasts, academic dates, vacations... I pored over it daily. Once I had my first post-failure LH surge (on day 21!) I was able to fill in estimates for 4 straight months. Whoops! I missed the March slot for the coculture biopsy; well, let's fit the HSG in instead!

I was happy to have a good reason why we weren't finishing the upstairs bathroom or buying still more shoes for Miss T. No, not when every extra dollar should go to improving the lifestyle of some of Cornell's best-paid employees!

But now it's time to really get going. I should surge today, then have my biopsy next week. I need to get the HSG images and report to Dr. D pronto. The cycle itself is on track for late May.

And I'm procrastinating. I'm not making the phone calls. I fear this cycle. I know, once more, that all of this can fail. That it probably will fail. Especially so, now that I've moved on to the world of obscure poor-responder protocols. I find myself backing away.

So, certainly part of the issue is that I've now had a totally crappy cycle at Cornell, and I'm going back to the scene of the crime. I fear pain. On a smaller scale, dealing with this clinic over the phone is always, always horrible, and that's what I get to do for the next several weeks.

But, I think what really tipped the balance of emotion was doing our taxes. We got them in on time! (A real improvement over last year, and, I think, the year before that.) And, this year there were no big institutional screw-ups to deal with. However, one of the consequences of last year's big payroll computer screwup ("Ohindinois? Where's that? Naaaah, I'm going to send your money to Iowassouri instead... I know where that is!") is that we effectively paid double local taxes in 2007, which pushed us into alternative minimum tax range, and... and we had to send a good chunk of the IVF nest egg to the IRS, all of a sudden.

I felt naked and exposed. This isn't all just a game. By choosing to cycle, I am also choosing to make my life worse in the short term (no upstairs toilet! no spiffly new sandals!), and the futures of some other people just a little more precarious (putting off college savings, underfunding the 401k).

I am very, very lucky, perhaps unspeakably lucky, that we are able to do this at all, and that the things we are sacrificing are not, e.g., food and shelter. I am going ahead this time. But the doubt is looming large.

Still sort of on track with both projects

So: I have promised myself one entry per book chapter read and corrected. I've actually fallen behind: I've made it through 3 chapters, and not posted at all until now. We'll see how it goes from here.

So spring break almost sucked rocks, but not quite entirely.

I got the flu the week before. Only canceled class on Wednesday (if god forbid it happens to you, just STAY HOME, damnit, especially during the early achy stage). I was feeling a bit better on Thursday so I went ahead and got my HSG (at this point any slips in schedule would derail cycle number 5 badly, so driving 40 miles each way with a fever seemed pretty mild). (Oh -- and why is this test part of the current plan? Dr. Data just wanted to check that nothing's odd in my uterus, like fibroids too small to see on ultrasound, or a lurking polyp. No one gives a damn about my tubes).

Both tubes were clear, which made it a much less horrible experience than my first HSG, back in (eeek) late 2002. I went up to our old local clinic. Dr. Brash is long gone, and the doctor who pumped in the contrast dye -- and who maybe did our second transfer there? but who can remember -- didn't take it personally that I'm going to Cornell now. "Say 'Hi' to Dr. Data for me!"

Then Beaker and Miss T. caught the flu too, over the weekend that started break. We'd hoped Beaker wouldn't -- he's missed several colds that came home with me or Miss T. this year -- but no. The flu is bad news for Beaker. Every year he's pre-armed with antivirals, which he took, but he still took to his bed for three days. There's still the lingering lung inflammation, which is very bad. His exercise tolerance is the worst I've ever seen.

We'd been planning to go visit Beaker's parents for the whole week, both getting half-days or so of work done while grandparents and grandchild communed. We hemmed and hawed and coughed through Thursday, when we finally, crazily, set off on the 7-hour drive. Everyone seemed better enough. I took big chunks of Thursday and Friday for grading -- I'd fallen horribly behind the week I was sick, and when I'd been hoping to get caught up -- and then the first half of break had been taking care of sleepy grumpy toddler and achy wheezy dada. Beaker played with a tractor, and Miss T. planted potatoes with her grandpa. There was sunlight and company and laughter. And then Sunday we drove home.

After the 4-day break, my e-mail contained no horrible surprises. (Plenty of continuations of existing stressful situations, but no new ones). And I find myself strangely optimistic, once again, about the book project; that I squeaked out any progress at all during break (feverish toddlers nap more than healthy ones) comforts me.

Life in the next few months will be a marathon leading up to the next vacation -- which will be a week at a cold but pleasant midwestern beach with family and friends at the end of June. Finish out the semester, then do the IVF cycle in late May, then spend a week with the co-authors in mid-June, then, finally, eat strawberries (I hope they'll be in season) and watch cormorants dive with my nearest and dearest.

The short version

Negative HPTs on both Sunday and Monday mornings (11 and 12dp3dt).

Superlocal lab stabbed my elbow at 7:45 a.m. Monday, but CORNELL NEVER FUCKING CALLED ME.

It's almost certainly the fault of superlocal lab, I bet they looked at those HARD progesterone and estradiol tests and said gee, it'll take us a WEEK to get those done, she doesn't really need that hCG stat, does she? but STILL. DAMN. CRMI should have at least called to tell me they didn't have results yet, and ask if I'd gotten tested.

I could call and bully my way through to the RE on call, but I'm too tired. Instead I'm just gonna leave a whiny voicemail on the nurse line tomorrow morning. And take one last PIO shot, just for kicks.

SEND HELP

KIDNAPPED BY PROGESTERONE BURP

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME BURP

PIO CONVINCED GUT BURP

GUT CONVINCED BRAIN BURP

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Yes, the crazy is here. I know it's the drugs. The hormones want me to believe. I hate it. And love it -- why not spend a few days giving in to the delusion? C'mon! It'll be fun! -- and hate it.

(The academic timing is identical to my first cycle, by the way. Five years ago that was. After that one I think I resolved to never again get a BFN after the start of a semester. Ha. Ha. So the second cycle's BFN hit a week before classes started. That wasn't any better than a week after.)

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Am going to test myself on Sunday. They only told me Monday because Cornell doesn't do betas on weekends. Saturday will be 11dp3dt, which should be late enough to be convincing. I don't want to get the news cold over the phone at work.

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Before I test:

-- finish unpacking bags from New York trip.

-- pay largest portions of largest bills for cycle.

Today:

-- order more PIO

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BURP

6dp3dt

I am starting in on my one-week-post-transfer migraine (which has occurred in all my cycles, regardless of progesterone dose, regardless of outcome) and I am going mad.

THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO. I can fanatically try to plan out how the next cycle will go (not too early to worry at all, since scheduling will be a bitch; to do late May it may be necessary to have the co-culture biopsy during my first natural cycle following). I can think about how much easier it will be to not be pregnant while teaching. I can talk with friends who are done, quite done, with the whole IVF thing, and who remember their cycles just as those horrible times that ended in tears.

But nothing will make me stop wondering, stop overinterpreting every twinge and burp.

I have -- mostly -- stopped talking in my head to the embryos. (I don't think I did at all, last time. Four was too much of a crowd.) I no longer believe that they're really there.

My most salient remaining symptom -- still stronger than the headache, but probably not for long -- is the achiness on either side of the butt where the giant needle goes in every night.

What brings on the most crazy: going to the boards. I can't stop, though (for one thing, I had to look up the Cornell shutdown dates this spring and summer). Look! There are two 37-year-olds who put back 4, with high cell counts, and who failed! Twice each! At Cornell! There's someone who changed protocols and her response got even worse! There's someone in tears because only 5! 5 of her eggs fertilized! There's a 41-year-old with lots more follicles than me! There's someone whose last cycle was cancelled, who has lots more follicles than me!

Tomorrow is the first luteal bloodwork. That's where they don't tell you anything, and just keep the data for, ahem, "future cycles." Last time the local lab was too slow with results, so Cornell called me up and told me to double my PIO dose. Let's just say that I'm going to try a different local lab this time.

P.S. Miss T. developed a splendid cold over the weekend; high fever, raspy cough, three days of severe grogginess. She's on the mend now, and should be able to go back to Box-O-Tots tomorrow. I haven't caught it yet -- but of course any feelings of disorientation could be ascribed to early stages of that.

On a scale from 1 to 10...

... of the possibilities actually available, after just those two eggs fertilized:

We're at an 8, I'd say. Both kept going. One 8-cell, one 6-cell. The 8-cell looked a little messy to me, but Dr. C. was honestly optimistic about both of them.

Beta on February 11.