Sunday, May 24, 2009

Let The Stress Begin

Okay, so I jumped the gun with the last post. And the Facebook and the phonecalls. Now I am starting to regret it. What if something goes wrong? What if I have to break the news to a whole slew of people who have congratulated me. Am I completely out of my mind?

The reason for the excess of happiness and early telling of just about everyone was the phone call with the beta numbers. The beta numbers are the level of pregnancy hormone (hCG) in the blood which is tested a number of times here when you have had miscarriages and the like before. These numbers are everything. 

First off, Doc B said my number was 11. Not too great. Especially since I had had the expensive shot of hCG in the butt two weeks' earlier and residual could have been in the system. So, two days' later I am back having blood taken to see if there has been a rise. Double is good. So we were hoping for a nice 22.

I wait all day Thursday, staring at the phone with laser beam eyes. I don't dare call the doc's office (I feel desperation leads to bad news) so I would much rather put my body through a whole slew of stress and pain that will ultimately end in a 50-50 chance of bad news. Makes sense.

So, finally I can't wait any longer. I crack and call up. The doctor's office is CLOSED. I start to freak out and call Dr. B on his cell phone (a good reason to have this doctor is his cell number). He hasn't been in the office all day. I put the phone down and burst into tears. I won't have the information on my level until tomorrow and by this point I am breaking down. God knows how women go through this for year after year. 

Anyway, in a desperate attempt to calm my frazzled nerves I drive to Blockbuster to pick up a couple of calming DVDs. I pick two that I know Z won't really be bothered about missing (of course he is working late) and I wander aimlessly staring at the boxes wondering "who the hell IS that person?" as I examine the covers.

As I am at the cashier, my phone rings. Dr B. "What medication are you on?" he asks. "Erm,  Lovenox, progesterone, prednisone, baby aspirin..."  I stutter thinking this is just a medical question for when we next meet. "Okay, stay on it. Your level is 49. You're pregnant" he says and with that, I screech at everyone in Blockbuster and burst into tears. Dr B had gone into the office for my results!!!! Gone back there for me!!! I was thrilled.

I immediately tell the lady behind the counter and fall out of the store crying uncontrollably.I cry past groups of people and just about make it into Starbucks for a calming hot chocolate. 
I try to call Z, phone off. I call my pregnancy-hell buddy Robyn and she is laughing her ass off as I cry.

I try and try and try Z. About 50 million times. I call all his work mates. I call work mates to call work mates. I eventually tell him via iChat when I get home.

So that's what happened. A good old case of getting carried away. And boy am I feeling it may have been too soon.

Next visit Tuesday at 12:15 p.m - I almost made the 12:30 appointment for old times' sake but I need to be in there early. Levels need to rise again - they must be in the 100s now. Keep EVERYTHING CROSSED.

Thursday, May 21, 2009


Okay, I'm not going to keep it up with the acronyms but suffice to say that oh my God it's a big fat positive!
As far as the rest goes, I know it is completely wrong to jinx things by telling everyone but I just don't care this time.
What will be will be. I don't even have a snarky comment to leave.
In fact, here's a poem.

My Idea of Family 

When I grow up I'll have 20 children
The last will be called Jesus
I told my mother,
When I was six
Even then I knew had ideas above my station
"Where will you keep them?"
She asked, perplexed, relaxed, amused, nonplussed
"Under the table in the dining room, of course"
"And who will care for them?"
She added.
"You, and dad"
"And who will the father be?"
She continued, perturbed, smirking
"Oh, there won't be one" I shot back. 
Blink and you'll miss it, they say.
When they say funny things, when they do stuff too incredible to deal with
Superhuman babies.
Even then I was smarter than I am now

Monday, May 18, 2009


For anyone who understands fertility parlance, 2WW is THE single most scary phrase of them all.
While you could be forgiven for thinking it means World War II, those three, seemingly harmless characters loom large over the head of any woman who is trying to get pregnant. And it is where I am right now.

The 2WW is in fact the acronym for the "two week wait", that horrific, stress-film yawning chasm of time between the excitement of finding an egg, to the getting on the horse to the finding out whether anything actually happened.

The 2WW is evil.

Every single woman I know who has had to wait those two long, long, looooooong weeks will tell you that they stretch interminably on and on. There is no end in sight. There is only the pregnancy test. The pregnancy test that tests 5 days early. And we all know where that leads.

So yes, I am currently nearing the end of my 2WW and I am just about losing my mind. I have tested but the faint line could be the hCG hormone that was injected into me at the docs who please, please, please keep your fingers crossed.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Back On The Proverbial Part III

As you know from my previous posts, Dr Z and I have named the making of the baby "getting back on the horse". Or maybe we don't actually say that, but I think it a lot. And I blog that a lot, so maybe I just created it and wish we had such a cutesy, jokey, things-we-do-together type of life with in-jokes. 

Anyhoo, not to put too fine a point on it, we are getting back on the horse, part III. It's official. The horse is back in the running and we are at the starter's gate, champing at the bit and trying NOT to put all our eggs in one basket. Or sperms in one egg. You understand.

The final part of this particular part of our baby-making journey ends this month, today, tonight to be completely honest. Ew, so now you know.

The day finally came today to see Dr. B and to get the green light to get going again. It feels like I waited months for this, even though it was actually only the other day - when I made the appointment. 

I went in (it wasn't 12.30pm but I got nervous as usual and arrived ridiculously early - something I realize now is to my advantage) and waited in the living room/entrance hall and immediately felt sleepy in someone else's warmth in the comfy chair he has in there.

I was just getting started on an article in Tricycle - the Buddhist's magazine that I love to read - and I was called in. The article I was reading was all about not telling anyone that things are going badly for you when you feel crummy. So, basically, you just had two miscarriages and lost your job. You are 8000 miles from your family and the friends you left behind without many friends and someone says: "Hey Freda, what's going on? How are you? Looking a bit down in the mouth there old girl." and you are supposed to say (in a monotone, with a smile) "I'm good, good, yes I'm just fine."   Because, apparently, no one wants to deal with your shit when they have their own stuff to contend with which is just as bad as yours. Never mind that poor old Freda is going to walk away and bang her head against a brick wall for lack of someone to have a good chinwag with.

I mean, REALLY! Whatever happened to the Isenberg method of just blah-ing it all out to whoever happens to be nearby? I say, get it off your chest, have a nice cup of tea and maybe three Cadbury's Flakes (especially if you are my friend Carolyn) and a good laugh at something else (or someone else - depends how bad it gets).

Anyway, not to drag this on like the endless cycles of Samsara, but I do love that magazine and it has some brilliant articles. Well worth the read if only for being totally gobsmacked.

So I am back on the chair that never fits my ass. But, before that I was weighed. I am not telling how much I weigh but Zach - the scales at home LIE - LIE I say! Once that is done I get off the clothes, get on the teeny chair and I'm ready for my close up. 

Dr B sweeps in, rolls the condom on the stick and off we go. "Ah ha!" He says, overjoyed, "Perfect, perfect- just what we wanted". My follicle/cyst thingy is gracing the screen and is a knockout. It is the Heidi Klum of follicles - flawless at a eye-catching 25mm and just ready to be the host to a lovely egg. We hope.

Excitement ensues on my part and I actually manage to make the whole trip without crying. No tears at all! A quick chit chat about dates, prescriptions and the like and I am dispensed to the dispensary to pick up the HCG shot to make sure the egg makes an appearance for sure between now and the next three days.

Only my prescription card isn't in my wallet (of many wallets that I carry). I am panicked but decide to apply the lessons I have just learned in Tricycle and only get mildly irrationaly angry at my blameless husband who is sitting in his office in Santa Monica. "Yes, I have looked in the wallets," I snarl. Though this is probably all my fault as I am the only person who ever gets prescriptions.

After a minor debacle I end up paying for the shot - $75 ch-ching! And it's back to the office. 
I go in and ask the nurse which arm. Silly me, it's in the butt. Of course, I have to make a joke about injecting $75 in my backside but it didn't hurt a bit (the injection - paying $75 for it was mildly painful). But, it was nothing like the tetanus injections I remember getting when I was a kid that just killed.

Next, Dr B is in to give me the 101 in injecting myself with Lovenox, the blood thinner that I may or may not need. Since my dad died of a blood clot and other family members have had issues it's a just-in-case. If I do need it, it could be for just the first trimester (if, indeed, there is a first trimester) or it could be for the whole 9 months (if, indeed, there are 9 months).

But ugh, ugh, ugh. Injecting myself was very weird.  I have to say though, once you are past the flabby bit of the stomach, the needle slides right in and it doesn't hurt much at all. Thank God, though I still wouldn't want to be a heroin addict. The needle goes beneath the belly button into the fat. It just occurred to me why I have all that blubber - my body knew I would need it one day.

So, we will see what we will see. And so will everyone that is reading this. But for now, like a good Dicken's novel, this one'll be a cliffhanger.