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The Funny Thing About Infertility :: Part 2

Part 2 – Relationship Status with my Endocrinologist = It’s complicated

As a recap: My husband and I are now the adoring parents of two young children: my 5 month old son and his older, cooler, and luckier (according to her) 3 year old sister. My husband and I consider ourselves extremely fortunate for everything we were able to create and would like to give a shout out to the magic of science (and sex).

After attempting to get pregnant for 6 month with no success and no sign of a menstrual cycle to help guide me in the right direction, I was referred by my OBGYN to a Reproductive Endocrinologist – a specialist who pinpoints the part(s) of my female goods that are broken.

Visit 1:

Lets redo everything that has already been done over the last 6 months – review medical history and answer silly questions, such as “do you think you may be pregnant?” Now go ahead and pee in this cup for good measure. Meet Vita, the new nurse. She’s never taken blood from a live human before, so we’d like for her to get some practice on you. Cry for the next hour while she misses your veins and giggles “oops” over and over again until she somehow manages to squeeze out a gallon of your blood via 30 needles.

The next 6 months:

A blur of vagina chit-chat, pissing in cups, stepping on scales (because why not?), inserting and retracting things from my body – needles, vaginal ultrasound wands, fingers, etc. The good news was no more balloon parties in my pants – if you missed it, read part 1. In summary, the amount of time I was spending at the fertility clinic was enough to make my husband wonder if I was having an affair with nurse Vita…

The answer is no. Here’s what was really going down:
I was prescribed aunt flow encouragement pills (aka Provera – a progesterone inducer) and then  had to wait two weeks for her big arrival. She never showed up but if she had, on day 3 of her stay, I would have gone in for monitoring and hormone level checks.
Starting on day 11 of forced cycle, I would go in for vaginal ultrasounds to search for a viable follicle(s). Following doctor’s orders, I actually went through with this despite the fact that my body forgot to bleed. Then these insanely smart physicians decided that whole period portion of the equation wasn’t as important as they once thought. Now for the fun part. Inserting the huge, frigid, phallic wand inside me, they dug around, looking for a dominant follicle(s). Note: When a follicle gets to be 18+ mm it’s just about ripe for the picking. As luck would have it “Hunter” (this was the actual given name of the vaginal ultrasound device) detected a 19-er. No one knows how it got there or when it appeared, but life’s too short to ponder unicorns…

The Trigger Shot:

Grasping at small wins, I inquired, “Time to pull out the sexy lingerie?” “Nope, not quite yet,” retorted bemused doctor. “I would now like for you to inject yourself in the belly button with yet another needle containing a drug called Ovidrel (The Trigger Shot).”
Let me explain, this Trigger Shot is the mother of all drugs, as it can sometimes cost upwards of $300 depending on insurance. It needs to live in a cold climate (refrigerator) and be given ample TLC. I was told that the success of the drug is highly dependent on timing and environment. The suggestion was to “shoot up” as soon as possible, yet in a perfectly serene setting where optimal privacy and relaxation could be maximized. In my case this meant driver’s seat of my car in the Walgreens parking lot during my lunch break. Semantics…

Next step:

Grab husband and mimic bunnies in their natural state.

The result:

Following a nervous puke in the trash pail, I peed on yet another stick. But this time was different, and I knew it. I finally saw a real set of lines appear – a pregnancy test that came up positive (on Father’s day) which lead to the delivery of our healthy baby girl (on Valentine’s Day).

Try and top those gifts, Hubs…

 

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