Here are the results from the June 7th retrieval:
20 eggs were retrieved
15 were mature
13 fertilized
By Tuesday, June 12 - the morning of my transfer - the number should go down a little, but there'll probably still be at least 8 or so, which is considered very good.
Who needs more than 8 children anyhow?
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Buyer's Remorse: Egg Edition
I met my donor for lunch yesterday. The following are excerpts from our conversation.
My Donor: "I'm really good at a lot of things. Like flower arranging. I'm great at succulents. Look at these pictures.
Me: "They're beautiful."
My Head: "I hope she doesn't google search my house and see how bad my yard looks."
My Donor: "I'm also great at make-up. I want to do make-up for the movies. Like for Johnny Depp."
Me: "It's wonderful that you know what you want to do."
My Head: "But your eyebrows are drawn about an inch too thick, and they're kind of scaring me."
My Donor: "And I'm a great writer."
Me: "..."
My Head: "Your emails and texts suggest otherwise."
My Donor: "So, what else should I tell you? Oh, yeah! I have a son! He's 10."
Me: "That's right. I remember that from your profile."
My Donor: "He lives with my mom. I was too young and crazy when he was born."
Me: "Do you have a picture?"
My Donor: "Yes, you should see him. He looks exactly like me."
Me: "How cute. He seems very happy."
My Head: "Oh, god, he's fat. My kids are going to be fat."
My Donor: "I was a really funny-looking kid. I had a big head. And then I grew up, and I got skinny and pretty."
Me: "..."
My Head: "You're not that skinny. Or that pretty."
My Donor: "I'm really glad you're pretty. I was hoping the recipient was going to be pretty. I don't know why. I just was."
Me: "..."
My Head: "How I look doesn't matter at all because my genes die with me. Yours, on the other hand, will live on in this arrangement. Lucky me."
My Donor: "From my last cycle, the lady's having twins. I love the idea that there are all these kids from me all over the country because I know I'm a really great person."
Me: "..."
My Head: "Holy shit. I'm breeding a narcissist."
My Donor: "I might get a glass of wine when our food comes. I know they said not to, but I don't think it matters. I drank wine throughout my whole cycle last time, and they still got, like, 26 eggs."
Me: "..."
My Head: "What?
"Also, WHAT?
"Also, they may have retrieved 25 eggs (not 26), but only 18 fertilized, and only 5 made it to transfer. That's the number that really matters. Five.
"Also, who knows how alcohol affects the eggs with all this medication?
"Also, how much have you had to drink during this cycle?
"Also, if you're drinking, what else are you doing that you aren't supposed to?
"Also, do you know this is costing me $40,000 that I don't really have?
"Also, WHAT THE FUCK?!"
~~~
On the bright side, I finally have a distraction from the panic that embryos won't implant because my uterine lining is only 6.3 mm thick when it should be over 7. I'm not even sure if I want them to implant.
I should have chosen another donor.
I should have tried IVF sooner rather than wasting all that time with inseminations.
I should have tried to get pregnant when I was younger.
I should have planned my life better.
Why did I do this donor egg thing again? Maybe being childless wouldn't have been that bad. Better than having overweight, not-too-bright, narcissistic children. Better than raising kids that aren't my own.
And all the while, egg retrieval day is tomorrow.
Ugh.
My Donor: "I'm really good at a lot of things. Like flower arranging. I'm great at succulents. Look at these pictures.
Me: "They're beautiful."
My Head: "I hope she doesn't google search my house and see how bad my yard looks."
My Donor: "I'm also great at make-up. I want to do make-up for the movies. Like for Johnny Depp."
Me: "It's wonderful that you know what you want to do."
My Head: "But your eyebrows are drawn about an inch too thick, and they're kind of scaring me."
My Donor: "And I'm a great writer."
Me: "..."
My Head: "Your emails and texts suggest otherwise."
My Donor: "So, what else should I tell you? Oh, yeah! I have a son! He's 10."
Me: "That's right. I remember that from your profile."
My Donor: "He lives with my mom. I was too young and crazy when he was born."
Me: "Do you have a picture?"
My Donor: "Yes, you should see him. He looks exactly like me."
Me: "How cute. He seems very happy."
My Head: "Oh, god, he's fat. My kids are going to be fat."
My Donor: "I was a really funny-looking kid. I had a big head. And then I grew up, and I got skinny and pretty."
Me: "..."
My Head: "You're not that skinny. Or that pretty."
My Donor: "I'm really glad you're pretty. I was hoping the recipient was going to be pretty. I don't know why. I just was."
Me: "..."
My Head: "How I look doesn't matter at all because my genes die with me. Yours, on the other hand, will live on in this arrangement. Lucky me."
My Donor: "From my last cycle, the lady's having twins. I love the idea that there are all these kids from me all over the country because I know I'm a really great person."
Me: "..."
My Head: "Holy shit. I'm breeding a narcissist."
My Donor: "I might get a glass of wine when our food comes. I know they said not to, but I don't think it matters. I drank wine throughout my whole cycle last time, and they still got, like, 26 eggs."
Me: "..."
My Head: "What?
"Also, WHAT?
"Also, they may have retrieved 25 eggs (not 26), but only 18 fertilized, and only 5 made it to transfer. That's the number that really matters. Five.
"Also, who knows how alcohol affects the eggs with all this medication?
"Also, how much have you had to drink during this cycle?
"Also, if you're drinking, what else are you doing that you aren't supposed to?
"Also, do you know this is costing me $40,000 that I don't really have?
"Also, WHAT THE FUCK?!"
~~~
On the bright side, I finally have a distraction from the panic that embryos won't implant because my uterine lining is only 6.3 mm thick when it should be over 7. I'm not even sure if I want them to implant.
I should have chosen another donor.
I should have tried IVF sooner rather than wasting all that time with inseminations.
I should have tried to get pregnant when I was younger.
I should have planned my life better.
Why did I do this donor egg thing again? Maybe being childless wouldn't have been that bad. Better than having overweight, not-too-bright, narcissistic children. Better than raising kids that aren't my own.
And all the while, egg retrieval day is tomorrow.
Ugh.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Positive Thinking
To be honest, I'm loaded with
My donor's egg retrieval is tentatively scheduled for June 7, which - in IVF terms - is considered Day 14 of a pregnancy. By those same calculations, 13 days before retrieval is Day 1 of a pregnancy, which - incidentally - is today.
Yes, I know it's a twisted logic, and not at all based in reality, but by a certain fantasy yardstick, today I'm one day pregnant.
I guess what I'm saying is that I'm
Monday, May 14, 2012
Plagiarizing Frankenstein
I could have written Frankenstein.
If we're talking about the story of someone who is overwhelmed by grief, who can't accept life's fate, who wants so desperately to defy the limitations of our bodies that the only escape is to create a human composite made of other people's body parts, then yes, I could have written Frankenstein.
Like the eponymous Victor Frankenstein, I'm doing everything I can to bring an unnaturally conceived person into this world: a brand new life spliced together from other people's body parts by combining painstakingly selected pieces in order to create my very own monster.
Two centuries ago, this was a horror story. Some argue it was the original tale of science fiction. Today it's science fact.
There are those who don't like science facts, however, and many of them strongly oppose egg donor in vitro. They see the procedure as a severe encroachment on the laws of nature and an ungodly experimentation on human life.
They're not entirely wrong.
I'm aware that donor egg IVF is some freaky shit. I recently got pretty skeeved out myself after reading an article about how donor egg babies are more strongly linked to pre-eclampsia - a condition that was essentially described as the uterus rejecting a foreign body that it doesn't recognize as its own.
I read "foreign body" as "Frankensteinian monster."
All of which brings to mind the last time I read Frankenstein during a college course on The Gothic Imagination where the professor drove home an essential question:
In the book, the monster is actually a loving, emotional, and vulnerable being, whereas Victor himself is an arrogant man who ignores the grotesqueness of his scientific interventions because he's too much of a self-absorbed coward to accept the limitations of the human body's vulnerabilities. If this is the case, then who is the real monster? The creature or Victor?
Or, since we're plagiarizing: my baby or me?
But before we demonize me or Vic too quickly, it bears keeping in mind that most medical procedures were once thought creepy and weird. The first organ transplants were over 100 years ago, and I don't imagine those went over too well. Isn't it possible that donor egg in vitro won't always be met with the same cocked heads and scrunched faces that I get today?
Either way, I'm doing it. My donor's egg retrieval is in 3½ weeks, and my embryo transfer is in four. In 5½ weeks, I'll have my first pregnancy test, and at that point we'll know if there's a little monster in the works.
Copyright laws be damned.
If we're talking about the story of someone who is overwhelmed by grief, who can't accept life's fate, who wants so desperately to defy the limitations of our bodies that the only escape is to create a human composite made of other people's body parts, then yes, I could have written Frankenstein.
Like the eponymous Victor Frankenstein, I'm doing everything I can to bring an unnaturally conceived person into this world: a brand new life spliced together from other people's body parts by combining painstakingly selected pieces in order to create my very own monster.
Two centuries ago, this was a horror story. Some argue it was the original tale of science fiction. Today it's science fact.
There are those who don't like science facts, however, and many of them strongly oppose egg donor in vitro. They see the procedure as a severe encroachment on the laws of nature and an ungodly experimentation on human life.
They're not entirely wrong.
I'm aware that donor egg IVF is some freaky shit. I recently got pretty skeeved out myself after reading an article about how donor egg babies are more strongly linked to pre-eclampsia - a condition that was essentially described as the uterus rejecting a foreign body that it doesn't recognize as its own.
I read "foreign body" as "Frankensteinian monster."
All of which brings to mind the last time I read Frankenstein during a college course on The Gothic Imagination where the professor drove home an essential question:
In the book, the monster is actually a loving, emotional, and vulnerable being, whereas Victor himself is an arrogant man who ignores the grotesqueness of his scientific interventions because he's too much of a self-absorbed coward to accept the limitations of the human body's vulnerabilities. If this is the case, then who is the real monster? The creature or Victor?
Or, since we're plagiarizing: my baby or me?
But before we demonize me or Vic too quickly, it bears keeping in mind that most medical procedures were once thought creepy and weird. The first organ transplants were over 100 years ago, and I don't imagine those went over too well. Isn't it possible that donor egg in vitro won't always be met with the same cocked heads and scrunched faces that I get today?
Either way, I'm doing it. My donor's egg retrieval is in 3½ weeks, and my embryo transfer is in four. In 5½ weeks, I'll have my first pregnancy test, and at that point we'll know if there's a little monster in the works.
Copyright laws be damned.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
How to be Happily Childfree in 10,000 Easy Steps
Accepting a child-free life is something I've never tried, but I'm pretty sure that's more a consequence of weakness of character rather than determination to battle against fate.
It's possible that I may still have to learn these 10,000 steps to being happily childfree, so I'm comforted to know that when the time comes, I'll have inspiration.
Thank you, LifeWithoutBaby.
It's possible that I may still have to learn these 10,000 steps to being happily childfree, so I'm comforted to know that when the time comes, I'll have inspiration.
Thank you, LifeWithoutBaby.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe
Watching shitty romantic comedies is my most guilty pleasure.
Actually, that's not true. Watching shitty romantic comedies is a guilty pleasure, but my most guilty pleasure is watching shitty romantic comedies over and over and over again.
Anything with Reese Whitherspoon, Meg Ryan, or Julia Roberts are obvious must-see-four-dozen-timeses, but I'll even watch Kate Hudson or Drew Barrymore vehicles at least 8 or 10 times over. Hell, I've seen Jennifer Aniston's Along Came Polly twice, and that movie is terrible.
It's a disgusting vice, I'll admit, but I do have a small shred of dignity that enables me to draw a line somewhere and keeps me from seeing one particular chick-flick a second time. I'm sure you've heard of it: it's the one where Sandra Bullock is a brilliant but uncouth attorney who works for High Grant's amoral yet lovable billionaire, and because he drives her crazy, she gives him her notice of resignation after which they fall madly in love and live happily ever after. (If I've spoiled the ending for you, I'm sorry. Also you're an idiot.)
I'm hoping you know the movie title so that I don't have to write it because I refuse to write it because it contains a grammatical pet peeve of mine that frustrates me more than almost any other: the absence of an apostrophe.
I will, however, write the title of the movie as it should have been, which is Two Weeks' Apostrophe Notice. The apostrophe is silent.
Similar to Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe Notice, if there were a documentary film about my day yesterday, the title of that movie would be: Two Weeks' Apostrophe Delay. The apostrophe is, again, silent.
Yup, my donor has to delay the cycle for two weeks because she can't get off from work until June. I'm less than thrilled, as you might imagine, but I'm actually quite fine. I'm not crushed or mad at her. I'm not even remotely bothered by it. It really is totally fine.
I let my fellow PVEDers know about the postponement, and they appropriately booed and hissed and grumbled at the news. They really are a sweet and supportive bunch, and I'm super grateful to have them on my side.
But this isn't a tragedy. It's just two weeks' delay. Things could be far worse. I mean, someone else could have blogged about it, and there'd be apostrophes missing all over the place. How infuriating would that be?
Actually, that's not true. Watching shitty romantic comedies is a guilty pleasure, but my most guilty pleasure is watching shitty romantic comedies over and over and over again.
Anything with Reese Whitherspoon, Meg Ryan, or Julia Roberts are obvious must-see-four-dozen-timeses, but I'll even watch Kate Hudson or Drew Barrymore vehicles at least 8 or 10 times over. Hell, I've seen Jennifer Aniston's Along Came Polly twice, and that movie is terrible.
It's a disgusting vice, I'll admit, but I do have a small shred of dignity that enables me to draw a line somewhere and keeps me from seeing one particular chick-flick a second time. I'm sure you've heard of it: it's the one where Sandra Bullock is a brilliant but uncouth attorney who works for High Grant's amoral yet lovable billionaire, and because he drives her crazy, she gives him her notice of resignation after which they fall madly in love and live happily ever after. (If I've spoiled the ending for you, I'm sorry. Also you're an idiot.)
I'm hoping you know the movie title so that I don't have to write it because I refuse to write it because it contains a grammatical pet peeve of mine that frustrates me more than almost any other: the absence of an apostrophe.
I will, however, write the title of the movie as it should have been, which is Two Weeks' Apostrophe Notice. The apostrophe is silent.
Similar to Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe Notice, if there were a documentary film about my day yesterday, the title of that movie would be: Two Weeks' Apostrophe Delay. The apostrophe is, again, silent.
Yup, my donor has to delay the cycle for two weeks because she can't get off from work until June. I'm less than thrilled, as you might imagine, but I'm actually quite fine. I'm not crushed or mad at her. I'm not even remotely bothered by it. It really is totally fine.
I let my fellow PVEDers know about the postponement, and they appropriately booed and hissed and grumbled at the news. They really are a sweet and supportive bunch, and I'm super grateful to have them on my side.
But this isn't a tragedy. It's just two weeks' delay. Things could be far worse. I mean, someone else could have blogged about it, and there'd be apostrophes missing all over the place. How infuriating would that be?
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Junkie
The word "junkie" can be applied to a number of things. It can refer to someone who suffers from an addiction, like heroin or needing to have a baby. It can indicate that someone really likes something, like wine or the idea of having a baby. And it can be used to describe someone who uses needles to shoot up drugs, like meth or things that help you have a baby.
Which, since we're on the subject, brings me to this:
My cycle officially begins in 6 days, and this photo includes most everything that I'm going to need in the coming weeks. The only things not included above are my prenatal vitamins, baby aspirin (to increase blood flow), and the birth control pills that I've been taking since February to get my cycle in sync with my donor's.
I also didn't include all the needles I'm going to be using. I have boxes and boxes and boxes of needles. And that's because I'm a junkie.
This addiction metaphor is being thrown out in a blasé manner, but I'm actually kind of serious. Heroin junkies and I have quite a bit in common, and I'm not just talking about the secrets of getting air out of a syringe without losing product, or that we both know the value of breaking off needles into our sharps containers so that they don't get too full too fast.
I'm talking about actual addiction.
I have close friends and family in various Anonymous programs, and I've worked in the field for long enough, so I understand that addiction is as serious as it is complicated. There's the physiological need and the psychological want. There's the social influence of a "normalcy" that isn't normal, and there are the emotional traumas that make us feel inadequate and empty. There's a way that all these components interconnect to make us turn to a particular behavior no matter how much it drains our resources and taxes our relationships because there's a yearning that creates a romantic hologram of such perfection that there's always some justification for "just once more, and that'll be it. I'm quitting. I swear."
I've been around addicts enough to know that these things apply to them, and I've been infertile for long enough to know that these things also apply to me.
So when I say that I'm a junkie, it's as much a joke as it isn't.
That being said, there is one key difference between drug addicts and me: my doctors are encouraging me to keep using. All of them. My therapist, my nurse practitioner, and my fertility specialists (or course) are all telling me that I should keep going along this path for as long as I want.
And so, inspired by their influence, I have to renounce the Serenity Prayer as being completely inapplicable to me. You know, the whole
Because, in my case, I am not seeking the serenity to accept my infertility, and I'm not seeking the wisdom to know that it can't be changed.
I'm just seeking drugs.
But this egg donation is my last attempt at having a baby, and after this cycle, that'll be it. I'm quitting. I swear.
Which, since we're on the subject, brings me to this:
My cycle officially begins in 6 days, and this photo includes most everything that I'm going to need in the coming weeks. The only things not included above are my prenatal vitamins, baby aspirin (to increase blood flow), and the birth control pills that I've been taking since February to get my cycle in sync with my donor's.
I also didn't include all the needles I'm going to be using. I have boxes and boxes and boxes of needles. And that's because I'm a junkie.
This addiction metaphor is being thrown out in a blasé manner, but I'm actually kind of serious. Heroin junkies and I have quite a bit in common, and I'm not just talking about the secrets of getting air out of a syringe without losing product, or that we both know the value of breaking off needles into our sharps containers so that they don't get too full too fast.
I'm talking about actual addiction.
I have close friends and family in various Anonymous programs, and I've worked in the field for long enough, so I understand that addiction is as serious as it is complicated. There's the physiological need and the psychological want. There's the social influence of a "normalcy" that isn't normal, and there are the emotional traumas that make us feel inadequate and empty. There's a way that all these components interconnect to make us turn to a particular behavior no matter how much it drains our resources and taxes our relationships because there's a yearning that creates a romantic hologram of such perfection that there's always some justification for "just once more, and that'll be it. I'm quitting. I swear."
I've been around addicts enough to know that these things apply to them, and I've been infertile for long enough to know that these things also apply to me.
So when I say that I'm a junkie, it's as much a joke as it isn't.
That being said, there is one key difference between drug addicts and me: my doctors are encouraging me to keep using. All of them. My therapist, my nurse practitioner, and my fertility specialists (or course) are all telling me that I should keep going along this path for as long as I want.
And so, inspired by their influence, I have to renounce the Serenity Prayer as being completely inapplicable to me. You know, the whole
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Because, in my case, I am not seeking the serenity to accept my infertility, and I'm not seeking the wisdom to know that it can't be changed.
I'm just seeking drugs.
But this egg donation is my last attempt at having a baby, and after this cycle, that'll be it. I'm quitting. I swear.
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