Dec
29

Dr. Doctor/Is this love I’m feeling?

Until Wednesday, I thought the phrase “my heart is in my throat” was metaphorical. But I spent the hours leading up to my consult with my heart pulsing wetly behind my tonsils, making it difficult to draw the deep, cleansing breath I was sure would finally make my hands stop shaking.
At the clinic, I sat in the waiting room updating my yearly paperwork and shuffling through my bulleted straight-to-IVF argument, a sheaf of clinical studies and success rate information, and a list of questions for Dr. Doctor. I read People magazine’s musings on whether Paris Hilton was a good or bad influence (bad), and looked suspiciously at a picture of Suri Cruise (I’m sorry, that baby does not look real to me. I am fairly sure she is made of high-quality polymer and a toupee). Eventually I was called back by a nurse who asked me to take off my boots and step on a scale.
This is when I noticed that I was wearing one black argyle sock and one blue striped footie-sock.
I hopped onto the scale and the nurse slowly moved the little weight allll the way over, giving me a puzzled look. I tried not to hiss at her. Yes, I weigh more than you’d think looking at me—-I’m very dense, bitch, get over it. Then she reset the top weight and moved the appropriately chunky lower weight over with a thud. When she started to slide the little weight again I may have hyperventilated a bit, but Josie has since assured me that our clinic’s scale is always over by six pounds.
Next I sat in an exam room for a while, whispering statistics to myself and trying to find a way to position my feet that made my mismatched socks less obvious.
And then there she was, Dr. Doctor, my sweet endocrinological love muffin.
Unfortunately, the first thing she noticed was my feet.
“Are you at least wearing clean underwear?” she asked, laughing, “Hopefully if you’re in a car accident they’ll focus on that.”

She asked some questions about my recent cycles, sighing sadly and making notes on my chart. Then she said “So, are we starting a Letrozole IUI?”
“Well…actually…” I crossed my legs, noticed my sock, uncrossed them, and tittered nervously.
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous about this! Hahaha! Ahem. Erm. *Cough* Anyway, the Actually and I had a long talk, and he is wondering…I mean we both are wondering, I mean we were thinking of seeing whether we could perhaps move straight to IVF. If you allow that sort of thing. Or, you know. If it’s done. By others.”

Well said, Alexa. I clutched my pages of cogent arguments and cursed myself. This is about the time I was expecting Dr. Doctor to guffaw condescendingly, or worse, pick up a glass jar of cotton balls and throw it against the wall, where it would shatter, raining shards of glass upon me while she yelled expletives and asked if I was crazy, and what kind of operation did I think she was running here, anyway?
Instead, she nodded.
I squinted at her warily and continued.
“I have insurance that covers infertility, but I’ll only have it for 18 months and there’s a $5000 lifetime maximum that includes IVF. If we do Letrozole IUIs we won’t be able to afford further treatments if they fail.”
“I completely understand,” said Dr. Doctor, continuing to nod emphatically.
This was not in the script, I thought, clutching my papers, Who told her to ad lib?
“Also,” I said defensively, “IUIs don’t have a very high success rate.”
More nodding: “Probably at best a fifteen percent success rate, while IVF would be close to 60%, given your age.”
“Er…yes. And you said yourself that injectable IUIs aren’t indicated for me due to the high risk of multiples or cancellation–”
“They would get very expensive. We would have to stim you slowly for a long time, and you still might end up cancelled after spending a lot of money.”
By now I was completely discombobulated. I had prepared arguments and counter arguments! I CAN’T MAKE COUNTER ARGUMENTS WITHOUT SOMETHING TO COUNTER!
Dr. Doctor had launched into a comparison of the clinical findings regarding egg quality and PCOS. I shuffled through my notes, and then, as she began discussing my future protocol, I gave up and joined in.

So. IVF it is.

In my bewilderment, I forgot to ask nearly half of my questions. Hearing Dr. Doctor say that moving directly to IVF was perhaps the smartest thing we could do given our circumstances was a little shocking, because part of me feels like perhaps I am merely being overdramatic, and one of these mornings I will wake up pregnant and find I wasn’t infertile after all. Never mind the fact that I do not ovulate-—in fact, this seems to be the sticking point. I have only had two cycles in the past two years where there was actual sperm and egg. Of course, at my current rate, it would be ten years more before I amassed the year of unsuccessful ovulatory cycles after which I would presumably feel I was “officially” infertile, so I’ll just have to get over it. Dr. Doctor wants me back on the pill as soon as my day three tests are re-done, and I imagine it will seem more final then, when I know there will be no more “maybe I’ll ovulate this month” before I start plunging needles into my flesh.

The next step is a slew of pre-screening appointments and orientations, all of which are scheduled before the end of January. I am especially looking forward to seeing whether I can get the Actually to faint during injection teaching.

Oh, and for all who asked: “House suit” is just a fancy name for a sweat suit. A comfortable pair of pants, made from fleece, velour, or other soft material, often with a jacket or wee hooded sweater. I don’t like the term “sweat suit,” as I do no sweating in mine, preferring instead to loll around the house eating sausage. Generally I only wear the housepants (with a t-shirt), rather than the full ensemble, unless the Actually is on one of his cost-saving heat-miser kicks. Surely you all wear housepants at home? Or do you actually remain in your jeans/skirt/stylish trousers when you return from work? I generally have my bra off and pants unbuckled before I have crossed the living room, but then I am funny like that.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |