Coming up: Our swooning senorita survives a fifth blood test in frigid cold and a bonus ice pack, but how many more can she endure?? With a clap and click of the monkey paw's pumping castanetas, the wary underachiever hits hyperdrive. Will cycles cancel, blood run freely, and love be stemmed? Or will an army of teeny (W)rights wind their way into the woodwork? Will Adella survive daily trips through the badlands of I-405? And will the waiting needle's prick and wand of secrets waive through the iffy blooms and yield a crop of answers? Will triggers be pulled or discarded on the side of the traffic-jammed road??
Pack your alcohol swabs, fill up your gas tanks, and vroom through the uncertainty to find the almost-answers in wait beneath.
Insane in the MemVREIN and Saturday's Swooning Senorita
Per my new-November-normal, this morning was the time for another contribution of vital essence to the vampire's greedy goblet. That's right, it's been a few hours, so time to double check and see if there's any more lady-juice in my veins yet.
Per the pattern, I go in first thing in the morning, drop some blood and get a phone call near the end of the day telling me to increase my go-go-gonadotropins and go in again in five days. Sometimes I inquire about the actual result, but since it's meaningless and disheartening to hear the specifics sometimes I kind of don't. Back I go every five days rain or shine. I think I should get a punch card for the Peacehealth Labs at this point. Maybe every tenth draw gets me a free piece of fruit or lollipop? The end to this attempted cycle is nigh.
I think I probably only have one more to go before the whole self-stabbing cycle gets cancelled for the rest of 2014. The trigger for "nevermind, let's just shelve this until next year" is definitely near. And I know it. I may even be done ordering little vials for this year. Our HSA may remain in the pink long enough for us to contribute back into it. Maybe. Rest assured, if I get no response and have cancel, I will be bummed. I will be frustrated to have spent between 3-5 thousand dollars and nearly a month of varying degrees of discomfort and weird side effects on a big fat "maybe next time." But, admittedly, I'll also be a little relieved to switch back to the devil I know. The cheaper, less-prickly, blood-draw free demon patch and pill combo. I'm a spell fatigued.
Especially the blood-draw free part. At least judging by this morning's merriment, my body's kinda done with them. Not an ideal excursion, needless to say, though kind of a fascinating adventure. It began at six a.m. in the gelid and ebony witching hours and hours before dawn. Despite several assurances (mostly from personal experience) that the lab opens at 6:00 a.m., I discovered that the doors were all locked when I tried them at 6:05-6:20. A few other folks and I alternated checking various doors, shivering, and banging very loudly. But to little avail.
Eventually, some patrons who had come in with the nurse finally realized that the heaving rapping sound was not the wind in a frisky sub-arctic moment. A curious blood-letter eventually retrieved me. I, in turn, retrieved my fellow frostbitten blood-givers from various other doors. Settling into a chair, I spent a decent spell of waiting as the five hundred backlogged bloodletters waited for the undersupported phlebotomist to alternate between check in, unlocking doors, and vein-suckage. That was actually the pleasant part. It was warm. I had a phone. I was ... conscious.
I've been so proud of my blase and easy breezy blood-letting experiences of late, knowing of my past panics and blanches. But today was a bit of a reversion. My veins did not want to come out to play this morning. That didn't seem that problematic. The poking (of which there was plenty) didn't hurt all that much and I felt more or less content (so I thought) to stare at the green ombre of my little medical curtain, while the phlebotomist gently poked and apologized again and again.
But then medical grade cotton pullulated through my aural canal. The peripheries of my little curtain focus oozed into a haze and flicked out from focus. Voices began to slip and slide through their words. Suddenly somebody was asking me if should I lay down... and after some muddled protests, I found myself guided into a heads down position draped over my arms. Eventually an ice bag alit on my neck. An unspoken passage of time (apparently about twenty minutes by my watch) later and the world returned to focus. The senior phlebotomist who had come to tend me asked if I'd rather return later. She then did a perfectly painless and easy blood draw when I begged her to just get it over with (by " begged" I mostly mean, groggily roused and said that I actually was starting to feel a little better).
It took me a little while to regain full consciousness, though I felt better almost instantaneously, and the pear smothered in peanut butter that I devoured upon returning home was a revelation. Note to self, don't go into get your blood drawn when you've already not been feeling all there while also (1) freezing, (2) underfed, aside from a few nibbles of a lunch you made for your husband before heading out, (3) dehydrated, (4) on your fifth blood-draw in fifteen days.
It's been a while since I fainted in a phlebotomist's chair. Brings me back. I think the last time was in 2009 after my first visit to the UW Health Clinic. Always kind of befuddling and unexpected. But hey, estrogen is the lady hormone, right? And there's nothing more ladylike than swooning... Until my afternoon phone call tells me otherwise, I'm going to claim that this is a sure sign (more certain than any number) that my estradiol level actually is increasing. I mean any more and I'll start fanning myself and saying "gosh golly" between churlish giggles and lisping levities.
It's been a grand experiment, this relentless month and I do hope my body pulls it out in the eleventh hour. If not, I guess I know my orders for the holidays: do as everyone else BUT you does and get your padding back.
Not walking at my treadmill desk is a huge adjustment, although it's not horrible other than the increase in back discomfort. I do fidget enough that I don't really get too many other ill effects of "standing still" fortunately. Interestingly enough, my appetite was pretty sizable yesterday despite the decrease in activity. Even higher than most work days. Which could be because I'm not feeling well, but I like to speculate that it's possible the low-grade constant activity actually has a suppressive effect on my appetite. Will be interesting to see how that pans out over the coming weeks. I'm aiming for fifteen pounds by the next cycle. I think just cutting out walking and keep other exercising down to one yoga, one cardio and a few mild walks would allow that to happen given how much I do eat. We shall see. Hoping my curves are as kickin' as they used to be. I realize sometimes that the physical exertion gives me this odd sensation of "accomplishing" even when work is slow or when I'm not really doing much. Standing or sitting has a certain timeless element that makes time sludge into a mushy gazpacho compared to the crisply punctuated beeps and minute markers of the treadmill's timer and the rhythm of my own pace. But I'll adjust. The only other major downside of the treadmill being off is that I was more or less using it for billing, since it kept track of my time in a way that I could directly track for work-tasks. Will have to start setting a real timer or something.
Anyways, I get myself an hour walk (forty five minutes more likely) today and it is impending! Now that I can see straight, I see only the future and my lovely jaunt to the gelid harbor.
Swoonie Sweetie and the ARTful Level-Up
While yesterday's blood-bath fainting match was an ordeal, it brought me fantastic results further on during the day. Between a deeper-than-deep (but still not quite Nick the massage assassin) Swedish tryst and a mandatory ("no, young lady you cannot clean the kitchen, you SHALL HAVE THIS RELAXING EVENT) bath, I received a phone call from my doctor's office. The ritual. Oh yes. I was ready for it.
Do I have a moment for talk about my results?
(Sure, I think. And while I knew I had done everything to steel myself with an icy indifference and a cagey cynicism, I knew I'd be taking my bath and another few hours in the afternoon to recover from the disappointment).
Sure, I say, half dressed in a pink robe robe and slightly chilly without my slippers.
Great. She says. Well, your estrogen level is at 100.
Not 25. Not even 30. But a real, genuine, actually promising result.
You'll keep taking the same dose and come in for labs and an ultrasound in two days...
Three weeks ago I was relieved not to rush back to the ultrasound chamber. But nothing has sounded sweeter. The blood draw will peradventure require additional smelling salts, but my faithful husband shall be at this appointment to carry me back to the Pathfinder and throw me in the bed of the truck if necessary.
My body is responding! As if on cue my body has started slurping up water. Actually it started doing this on Friday, but it's more pointedly doing so now. I know I determined to gain weight by being less active, but I doubt I really took in 6,000 excess calories in the last two days! The cramps I thought were maybe a stomach thing might actually be an estrogen thing. My body may be in fact chugging along like a rusty jalopy after a long spell in the garage. Dust is flying everywhere, but this is good. I am capable of responding to these things.
Of course this is just maybe level three of a pretty high level game. But I'll take whatever bonus round coins and victory dances I can get.
For level three, I'm off to Kirkland first thing tomorrow morning. With husband in tow and or husband towing (lest I faint). This will be his first encounter with a physical location for SRM.
As practice, of course, we're off to Seattle today. Although one hopes that a Director's Choice Repertory at the Pacific Northwest Ballet is slightly more comfortable (possibly even slightly less expensive) than our dinner and an ultrasound (ok really breakfast, but this was less catchy) date on Monday. We're leaving quite early so that Andrew can exchange a busted wheel at the Seattle location from whence it came. With an interlude for lunch.
I'm looking forward to several kinds of non-exercise-related sittings and some proper face-stuffing. Doctor's orders after all.
Happy Sunday all! May your day be bright and bonny.
Follicular Follies and the Bloody Kirkland Caper Monday Road Trips Open Windows
And to resume a common theme hereabouts, it does not feel like Tuesday today. Having more or less started off my Monday with a many-splendored (or perhaps merely many-houred) excursion down south, I do not really feel that I fully experienced MONDAY in all its potent portent and ritual significance.
Having not commenced the week with a proper Monday, I do not believe that this week has, in fact, any viability. Especially since I'll once more take to the road tomorrow; since the Thanksgiving vacation is right around the corner anyways, I'm pretty sure we should just call it good until January. The holidays aren't really great times for work to get done in the least medically demanding of years.
But nonetheless, here I am, standing at my treadmill desk like a good little patient. My mom-boss and her boy-toy found me a fabulous chef's mat to ease the strain of standing for too long. We shall see, but it does at least make it easier for me to wear my slippers while working. I also brought a fairly tall stool from home (after replacing it with its mini-me version at home) to the office for sitting purposes if need be. It's close to a good height. If nothing else, it's something else to play on. And I treat my office space like a jungle gym.
But yes, yesterday. Another one of those special "three and a half hours of driving for a ten minute appointment" kind of experiences, but with bonus stop to see the illustrious Mr. (W)right's new desk on the second floor of EI(eeeeiiiiiiooooo). It's nice. Amid a klatsch of overgrown collegeish not-so-co-eds (if there were women present on that floor, they were pretty masculine). Kind of like an extension of some engineering graduate school study area. But with writing on the windows.
The good news came fairly freely at my appointment beforehand. My body is responding as it should. And that obstreperous vein that keeps coyly rolling away on first palp of needle prick was easily pinned by the nurse in attendance for a fairly painless and swoon-free experience.
I have a follow up on Wednesday morning. It is quite possible - knock on wood - that we (W)rights have stumbled into our "window" for this particular cycle. I'll spare you the details there, but needless to say the pressure is on to keep the pressure off the would-be-progenitor more or less. Although this whole fertility imbroglio has been "our thing" in a grander way, it's hard not to let the argot slip into "Adella's treatment" or "Adella's meds" and ultimately "Adella's thing." I imagine it's kind of soothing to be that distant from it.
Escalating from gracious support-figure offering reassurances and occasional escort to and from appointments to a key ingredient upon which absolutely all these many thousands of dollars and weeks to years of uncomfortable side effects absolutely now depend!!! NOW! The clock is running out!! may be a bit stressful. And I'd like to minimize that for all involved. There's enough stress in this cycle.
As I say, this first time out is a big dress rehearsal, so there will be some figuring out to do to keep things loving and supportive. In between injecting myself with various pointy things full of crazy fluids... nothing is more romantic, I know, than remarking on your various stages of cramping and water retention while calculating out the lifespan of various body parts. Fortunately, I'm still kind of a frisky lovecrazed kiddo of a somewhat-newly-wed, so conjuring up a little concupiscence isn't exactly a challenge. But remembering not to remember a ticking clock or any big significance to this week over any others seems kind of important.
A "window" that I'm more obsessed with is the window for buying more of my go-go-gonadotropins. If - knock on wood - all goes well, I may be ready for the next stage on Wednesday. In that case, I will not have to order yet another $460 vial of the stuff. I will even have a day leftover. If I need to wait and come back in a couple of days, there's an increasing chance that I'll need just one more dose and will have to buy the entire vial. Needless to say, this is preoccupying my brain far more than any potentially relevant considerations. The obsessive part of me (same part that could spend hours playing Tetris) wants to game it so that I have exactly the amount I need. No tret. No leftovers. Just the last necessary dosage at the last moment.
I will, however, have plenty of leftover needles. Some of which I can use in future months (the box of insulin needles should cover me for several months and/or any future encounters with diabetes), and some of which I will continue to accumulate in stock pile with future orders. Clearly I should take up some kind of multi-media art involving all the waste associated with injecting myself. Wrappers, syringes, syringe lids, alcohol swabs, alcohol swab packages, bandages, receipts, pretty little vials and their colorful caps... I'm thinking some kind of gargantuan mobile, perhaps. Call it Luv LYFE!
Anyways, I've fidgeted about enough while click-a-clacking here. This standing desk thing is a little less perfect than walking, but I'll get it dialed. Really I will. Perhaps with a swing!
Some Journeys a Woman Must Make Outside of the Carpool Lane
And, once the man sold his pocket watch for a comb to give his freshly calvous wife, Adella's wishes for a response came with a little bit of a handshake from the monkey's paw.
In typical Adella fashion, I have been slow and reluctant to react. But in even more typical Adella-fashion, after tipping toes into this whole follicular development and fertility thing, my body has now gone full scale overachiever (What, me?? Never!!) and has set to developing resources for a small army of baby (W)rights.
Between last week's 25 and Wednesdays most recent prick, my estrogen levels went from non-existent to "entire sorority house during homecoming" (865, actually). My follicles are madly spinning little ova after several years of hiatus. Hilarious as the idea of millions of little wrightlets tottering about, multiple gestations have ridiculously high risk across the board well beyond the longterm one of actually producing a brood. Needless to say, if I keep developing on this course, the entire cycle gets called off.
We're crossing our eyes, fingers and toes that only three are around today. If not, good news is still abundant (1) no more shots for a while, (2) no more ultrasounds or blood draws for a while, (3) most importantly, my body does react. It can be stimulated. Just, well, like the introvert that I am, it's a little prone to overstimulation after some initial hesitation.
Somewhere Ovidrel the Rainbow: (W)rights Charge Ahead Beyond Statistical Certainty
As I say, this first time out is a big dress rehearsal, so there will be some figuring out to do to keep things loving and supportive. In between injecting myself with various pointy things full of crazy fluids... nothing is more romantic, I know, than remarking on your various stages of cramping and water retention while calculating out the lifespan of various body parts. Fortunately, I'm still kind of a frisky lovecrazed kiddo of a somewhat-newly-wed, so conjuring up a little concupiscence isn't exactly a challenge. But remembering not to remember a ticking clock or any big significance to this week over any others seems kind of important.
A "window" that I'm more obsessed with is the window for buying more of my go-go-gonadotropins. If - knock on wood - all goes well, I may be ready for the next stage on Wednesday. In that case, I will not have to order yet another $460 vial of the stuff. I will even have a day leftover. If I need to wait and come back in a couple of days, there's an increasing chance that I'll need just one more dose and will have to buy the entire vial. Needless to say, this is preoccupying my brain far more than any potentially relevant considerations. The obsessive part of me (same part that could spend hours playing Tetris) wants to game it so that I have exactly the amount I need. No tret. No leftovers. Just the last necessary dosage at the last moment.
I will, however, have plenty of leftover needles. Some of which I can use in future months (the box of insulin needles should cover me for several months and/or any future encounters with diabetes), and some of which I will continue to accumulate in stock pile with future orders. Clearly I should take up some kind of multi-media art involving all the waste associated with injecting myself. Wrappers, syringes, syringe lids, alcohol swabs, alcohol swab packages, bandages, receipts, pretty little vials and their colorful caps... I'm thinking some kind of gargantuan mobile, perhaps. Call it Luv LYFE!
Anyways, I've fidgeted about enough while click-a-clacking here. This standing desk thing is a little less perfect than walking, but I'll get it dialed. Really I will. Perhaps with a swing!
Some Journeys a Woman Must Make Outside of the Carpool Lane
And, once the man sold his pocket watch for a comb to give his freshly calvous wife, Adella's wishes for a response came with a little bit of a handshake from the monkey's paw.
In typical Adella fashion, I have been slow and reluctant to react. But in even more typical Adella-fashion, after tipping toes into this whole follicular development and fertility thing, my body has now gone full scale overachiever (What, me?? Never!!) and has set to developing resources for a small army of baby (W)rights.
Between last week's 25 and Wednesdays most recent prick, my estrogen levels went from non-existent to "entire sorority house during homecoming" (865, actually). My follicles are madly spinning little ova after several years of hiatus. Hilarious as the idea of millions of little wrightlets tottering about, multiple gestations have ridiculously high risk across the board well beyond the longterm one of actually producing a brood. Needless to say, if I keep developing on this course, the entire cycle gets called off.
We're crossing our eyes, fingers and toes that only three are around today. If not, good news is still abundant (1) no more shots for a while, (2) no more ultrasounds or blood draws for a while, (3) most importantly, my body does react. It can be stimulated. Just, well, like the introvert that I am, it's a little prone to overstimulation after some initial hesitation.
Somewhere Ovidrel the Rainbow: (W)rights Charge Ahead Beyond Statistical Certainty
And did it all end with a bang-bang-bang of a "aren't you glad to get through this in one piece?" I knew not to expect anything merciful from the traffic along the large and small intestines of Hades (also known as Interstates 405 and 5 in the Seattle/Bellevue). Both harbored special treats for me yesterday morning: an accident on I-5 turned the few exits afore mine to a caramel coated halt for several agonizing minutes. The experience made my 30 minute joy(less) sludge on I-405 seem tame by comparison. To add a little special treat to my commuting experience, the pre-digestive areas of I-5 were pitch black and saturated in driving torrents of pre-dawn tsunamis. The wind, the water and my kia led to some moments of terror to really prime me for the stop-and-go-frustration awaiting around the bend of Everett's toosh.
Despite having left about 40 minutes "early," I managed to arrive for my appointment right on time... to wait for another ten minutes... to get my (blessedly) final blood-letting for the month. I am relieved to report that I did not swoon, though not for lack of trying on anyone else's part. We began with the recently tapped left vein. It was not having any further incursions and stomped away in a huff at any intrusions. The right vein was a bit more coy than hostile. After a few futile farragoes with a larger needle, the intervention of a second nurse, and some very concerned "you still ok?" queries, my medical team settled on a smaller needle. They inserted this with some difficulty. At which point, the blood trickled with recalcitrance for a good couple of minutes before the rest of my blood was essentially milked through the vein by the nurse.
And people complain about transvaginal ultrasounds. I actually think those have been the least uncomfortable and unpleasant thing to happen to me medically in quite some time! If I had to have a one every morning in lieu of commuting through I-405, for instance, I'd consider it (depending on whether it would be covered by insurance, because those damned things are pricey).
The results were a teensy eensy bit ambivalent. I'm responding, and how. There are definitely three little ova in their young adulthood raring to go. There may be 4 more. Or possibly even more if the ultrasound missed something (always possible). I left the ultrasound certain that the cycle would have to be cancelled. Needless to say, I'm tired. Emotionally. Physically. And any other way one can possibly be exhausted. And I've been a raging barrel of hormones to the point where I'd like to just go find a pair of grey sweat pants, a pint of Ben and Jerry's and a marathon of some BBC's Jane Austen rot to cry over. Or so I felt on the ride home anyways.
A subsequent follow up with my doctor gave me enough stats and percentages to work with. Basically a few things.
(1) Yes, I have the possibility of releasing a litter. If anything sticks, there's a 25% chance of twins and a 5% chance of triplets. There's no way in hell that she'll recommend going forward if I'm not well advised of and ethically comfortable with selective reduction surgery. That would carry only a 5-10% risk to the remaining embryos.
(2) But on the other hand, the chances of any pregnancy is lower if we trigger immediately, due to the most mature eggs not being quite as far along as usual. But in order to avoid the risk of the aforementioned 6-7 eggs, triggering means going ahead.
(3) We could convert to IVF on this cycle, but it'll be another $12,000. Oh and require continuing on with shots and blood tests and what not.
(4) To be safe, we could cancel entirely, stay celibate for a lifetime, and try again on the next cycle. Of course, it turns out that all those years of hoarding up my reproductive material means that my ovarian reserve is through the roof and any stimulation will very likely produce the same result. We can start at a higher dose, but not too high and it will likely take less time than this round, but longer for me than most (still more like 10-14 days than most of a month). Or we could cancel and start over again with a pure IVF.
Anyways, risks mulled and conversations had, we decided the lower chance of anything sticking combined with the higher risk of multiples more or less cancelled each other. So, it probably won't stick, but after 8 blood draws, 4 ultrasounds, 25 days (!!) of self injections, and nearly $4,000 spent on shots and tests needles and all... we just couldn't walk away. Not with the risks as low as they were. And statistics are funny. And one doesn't always end up being the statistical norm. Maybe we'll be the outliers. Odds are better than buying a lottery ticket anyways and plenty of people do that.
So ok, tally ho and sally forth I have taken my final shot of November 2014! I have discarded (properly) of my sharps container and packed up my little injection station. I have promised my bruised arms and hostile veins that they may rest easy for a few weeks. If it doesn't work, which it probably won't then no harm. If we end up with triplets, well... the odds are ok.
Anyways, remaining celibate for "like forever" (as my doctor herself put it) didn't sound all that fun.
I'm not really sure what we'll do in December. Probably try more of the same and then discuss the even bigger guns if the same results keep happening.
All I know for sure is that I am FREE! For a spell. And it feels oh so good.
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