Saturday, November 26, 2005

So how was your Thanksgiving?

Mine sucked, frankly.

Monday morning I had an HSG. Piece of cake, I thought. I’d had a saline sonogram the week before (“Your uterus looks perfect,” Dr. S., my RE, proclaimed), and basically sailed through it. I mean, it was no treat having a catheter threaded through my cervix, but the filling of the uterus with saline solution? The vaginal ultrasound? The oh-so-mild cramping as the salt water leaked out of me for the rest of the work day? Nothing to it. I’d been told the HSG would be similar, so I wasn’t too worried. While the radiologist messed around between my legs, the nurse stood at my side and patted my arm, asking every few minutes if I was doing OK. “No problem!” I chirped, the Good Patient to the end.

I could see the screen as the radiologist worked, but I honestly couldn’t really tell what was going on—I’d googled HSG images beforehand, of course, so I’d know what to look for, but everything was hazy and blurry, ghostly ribbons of dye weaving across the screen. When he was done, the radiologist said, “The right tube looks fine, but I’m having trouble seeing the left. I’ll talk to Dr. S—maybe there’s a fibroid or something blocking the way.” “Oh no,” I said, “There couldn’t be. Dr. S. said everything looked fine.”

I admit I felt a little worried—I called my husband and told him there was a possibility I might not have a left tube, but he was reassuring. “We don’t know anything yet,” he said.

Late in the day, at my desk, I developed unbelievable cramps. Like the worst period you’ve ever had crossed with the soreness you felt the day after being forced to do 50 situps in gym class. It was so bad that I thought I might have developed an infection. I staggered home and took my temperature to make sure I didn’t have a fever. 98.0. Um, guess not. I spent the rest of the evening downing Advil with a heating pad pressed to my belly. I’d heard that the cramping from an HSG is generally worse if you have some kind of tubal blockage or uterine abnormality…hmmm… (/dramatic foreshadowing).

Tuesday morning I had an ultrasound—day 11 of this, my first Letrozole cycle. I arrived at 8:15 (at my doctor’s office, if you’re cycling, you drop in for monitoring any time between 7:30 and 8:30), was ushered into an exam room at 9:20, and was left to cool my (bare-assed) jets until 9:40. (Luckily my office is a 3 minute walk from the clinic and I don’t have to be there until 10.) I ran into Dr. S. in the hall—he wasn’t doing my ultrasound, since the doctors there rotate early morning duty—and he said, “Oh, I was going to call you last night—I’m still trying to get in touch with [the radiologist] to discuss your HSG results, but once I do I’ll call you today or tomorrow.” “Great!” says the Good Patient.

US Doc saw two 12-13 mm follicles on the left and one 19 mm on the right. Lining 6 mm. “But Dr. S. saw a cyst on the right side at my day 3 ultrasound,” I piped up. “Hmm…now that you mention it, it does look kind of ragged around the edges. It probably is a cyst,” said US Doc. I felt very proud of myself for pointing this out—otherwise she would have thought that cyst was a developing follicle! (/more dramatic foreshadowing).

“Are you doing a natural cycle or insemination?” she asks. Um, I don’t know? I had assumed natural, since this is our very first cycle on ovulation inducing meds. Insemination, it is determined after consultation with Dr. S. I will come back for one final US on Friday morning, trigger Friday night, then get inseminated (I assume IUI?) Saturday and again on Sunday.

I call my husband to tell him we’re going the IUI route rather than sex (I refuse to say “baby dance,” that loathsome message board moniker), as we’d thought. He grumbles, “OK, but can we have at least one of our kids naturally?” I flip out. “Well, considering we tried ‘naturally’ for a year and a half and nothing happened, and I’m almost 32 and have PCOS, no, we probably can’t.” Jerk. But I tell him we can have lots of sex before and after the IUI, and if I get pregnant we can pretend it was from the sex.

Dr. S. doesn’t call that day. We still haven’t heard about my husband’s semen analysis either (done the previous week). But I’m not worried...not that worried, anyway.

Wednesday I got my Ovidrel scrip filled. Still no call from Dr. S.

Thursday was Thanksgiving, of course. We had decided not to drive from Big City (where we live) to Small Town 5 Hours Away (where his parents live) or to fly to Far-Off Smaller City (where my parents live) for the holiday—or rather I had decided, since I knew we’d be cycling and that there was a chance trigger day would fall smack dab in the middle of the holiday weekend. Looks like that was a good choice. Yay me! We have plans to have lunch with my aunt and uncle Friday, but Thursday is all ours. My husband made a beautiful gourmet dinner for two and we opened a bottle of Montrachet. I speculated that this might be my last bottle of wine for a long time (foolish girl).

Friday morning. Up at 6:30 to make it to the clinic by 8:15 again—it’s a 40-minute trip via public transportation to the doctor’s office, and I had to put on a full face of makeup just in case I was so delayed at the doctor that I would have to go straight to lunch with my aunt and uncle instead of going home first. I’ve packed my Ovidrel, as directed, so the nurse can show me how to inject myself at the end of my appointment. Aren’t I optimistic?

to be continued…

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