Our Infertility Journey (1.12): Do men always get the easy infertility jobs???#GivingTuesday

My nerves were intense, evidenced by the slight tremor in my hands. Annoyed that I was letting myself show any signs of vulnerability, I shoved them under my thighs. I was tough. A needle into my ovaries couldn’t be that bad, right? So what if I would be awake! The Ativan and pain meds would take the edge off. They had assured me that anesthesia wasn’t necessary (nor was it an option).

How long would they make us wait? The clock hands seemed to be stuck in the same position that they had been in when we entered the waiting room. I wasn’t as nervous about the procedure as I was about the outcome. The unknown mocked me. I despised my inability to control ANYTHING. I couldn’t will my body to create more eggs, to respond more favorably to the stimulation medications, or to stop hyperstimulating. All that I could do was wait and hope for amazing news.Young woman stroking her belly becouse of bellyache

At least Dave was at my side today. Over the past several months his presence at my appointments had been hit or miss-most of the time miss. As a doctor in training he didn’t have the luxury of frequent time off. I understood, but I still hated it. I had to accept that we were not making a baby TOGETHER. I was making a baby with needles, doctors, nurses, labs, and countless medications. This was one more frustrating reality, added to my list of things that I was powerless to change.

His presence today was absolutely necessary. An egg without sperm is just an egg! The door opened and Dave’s name was called. It was time for his contribution. Back to the male suite he went to squirt into a cup once more. If only my role were that easy. I felt a twinge of jealously and anger but quickly willed myself to dismiss it. What good would a pity party do? No, I had to stay focused. I needed to be positive. But, in the midst of my positive thinking I still couldn’t dismiss the recurring thought that it wasn’t fair! Maybe he wasn’t propping his feet up all day long, but he certainly wasn’t feeling the full effect of infertility. relaxing

I was starting to feel groggy by the time that Dave returned to the waiting room…with an extra spring in his step. The Ativan was kicking in. The door opened again. It was my turn. Once in the procedure room the nurse told me to change into a gown and to remove everything except for my socks. Dave was given a blue paper jump suit and booties to put over his clothes. As I was stripping he was zipping up. The room was frigid. Icy. Sterile. I shivered as I covered my head with the blue surgical cap. My legs were shaking.Woman Having Eggs Removed As Part Of IVF Treatment

The nurse arrived to start my IV line. My first poke of the day felt like a tickle in comparison to what was to come. As I slipped my feet into the stirrups, I took a deep breath and braced myself for pain. My bladder was overly full and I couldn’t help thinking how horrible it would be to urinate all over the floor. The ultrasound smashing against my abdomen didn’t help the situation. I was about to celebrate as the abdominal ultrasound was removed, but before I could utter my thanks, the vaginal ultrasound probe appeared. This probe was unlike the others…equipped with a special needle that would poke through my vaginal wall, reach over to my ovaries, puncture each individual follicle, and then apply vacuum suction to remove the eggs. Great…a torturous version of the traditional vaginal ultrasound probe! I hadn’t thought it possible to dislike an ultrasound probe any more than I already did; my opinion quickly changed.

Each time suction was applied the tube was given to the embryology lab technician who then confirmed if an egg was present or not. If present, a number was called out, adding to the tally. I felt like a contestant on The Price is Right. I kept guessing how many eggs we would get. I held my breath with each needle poke. My heart sank each time our count stayed the same. Would we have enough? Would they fertilize? I squeezed Dave’s hand and asked for more pain medication. The procedure was painful…if I hadn’t mentioned that. I felt every needle poke. The pain meds took the edge off, but puncturing the follicles located along the wall of the ovary definitely hurt the most. I held my breath, clenched my jaw, and prayed for it to be over quickly.Nurse Aiding Egg Retrieval Proceedure In Theatre

The narcotics running through my IV made my head and my body feel sluggish and heavy. I forced myself to listen for the final count…9 or 10. Not huge, but still good! We were done. I tried to wiggle over to the recovery gurney, but my body was too heavy, weighted down by the narcotics and Ativan. I couldn’t talk. Opening my mouth took too much effort. I felt myself being lifted and then wheeled down a hallway toward recovery.

Eight hours later I awoke, sore and nauseated. The narcotics had knocked me out, changing what should have been a 1-2 hour recovery time into a day long stay. As I slowly opened my eyes, I found that I was alone. I looked for a balloon, flowers, a card. Nothing! It may sound silly, but I had specifically told Dave that I wanted a giant balloon at my bedside. I’m not sure why it was so important to me, but it was. Other than his presence and some sperm, it was the only thing that I had asked of him for the retrieval. He had forgotten.Crying woman

Actually, he had gone back to work after I made it to the recovery area. Yes, I had been asleep, but I still wanted his presence at my side. Instead, I was surrounded by an overwhelming sense of aloneness. It was only a few minutes before Dave walked through the door. The first thing out of my mouth was, “Where is my balloon?!?!” I was livid. After everything that I had been through, I wanted some extra compassion and gratitude, something to say, “Thank you for everything that you are doing to get us pregnant.”

Dave really is a considerate and amazing husband, but even he will say that he fell short on this occasion. He left my bedside once again, but this time he returned with a giant monkey balloon, a children’s book, and a matching stuffed animal. The name of the book was, “I Love Monkey”. It was the silliest looking monkey I had ever seen with a flat face, the tiniest feet, and little striped socks. When he said that he had bought it for our baby to be, I couldn’t help but smile and forgive him. While his infertility role was not as physically or even emotionally challenging as mine, living with a wife pumped up with hormone injections was probably not the easiest job either. He too was learning as he went.Sad woman is talking to the phone in bad, in home.

I was back to work the next day; feeling very sore but hopeful. We were in the process of making beautiful embryos! We waited expectantly for the phone to ring. How many embryos would we have? What would their quality be? We waited and we waited. Finally, the call came.

From,

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2 thoughts on “Our Infertility Journey (1.12): Do men always get the easy infertility jobs???#GivingTuesday

  1. I am so glad I was knocked out for all the egg collections! I was also really lucky, the being knocked out part went pretty well 9 out of 10 times, with the 10th time being the one I started feeling really nauseous and having extra stuff put into me. (I asked the anethesist what they did differently – nothing apparently. Who knows… good thing it wasn’t one of the days I worked after egg collection!)
    For me the longest and most irritating part of the whole thing was frequently trying to find a vein to put the needle in… I have terrible veins. Well, from that perspective anyway – they work OK.
    Germany has the annoyingly weird IVF system of only paying for the treatment of the person who is infertile. Which is bloody annoying if it’s the man, because they’ll pay for… sperm collection. *headdesk* A friend of mine was thrilled that the tests came back with non-specific infertility for both of them, because they got the maximum coverage.

    • that is very interesting to hear how things are handled in another country! Infertility is a couple’s issue. The diagnosis is collective in my mind. Does it really matter who has the medical issue. The main point is that there is an issue! A medical issue…a disability!

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