I was starting to despair, but I had not yet lost hope. Despair is a terrible thing. It’s that sick feeling in your stomach that slowly creeps in. It makes you want to curl up in a ball and ignore the outside world. It makes you feel that your problem is the only and most important in the world. It definitely causes you to become self-focused. Holding onto hope was my only hope. I couldn’t despair. I had to trust that this would work. If I was negative about it what good would it do? Somehow the power of positive thinking was going to make a difference. I begged God. I cried. I pleaded. I told him that I was angry that he would do this to me. I had followed what I felt was a calling to go into medicine. I had dedicated my life to helping other people. Why wasn’t he helping me now? My anger turned into remorse. I apologized for anything and everything that I had ever done wrong. Was he holding out on me because of some unconfessed sin? I didn’t know, but I wanted to clear up anything that could possibly influence his response to my desperate cries for help.
I had to wait several weeks before starting the frozen cycle. All during this time I had been trying to act normal at work. Only a few people there knew what was going on. I didn’t want to make my private business public to the whole office (ironic since I’m now sharing it with the world). I didn’t want them to ask me how things went or to look at me with pity. I wanted to see my patients and then go home.
In primary care you get to know your patients fairly well. I sat down and started to ask my patient how she was feeling? I knew that she was pregnant. It hadn’t been planned, and she wasn’t all that happy about it. I had actually been the one to diagnose her pregnancy several months before. I then asked her how the baby was doing. She gave me a strange look, then glanced toward her young daughter who was playing in the room. She then whispered to me that she wasn’t pregnant anymore. Oh, I said, “I’m so sorry. What happened?” I assumed that she had a miscarriage. It didn’t even occur to me that she would have ended the pregnancy. All I wanted was to be pregnant, so the thought of giving that up was far from my considerations.
She responded in a whisper that she had an abortion. Now was not good timing to have a baby. Regardless of my position on pro-choice vs. pro-life (I’m not here to get into a debate. I am just sharing from my infertile perspective), in that moment, I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. The only thought that kept going through my head was that, “I would have taken your baby. I would have loved your infant. If only you knew what a precious gift you had. I would give anything for that.” I swallowed my stomach, forcing it to go back to its normal position, and I responded without missing a beat. My face did not show my sorrow or my surprise, instead, just as medicine teaches us, it showed no signs of judgement. I simply said, “Oh, are you happy about that decision, and how are you feeling since the abortion?” I became objective because medicine mandates objectivity. As a physician I was forced to be objective and non-judgemental, but as a desperate woman wanting to become a mother…I grieved.
The beautiful thing about the frozen cycles was that I didn’t have to do a stimulation cycle. This meant that I only had to do a portion of the shots, and I had to take steroids. Unfortunately, the protocol for frozen cycles was that the progesterone had to be given as shots…Not the small needles, but the intramuscular shots in the butt twice daily. Usually, the spouse was the one to give these shots because it was a little hard to reach the correct spot on yourself. Besides, the needles were like torture devices. No one in their right mind would want to see that going into themselves. I surely didn’t. They had to be spaced out by 12 hours, one in the morning and one in the evening. The problem was Dave’s schedule. As a surgery resident, he was getting up at 4:30 in the morning in order to leave by 5 on certain days. I am not a morning person to begin with. Just imagine being awakened just so that you can bend over and have someone drive a needle (two by four) into your butt cheek.
The first time I was incredibly nervous. It was about as bad as I thought that it would be. Having your husband inflict pain on you makes you somewhat more of a wimp as well. You have to put on a brave show for someone you don’t know, like a nurse, but you can whine and complain and say what you really feel when it is your husband. I am not one to get light-headed and woozy at the sight of needles, but after the first shot, I had to lay down…immediately (I’ve since gotten a lot tougher:) I thought that I was going to pass out. That sensation did not diminish over time. With each shot I felt more than a little flushed and light-headed. Then my butt began to get pretty sore. I started to have a pretty red spot on each cheek and decided that someone should take a look to make sure nothing was wrong. It turns out, that my husband has a very precise aim. He was giving me the shots in exactly the same spots every single time. You don’t really want this much precision! He was instructed to widen his aim to prevent a site reaction from getting worse.
It hurt to sit, and it hurt to stand. I started to long for the Crinone progesterone gel that turned into a cottage cheese curd-like discharge. It may have been gross and messy, but it certainly didn’t hurt like this. I decided that I could do anything at this point though. I could even give myself the shots; And, well, I had to. Dave was running late one evening (as in I don’t think he left the hospital until the next day.) I was on a strict schedule with my shots, and I wasn’t about to mess things up. I didn’t really have anyone else to ask, and I didn’t want any of my neighbors seeing my assets. My coworker had mentioned that because of her husband’s schedule she also had to give herself the IM shots at times. If she could do this so could I! I loaded the syringe, attached the mile long needle and prepared to self-inflict torture. I had to contort my upper body while looking in the mirror in order to make sure that I was in the right spot and wasn’t going to hit a nerve. After several start and stop attempts, I just decided to get it over with. The funny thing was, it was so much better when I gave it to myself than when Dave did it. It’s like getting your own splinter out. Somehow it just hurts less.
Transfer number three was scheduled. Again my primary infertility specialist was not going to be present for it. Instead it would be the head of the department. I was informed that his technical skills were very good, and we shouldn’t have a problem this time. Well, that was not entirely true (I’m sure his technical skills are fine…but we still had a problem). All three of the embryos survived the thawing process. The plan was to transfer all three because frozen cycles are known to have lower success rates than fresh.
Striped down, knees in the stirrups, ultrasound smashing my belly once again, the transfer started, only to be started and stopped several times. The physician confirmed that my cervical pathway was more than a little tricky. It was winding and somewhat challenging to feed the catheter through. I lay there with my legs in the air panicking. Not again! They had to get the embryos in. The concern was that embryos are very temperamental to their environment. They should either be in the incubator, or they should be in the uterus. Any time out of these environments could compromise their quality and ability to survive. Eventually, the infertility specialist was able to get the catheter in place. The embryos were transferred, and we had three embryos floating around in my uterus. The idea that we could get pregnant with triplets and even as many as six babies put me into a little bit of a whirlwind; But, who were we kidding, we hadn’t been able to get pregnant once yet, so what where the odds that we would get pregnant with three?