Size of a Grape

Greetings from 9 weeks. Never thought I'd arrive, but the weather is fine!

Seriously, people. How is it that other people's pregnancies are over in a flash? Friends and celebrities seem to have mastered some sort of supersonic gestation technique. But your own pregnancy, when you've worked for it and just really need the first trimester to take about five minutes -- it crawls by at a snail's pace.

Still. Obviously I am grateful to be at this point. I don't want to say it out loud but I have not been here often.

The spotting continues -- all brown, which makes health care providers absolutely yawn in your face, because they are not the one who has to take a deep breath while pulling down their pants. I think it would really help me if someone would come over here with an ultrasound machine, like every single day. Why is this not offered? Luckily, I am still seeing the RE to monitor hormones as I'm weaned off the medications, and have also gotten in with an OB and a perinatologist, who will do my scans. So if a slightly illogical but urgent question pops up, say, what will happen if my son's friend pushes me in the stomach or will I bake the baby with my heated car seats, I can spread the crazy evenly over three medical professionals' offices.

Meanwhile: pedestrian complaints I am not supposed to complain about because I'm an infertile. Like oh, Lord, the nausea. Hungry every. Single. Minute. And yet everything, to me, is exactly like Oliver Twist's porridge: an unappealing, colorless pile of slop. Please, sir, I do not want any more. And yet I must eat or I will throw up, and everyone who knows me understands that throwing up signals the coming end of the world. So I eat exactly five things: pizza, bagels and cream cheese, apples and cheddar cheese, and yogurt with granola. Do not ask me why these things are okay and chicken makes me gag -- all I know is that keeping up with the hunger when you don't want to eat anything is making me so tired.

Finally, a slight obsession with progesterone. My clinic has already weaned me from the estradiol this week, which felt a little early -- but their medical degrees really gave them a leg up in that debate. They typically wean off the progesterone at 10 weeks, and looking back, that's exactly when I stopped it for H. On this they're a little more willing to work with my neurosis. They say no problem if I want to go longer, to 11 or even 12 weeks. Advice welcome.

Sweet Relief

It was a long time, the seconds between the probe going in and the words coming out of her mouth. And you can trust that this is true, because my husband, who had the objectivity of not having a probe swimming around in his own nether region, later told me he thought it seemed like a while too.

And I don't know for sure what she said, even though I'd imagined it in moments of optimism, I don't know what she actually said, because I don't think I was actually in my own body, able to hear things. I was floating somewhere, waiting for someone to say something that made me think it was okay to be in that room.

Whatever she said, it registered that there was a beating heart on the screen, that pulse of light I'd prayed to see. And this time, when everyone in the room sighed their sigh of relief and said things like Congratulations and I'm so happy for you, it felt like they were talking to me and that it was really, truly true.

The heart rate measured at 164. I saw it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears.

Nail Biter

So of course this couldn't have been straightforward, 40 weeks of blissful nesting and pickle flavored ice cream eating. No. I'm going to have to work for this, whether it goes the distance or not.

I started bleeding on Christmas. I'd had a perfect scan two days before -- at 5w3d they saw an appropriately sized gestational sac as well as a yolk sac, which I was told was a bonus for that GA. They warned me I may have spotting from the scan, but I typically do not so I was surprised when later that afternoon I did have some light spotting. They told me not to worry so I didn't. Much. Until Christmas, when it started again, this time red and with some momentum behind it. I thought we were probably looking at bad news. Which really put me in the holiday spirit.

By the evening, though, it really had lightened. The doctor was reassuring when I reached her. The nurse the next morning suggested that I try to wait for my next scheduled scan, since another scan would just create a vicious circle of probing and bleeding. I agreed to try. I put myself on self-imposed bed rest.

Things were going swimmingly with that plan until Saturday, when I stood up after surfing online for info about stopping progesterone supplementation and felt an enormous gush. I went to the bathroom and felt what I was certain was the sac fall out of me. And a lot of blood. There you have it, I thought. That's it. I called the doctor again. My only options were to go to the ER and deal with the drunk Saturday night crowd or wait until Monday morning for a scan with her. Somehow, she did not think this was the end of the road, while I would have bet the house on it.

I made it to Monday -- schlepping H to the ER and sitting there for hours only to hear bad news sounded almost worse than the thing itself. I felt exactly as I did four years ago, waiting for bad news after H's pregnancy bleeding: bracing myself for impact as the truck hurtled toward me. 

Instead, she turned the screen toward me and pointed out the sac and the fetus, measuring 6w4d (I was 6w3d). I don't know how to drive this point home strongly enough: I could not believe it was true. Not like: Wow, that's unbelievable! More like: Literally, I do not believe you.

Questions remained. What came out of me (blood clots from laying down)? What is making me bleed (she saw what is possibly a small subchorionic hematoma, just as with H)? Why was there no heartbeat when I swear we saw one at that point with H (she swore up and down before even doing the scan that it was too early to see one)? Why must everything I do in the reproductive department be such a sh*& show (she could not answer this)?

The big scan is early next week. Until then, you'll find me at home, on the couch, being of no real value to anyone, willing the hours to go by and trying very hard not to freak out.

Rising and Yet Falling

So everything on paper is looking good. The number doubled and change from Wednesday to Friday. Then rose to 949 on Monday. If I were a normal person with a short OB/GYN history, I'd be on my merry way. I'd be picking out nursery colors.

But I'm not. This is my seventh pregnancy. I have one child. Granted, he's a pretty incredible one child, but those are some messed up numbers. So forgive me if I'm not dancing in the streets just yet. Or maybe, even if this thing goes the distance, maybe not ever, during the whole thing. Maybe it will be just like with my H, when his first cry in the operating room took me by surprise. When I said, There was really a baby in there, with a genuine sense of astonishment.

I'm terrified.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Today's beta: 116. Am told they look for 50 at this point.

The first step of many. But for tonight, let me just say, in a quiet voice in case fate is listening: yay.

Random Thoughts from the Wait

I thought I'd be somehow enlightened. I've been around the block on the two-week wait, the beta wait, the ultrasound wait. All the waiting. I thought I'd be above the drama. But no. I'm plugging all the search strings in: POAS after five-day transfer. Symptoms after five-day transfer. Success rates after FET. Engaging in the Dr. Google madness like some sort of newly initiated infertile.

Also, my in-laws arrive from the other coast tonight. Which means they will be here, in my house, the day of the test. Can someone please tell me how I am supposed to work this? I don't have a great history with them on these issues, what with their stone cold radio silence when we told them, on Mother's Day, that the reason we weren't doing much was that I was recovering from a D&C, from my fourth recent miscarriage. I told my husband that if it is negative, I shall be retiring to our bedroom and a tray of fettuccine alfredo, chocolate cake and a bottle of red wine shall be delivered to my bedside. But I'm not sure that really covers it. And what if it's positive?

Just to add to all the merriment, our cat was playing with a twist tie this morning, and when we turned away and looked back at her, she was licking her chops and the twist tie was MIA. We looked everywhere for it, and I called the vet. They strongly suggested we bring her in. While my husband was  waiting for her to be x-rayed -- and God knows how they got my Woody Allen of a cat to sit for an x-ray -- I came downstairs and saw the twist tie sitting right next to the couch. We paid $250 and they saw food and hairballs on the x-ray.

Meanwhile, I look about four months along. I'm going to assume this is from the massive amounts of progesterone I'm injecting into my body (based on reading of 19.5 on Wednesday -- this clinic checks two days after transfer -- they raised my dose to 1.5 cc), but if it turns out I'm not pregnant, I'm decidedly not amused.

Embryo in. Sanity out.

It happened. On Monday. They wheeled me in, they put my legs in the stirrups made for giants. They put the gorgeous looking embryo in me.

On the way out the door to the clinic, I checked to make sure I had everything with me. Wallet, check. Bottle of water to chug until I'm uncomfortable, check. I asked my husband if anything was missing. Got your vagina? he asked. Check.

I took the valium on the way, washed it down with the big bottle of water. I just figured, no one had told me it would hurt -- it might only help -- and I can't drink wine, so why not?

When I got into the OR and realized the embryologist was in the corner, I suddenly felt this presence in the room. It was sort of like the time I saw President Clinton speak -- when he arrived in the building, you weren't sure how but you just knew he was there, as if the electrons in the room had somehow started combining differently. He's here. That's how I felt about my embryo. It's here. Alive. In this room with me.

On the way out, they handed me a photocopied picture of the embryo along with a curious little slip of paper with my name at the top and the number of embryos thawed (1), transferred (1), and how many remaining in cryostorage (4). I showed my husband. Oh, he said. Our receipt.

Husbands are not allowed into the procedure room for the transfer at this clinic. I was really blindsided by this news upon our arrival, but luckily at that point I was already operating under the influence of Valium, so I was pretty much incapable of being ruffled by anything. Still, it's odd to think that he was not even in the room at the moment when I got pregnant. He said something about telling people we're really talented, with a wink. He's a funny guy.

I wish I could tell you it's been all fun and games since the transfer. I came home, enjoyed a Valium-induced sleep on the couch, and then, as the medication wore off, panic and despair set in. The familiar mental racquetball match of it-definitely-worked, it-definitely-did-not-work has commenced. And will continue until the test, next Wednesday. Have not decided if I will POAS before then.

The problem with the time after transfer is that it's no longer abstract. So much depends on an implanting blastocyst, on two pink lines, on doubling betas. So much.