Talk about a wrench thrown into the works. My coordinator just casually emailed me that there was a “change to my medication calendar,” and in the email she said the egg donor’s dates had to change for a personal reason and everything would be postponed by nine days.

I already bought my one-way ticket. I already have plans and reservations. I’m already taking the freaking medications.

The thing I’m most freaked out about is having nine extra days of estrogen — and an upped dose at that (patches plus 4mg orally per day). Will my lining get old and mushy by then? Or even too thick?


Well, this is weird and disturbing. My coordinator told me to just keep taking my estrogen (which I started yesterday) despite the nine-day delay. I looked at the calendar and saw that it would mean I’d be on estrogen for up to four weeks, which seemed way too long.

I asked to speak to Dr. Goud, and all of a sudden I’m supposed to rip my patches off, stay on Lupron for the next week, and start over with estrogen next Wednesday.

So many questions. Has this ever been done before? Will only 5 units of Lupron keep my ovaries and lining suppressed for sure? Has my lining already started growing with the estrogen in my system from yesterday, and will it just sit there and get old for the next week? When I start estrogen again, will my lining be stunted or weird after being put in stasis for so long?

And by the way, what happened with the egg donor? Was it some kind of trauma? A death? Health issue? Are they sure she’ll be in a place to be donating after the nine days of delay are over? Are they sure she won’t just end up canceling all together?

The nurse I talked to just kept telling me Dr. Goud thought it was best, and he was confident it would be fine. (Easy for him to say. Sorry, but I’ve had confident doctors before who were dead wrong.) And they can’t tell me any personal info about the donor.

At least the nurse was actually kind, understanding, and sympathetic to my nervousness. What a difference that makes!

But I was feeling so hopeful for this one, and it seemed to be going so smoothly (for once), and now everything feels unsettled and weird, and I’ve lost a lot of the spring in my step.

It’s always something, isn’t it?


On Drugs Again

(Sang to the tune of “On the Road Again…” 😉 )

Well, non-birth-control drugs anyway. I’m always so glad to leave those little pills behind. Here’s hoping those are the last I’ll ever take…

I started Lupron last week (10 units per morning), and tomorrow it’s on to estrogen patches plus pills. The estrogen patches alone don’t seem to work so well for me (I tried to tell my clinic that last time, but they didn’t listen), so I’m hoping by adding 4mg/day orally, I’ll end up with a nice, plump lining. And not be quite so terrified of ruining the effect of the patches every time I sweat. Which is a lot in June in Oklahoma. Especially if I’m able to squeeze in a last few soccer games and ballet lessons. (Have I mentioned I hate patches?)

Insurance also decided to stop covering the cost of my patches — like, zero coverage, which means $250 a month for three months that I didn’t bank on. But I found a coupon to get my first month for only $125, and after venting on Facebook, some nice women offered to send me some of their leftover patches through the mail. I also had 20 patches leftover myself. All in all I may escape with paying only $100 more than I expected. Yay for solidarity and generosity.

I’ve wrestled with myself about whether to add baby aspirin and an “antihistamine protocol” to my line-up. Baby aspirin is supposed to help thin the blood, which can supposedly help with building lining as well as implantation since it lessens the chance of tiny blood clots. But I used it for every transfer so far, and none worked, so maybe it’s time to retire that.

Antihistamines are supposed to reduce inflammation and calm the immune system. Even though I’ve never tested positive for any autoimmune issues, I do have hypothyroidism and endometriosis, so it’s definitely possible. I could have also done an endometrial scratch and a dozen other things, but my clinic says it’s not necessary. Just take prenatal vitamins that have folate, and maybe add a bit of C, D, and E, and pray to whatever God you believe in, because it seems to be a game of luck more than anything. And I chose the clinic with the best odds in the world. So. Just gotta keep spinning the wheel ’til my number comes up and try not to make myself too crazy in the meantime.

Though I did read a study that said laughing after transfer really helps, and I don’t see any harm there. So if you have any laugh-out-loud Youtube videos to recommend, please feel free to put a link in the comments!

(It’s nice, at least, that the house and I are on the same side with this. The faster I succeed, the cheaper it is for them because the fewer the embryos they have to dole out. It will be a heck of a lot cheaper for them to only deal with me twice than to do three or four or six transfers. So I’m that much more inclined to take their advice seriously. But hey — if you know of a study that shows baby aspirin or antihistamines will definitely get me pregnant, feel free to send it my way.)

My TSH is 1.004 (perfect). I bought my one-way ticket to Sacramento, and I have enough miles to book my one-way ticket home when I figure out when the transfer is going to be. I’ve also booked a bed in a hostel for four days and have a few lovely fellow “fertility journey” women to visit in those four days (one I know from her blog, two I know from CC), then I’ll probably head down to the Bay Area and visit some friends there while I shoot myself up with progesterone and wait for the embryos to grow.

Every time a transfer is imminent, I try to visualize the kids that are coming, try to talk to them, try to imagine them, try to instantiate them with my will. Obviously it has never worked before. But this time it comes easier than it ever has. Always before I felt a kind of dread, a kind of resistance, but this time it’s the opposite. It’s so easy to imagine them, and I feel like I’m being drawn forward, like a spring is attached between me and the future, and when I have my evening walks, instead of checking in with myself and feeling bereft and frustrated, I feel a lightness in my step, like I’m so, so close.

I’m trying not to question or second-guess that feeling. Trying to just roll with it.