It’s nice to finally feel a bit grounded. The IVF folks had me do the “clomid challenge test,” and I don’t know if it was the medication that left me feeling so bizarre, or just all the enormous, gut wrenching, life changing news and decision making, but I’ve been a zombie for a week.
My stats aren’t good, I guess, and the IVF doc doesn’t seem to think it would work, though she’s more than happy to move forward. There was another follicle on my left ovary, so 4 total after all that clomid, and I’m not sure what was happening on the right side. My day 3 FSH was pretty rotten, but day 10 was totally normal. Blood flow to my uterus is awesome. Somehow this all made her somewhat pessimistic.
How are you supposed to digest anything after two hours of discussions and genetic info sessions, giving practically a pint of blood, and then having someone probe your ovaries and uterus and stick a catheter through your cervix just to see how it would go? I ask you, how are you supposed to even think to ask- “what makes you say you’d only get one egg,” when your bladder is screaming at you and you’re half naked on an exam table???
So, for nearly a week I did the following: I bailed on work. I spent inordinate time on the sofa watching “Damages,” (which is great by the way). I stared at walls and floors and windows and my step kids. I threw balls for my dog. I read 3 books. I couldn’t find a way to tell my loving and concerned husband what I was thinking and feeling because I couldn’t get a handle on it myself. I saw my therapist 3 times. I saw my acupuncturist twice.
And then I woke up yesterday feeling somewhat normal, and by the night I was pretty good. Hooray! Nice to be back. I really think it was the Clomid; I’ve always been sensitive to meds. Which is what makes me think the doc is wrong about the one egg business. But that’s another story.
Ovulating today. A clomid ovulation. That’s how I was born! Maybe it’s fortuitous. Note to self: Spend some time writing about the rise of infertility. That’s interesting.
My husband and I had a date last night. We went to a quiet, sweet little French place, ate duck confit and beet risotto, drank a bottle of wine by candlelight, and talked things over. We discussed IVF versus adoption. We talked about the various countries where one might adopt, girl or boy, how to avoid being involved in unscrupulous adoption situations. We hashed out the low probability of IVF success. We talked about adopted kids we know, and how it’s working. There were tears. There are so many ways to become a parent, so many paths to motherhood.
And then I told him that I think I want to do both. I want to start the adoption process, and I also want to at least start the IVF deal. If it’s true that they can only get one little shriveled and deformed egg off my ancient ovaries then fine. Forget it. But I think I would always regret not trying. And I think they’re wrong.
But also I think adoption is awesome. And I could see myself getting a couple months into the adoption process and deciding to stop the IVF nastiness. Forego the hormone shots and emotional agony. Decide that the baby I see in some photo is actually the baby that I’ve wanted my whole life. I can absolutely see that happening.
So that’s where we’re at. We’re deciding to not decide. Not yet. Oddly enough, it is a huge relief to have made that choice.