Twisted trick-or-treating

ER went fine this morning. I awoke to see the surgeon's blurry, still-masked head poking through the ugly recovery-area curtains. He said, "Eyes are open! We got 6 eggs for sure! We might have 8 — I'll be right back." And he dashed away.

*******

Here's a cool public domain National Park Service photo (by Peter Jones) of Lechuguilla Cave (named for an agave plant . . . mmm, tequila!), which — according to one shaky-looking online source — might also be known as "Halloween Cave."

It's a nice visual representation of the follicle hunt, don't you think? (Please note that I'm on drugs.)

I don't think I blogged before that my ER doc was the one from both our empty-follicle cycle and the D&C. I got a tad emotional Thursday at hearing he'd be on call today. Despite knowing he's one of the best anywhere, I'd envisioned working with someone else for this last gasp. But, I quickly accepted reality and decided it would be a good way to come full circle on my IVF loop.

In lieu of a costume I wore a camouflage-print tank under my sweater (had to take it off, but I soaked up its combat-ready vibes in the car), wrote a sparkly-silver "BOO!" on my IV-arm, and drew a mini goblin on my shin. Might as well lighten things up. The nurse gasped when she rolled up my gown sleeve ("Did you get a tattoo!?"). Whether the OR staff discussed my goblin, I don't know. I was out before getting fully settled on the operating table. Last thing I remember, the gentle-giant surgical assistant (he could probably bench press everyone in the room) was moving me and saying, "Okay, Lisa, lift your bottom and I'll —."

I was down for the count. Didn't even get to hear what music they turned on or see the doctor enter the room.

Afterward I ran the "6 maybe 8" through my foggy head. I tried to reason whether the "maybe 8" meant good things for any of the ones over 5 I hadn't planned to hear about at all. And I hoped it might translate to maybe getting 4 mature instead of 3. Or just 3 really great ones — or 1 really excellent one! No way to further predict a single thing until tomorrow's fertilization report, though.

The doctor came back and explained that he'd retrieved 8 big-enough follicles, and that 6 gave up the ghost rather easily. The embryologist got nothing out of the other 2 . . . but she did flush the bejeebers out of them.

I mentioned my earlier worst- and best-case predictions. The doc grinned and said, "We usually get good Halloween news here."

DH and I are relieved to have made it this far, and we'll sit on pins and needles till the phone rings tomorrow.

*******

I chuckled at this (minimally monkeyed with by me) wiki description of Lechuguilla Cave, aka MY Halloween Cave. Every time you see "the cave," and so on, substitute "Lisa's uterus" or another suitably parallel phrase. It's fun. ------

Access to the cave is limited to approved scientific researchers and survey and exploration teams . . . [the cave] was known until 1986 as a small, fairly insignificant historic site in the park's back country. (Hey, how do THEY know about 1986?) The cave contains [an] entrance pit known as Misery Hole, which [for a time] led to 400 feet of dry dead-end passages.

The cave was visited infrequently after mining activities ceased. Although there was no obvious route, different people concluded that cave passages did in fact lay below the rubble.

[Explorers] have mapped passages and have pushed the depth of the cave . . . Cavers, drawn by the caves' pristine condition and rare beauty, come from around the world to explore and map its passages and geology.

Friday dance break

I'm hanging in, doing my best to keep hope floating near the top of my well of emotions. As a quick distraction, I searched YouTube for a couple of mood-lifting songs I associate with this cycle.

Every time I drove to the clinic this time, I played "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by the Scissor Sisters. Kept it on Repeat. The upbeat music paired with world-weary lyrics just worked for me. This fun video features a series of Stephen Colbert dance clips set to the music. Try NOT to smile from the pinata scene forward.




On ER day, the Michael Buble version of "The Best Is Yet to Come" played as I got my sleepy-time IV. My parents had just mentioned seeing Buble's opening act perform. This was in the same call where they passed along all kinds of good hopes, wishes, and prayers for the retrieval, the cycle, and beyond. Hearing the song made me feel all those good vibes — from them, other family and friends, my online peeps. And that's as good a theme song as any. I honestly do believe that the "best" is out there for us, regardless of what happens in the next week or so. Check out Gene Kelly's moves in the video. I find them hypnotic this Friday afternoon.

9 eggs retrieved

Happy relief!

It's not over yet, of course. We'll get the first fertilization report late tomorrow afternoon. Another one sometime Sunday. Then, we dearly hope, we'll have a transfer on Monday.

More later. Back to resting I go.

News from the "retrieval"

Might as well share it as we heard it from on-call Doctor.

"The good news is that the procedure went well. There were no eggs, but the procedure itself went very well. We flushed the 4 follicles and blah—I'm sharing a dozen fascinating details about the super-cool method we use to look for the cells in the fluid, and we did it this way and that today, but, nope, 4 follicles, 0 eggs—blah, blah. This almost never happens. It's been several years since I've seen it. We usually get an average of 8 mature eggs. This is disappointing."

Pause for DH and me to ask a few questions, to which Doctor supplied only marginally topical answers. For example, I asked, given this finding, whether it's possible that I really haven't been ovulating on my own for a while, or all the time, but still producing what mimic ovulatory indicators — positive OPKs, measurable follicles that follow an ovulation pattern, appropriate hormone readings, etc.

Doctor's exact reply (after pulling a classic "I'm not actually listening to your words but am waiting for your lips to stop moving so I can insert what I most want to say next"):

"Would I try again? No. I wouldn't. You might talk to Dr. K about donor eggs.* I don't know what she'd recommend about that just now."

DH and I couldn't end our "conversation" fast enough.

Doctor wasn't quite finished though. "Oh, and you'll be glad to know that you can stop the progesterone. No more shots tra-la.** Just take your doxycycline as though you had the procedure.*** But not with dairy, because the calcium acts as a binder. Call me anytime today or this evening if you have more questions."

"I won't be calling," I said.

"Yes, talk to Dr. K. She watched the procedure in real-time at home. It's really remarkable, she could see the whole thing on a flat-screen TV."

Doctor left the area. DH and I breathed and said, "Let's go."

I dressed, fast, in the bathroom. I cried a little but sucked it up and said no . . . later.

When I came out, the nurse shared her surprise that I was up and around and ready to leave. Most people need a bit more rest, it seems. But my adrenaline had rushed at hearing "no eggs," (BP skyrocketed, too, says DH) and I would not experience any pain or feel like I'd even been anesthetized until fairly late in the evening.

As DH bundled me into my coat, the young nurse trainee came over to say good-bye. She was sweet. She really was. And when she enthusiastically said, "It's really nice out there — have a great Sunday," DH and I shared a bittersweet smile and strode out the way we'd come in 3 hours earlier: hand in hand, heart in heart.




*Guess what, dude, we already did. At length. We took the entire holiday season to weigh whether we should use donor eggs or take one shot with mine. It was a close call. But with eyes open we chose to do what has just freshly failed. Failed so much that none of DH's sperm even get to meet my eggs today. Today, we have learned my eggs are so bad that they don't even exist. So you might want to give us a minute.

**To be fair, he actually ended that sentence at "shots." And in the moment I assume he knows that I don't have to STOP progesterone, because that is not started until after a successful retrieval as defined by a harvest of more than ZERO eggs.

***Uh, I did have the procedure.

My Pal Trigger

At exactly 8:00 pm last night, DH pointed the HCG syringe at a purple-markered bull's-eye on my backside and said, "Sorry."

My only noticeable s/e was persistent gas bubbles that joined forces overnight to form a big, painful, wake-me-up abdominal balloon this morning. I walked it off, though, and all is fine.

Yesterday's monitoring showed follies-of-interest at 23, 17.5, 14, 13, and 9.5 mm. I was the only one in the room interested in the 9.5 one. Sure seems possible that it might make it to 12 mm, which is where Dr. K said she wanted to see them (she wasn't in the room, btw). When I gave a "Hey, maybe," on that the sonographer chirped, "Oh, I don't even expect to find a mature egg in that 13 mm follicle." Hokay. I opted to continue happy thoughts of having 4 over 12 mm — at that moment — and a little bit of time for them to grow.

Really, who knows what they'll find. If it's pudding, DH hopes it's butterscotch. And if it's rocks, I hope they are diamonds. I'll sell 'em on eBay.

My E2 was 1,545. Not sure where that's supposed to be, but the result meant the difference between triggering last night or tonight. They don't want the 23 mm follie to overmature and do us no good.

The cyst was bigger, but not by too much. I am eager for that sucker's aspiration so it will stop stabbing me.

Retrieval is at 7:15 am tomorrow!