Layla's Dark and Foreboding Weblog

Tuesday finally came, time for the blood test! We didn't sleep a wink the night before. The two of us up every 2 minutes, trying not to wake the other.

We went in and they drew my blood for the 12739th time. Then we went home and waited. 3 hours later we got the call:

"Layla? Hi, it's Jennifer from the fertility clinic. I'm calling to tell you-"

At this point, I honestly thought I would pee myself. There was not one single iota of hope in me that the news would be anything other than bad.

"- your pregnancy test is positive."

No. Way. I think I let a cryptic "Holy Fucking Shit" escape my lips at this point. M lit up.

"But -"

No. NO BUTS. Ok. But what?

"-your numbers are low. They're at a 20, when we like to see a 50 by this point. So, consider this a 'cautious positive."

Oh. Ok. Let me go into my bedroom and cry for a few hours. My mother calling me, "Stay positive!" Punch. My sister-in-law saying, "It is what it is. You'll see in a few days." Kick. Then my doctor called.

"Layla. You *are* pregnant. Be happy, but don't go running out to buy a crib. I want you to come in on Thursday to test again. Low numbers are fine, as long as they keep climbing."

So we wait. M is the eternal optimist, as always. "How's the babies?" he'd say passing me in the hallway and giving me a little pat on the tummy. So hopeful. And we wait. And keep giving the awful shots in the ass every night that start to hurt more and more each time, since there are no un-bruised parts left. And we wait.

This morning at 8:15, we arrive at the clinic for my blood draw. And we drive home, full of hope. Full.

At 11:00am, the phone rings. It's my doctor. Not her assistant. Her. Bad, bad, bad sign.

"Layla. I wanted to call you as soon as I got the results because I know you're waiting -"

Wait, this could be good news? Actual good news for us?

"I'm sorry, Layla. Your numbers were 22. I'm so, so sorry."

What else did she say? I have no idea. I was pregnant. Now, I'm not. Strike 3, you're out.

What now? I don't know. We're still thinking about adoption. M's company has a great Adoption Assistance program. Uncle Sam gives a $10k credit. Our parents have offered to help with costs if we decide to do IVF again. I just don't know.

So, we'll just wait.

Posted by layla at 04:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I realized this morning that I kinda screwed myself here. We had no intentions of telling anyone when we got pregnant until the 2nd trimester because of our high risk for miscarriage. By publicly outing our IVF adventures, I suppose we'll tell you all once we know. We don't know. Yet.

On Sunday, April 15th two fertilized embryos were transferred into my uterus in a completely anti-climactic procedure in a sterile O.R. They gave me pictures of them and everything. M was in Atlanta on business, so my mother came into town to help me while I was on bed rest, and to give me my Progesterone shots. My arse is literally covered in bruises from the 1 1/2" needles and the thick oil the stuff comes in. It's nasty, but it will keep me pregnant.

On Tuesday the 24th we'll have our pregnancy test. I've been firmly warned NOT to take a home test before then since the drugs I'm on messes with everything and will be giving me false negatives and positives. Grrr. Six more days.

That said...Ladies and Gents, I give you...The Kids:

Posted by layla at 07:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

They were all consumed in our bed yesterday.

At 6:45 am I arrived at the Presbyterian Hospital ART (Assisted Reproductive Technology) Center for my egg retrieval. Since I was going under general anesthesia, I couldn't eat or drink anything since the night before. My procedure was going to be at 7:45am, so I spent an hour in pre-op answering questions and getting vitals taken. Then the anesthesiologist hooked me up to an IV (fucking OW) and they brought me into the operating room. 8 minutes later, 13 viable eggs were retrieved from my plump and ready ovaries.

After I started coming out of my sleep, they came to get M to give his part of our baby makin'. Instructions for retrograde ejaculation: Urinate, ejaculate, urinate. Well, after the first urination, which gets tossed, he couldn't pee again. No biggie. Wait. Ok, done. Nothing. Not one single viable sperm to fertilize my eggs with. Fucking hell. Do it again. Nothing. Shit.

Dr. Lee, our reproductive endocrinologist and new best friend, came in to tell us the news: they were bringing in a urologist to get the sperm out. Wha? Yep. They were going to use a needle to aspirate M's epididymis to drag those tadpoles out. The OR is a window away from the lab, so each time they collect, they bring it into the lab for the embryologists to inspect. The embryologists will give a thumbs up or down for the doc to keep going. After a series of thumbs downs, the doctor said the words no man on earth wants to hear: "We're going to have to go into your testicle."

After 3 biopsies into his left nut, M produced the mother load, pardon the pun. A big thumbs up from the lab and we were on our way. After a bit of recovery for him, we left with about 30 vicodin each, his balls in a gauze thong and me clutching my abdomen. 9 hours for what should have been a 2 hour thing. Then we went home and rested in bed for the rest of the day and into the night with evil food and giggles. And to wait.

This morning we paced around the house. Me hunched over from cramps, him holding his poor nuts. Call already!!! We were waiting to hear if the sperm and egg fell in love and any of our eggs became fertilized.

At about 8:45am we got the call. 11 of the 13 eggs were good enough to use. 7 fertilized. 7. Holy shit. So now we wait some more. We may transfer them into me on Friday or Sunday, depending on their cell division and growth. We're going crazy, but we knew that would happen. Pregnancy test on the 24th.

Send all your good prayers/mojo/vibes this way. We're waiting.

And waiting.

Posted by layla at 10:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

When I was about 9 years old, I was playing in my front yard in early spring when I looked down and noticed a single crocus growing in the lawn. One single purple crocus. I immediately fell madly in love with this beautiful and lonely flower, and vowed to do all I could to keep it company and save it from certain demise: impatient mailmen traipsing across our lawn, surly paperboys demanding their collection money, meddling neighbors wanting to meet the new people. No, I would keep this crocus safe forever.

The next morning, before I began the walk to school, I checked on the crocus, who was lively and proud in the morning sun. Not 2 feet from my new friend grew a yellow buttercup, overnight. Could it have been there yesterday and I hadn't noticed it? No, not a chance. It was pretty and perky and yellow. Its color alone is meant to be noticed, right?

When I got home from school that day, I noticed that the crocus didn't look as lonely as the day before. It was a little straighter. A little prouder, rounder, even, like it had the puffed chest of a charlatan touting his elixir for a better life. The buttercup even looked like it was leaning closer to the crocus. I felt jealous. Of a flower.

That evening, I sat on the front stoop with my young brother, A, who was about two years old. Walking and talking a bit. Kids were playing in their yards. The older boy across the street had his hockey net set up in the road and was playing with his friends. The two sisters next door were coming out of their yard now and then, talking loudly about their made-up reason for needing to be in the front yard, so as to not let on that they were sizing up their new neighbor and her little brother.

Across the street, next to the hockey player's house, the loud Saab with no tailpipe pulled up in their driveway. Mr. D'Angelis got out of his car, dressed in his Long Island Railroad conductor’s uniform, and went to the front door. As he turned the knob, the big red Golden Retriever leapt from the door to kiss his owner hello. He then bounded across the yard and across the street to greet the two sisters from next door with slobbery licks. Mr. D'Angelis called him home, and the big red Golden Retriever ran back across our yard, then to the hockey player's yard and then on home. We didn't have a dog at this time, so the spectacle was exhilarating for us. We wanted a dog.

Afterwards, I went back to my crocus. And I looked to his other friend the buttercup. But the buttercup was gone. In its place was a smearing of yellow torn petals. The big red Golden Retriever had trampled it in his quest to greet the entire block before being put back inside. I felt terrible. Not for me, since I did in fact harbor some jealousy toward the buttercup, but for the crocus. Now the crocus would be alone again. At least after I had to go in for the night.

In the morning I came out to check on it again before going to school, and wasn't completely surprised to see it wasn't there. I was devastated, but not surprised. I think I actually cried when I saw that it was gone. I knew what happened. It certainly died of loneliness, sadness from losing its only friend.

This experience stayed with me for weeks, and in my nine year old mind, I kept looking for some deep meaning in it. Was I going to lose a friend? Was I going to die? The following spring the crocus and the buttercup came back. I was delighted, but also a year older and far wiser to the ways of the world. I went through major personal transformation in those years. It took me until very recently to understand the true lesson that I learned. And the start of spring brings me right back there each time.

Posted by layla at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)