We made an appointment today.
It's just a consult, another chance to sit down with a different doctor. We aren't at ALL happy with the ONLY fertility clinic in our state, so we have decided to travel to a nearby state for our next cycle. I don't really have any questions for him, as our last protocol worked fairly well and I assume we'll do something similar again. Our diagnosis hasn't changed, but with Mo's major lifestyle changes over the past year, I am hoping we will have better results.
We will be traveling to Dallas for this appointment, which apparently is the infertility capital of the world. Or, you would think anyway, given that there are no less than 6 IVF clinics in the Dallas area alone. SIX!!!! There might be something in the water there -- I counted no less than 30 IVF clinics in Texas altogether (according to the SART website). And our state can only muster one? Really?
Anyway, I'd like to hear if anyone out in blogland (helloooo?) has used this particular clinic in the past. Their success rates are phenomenal, and they offer the Att.ain program, which we are hoping to qualify for. I am very excited to go down there, see our fellow IF friends, and meet this guy.
So, what are your thoughts/opinions on Dallas IVF / Dr. Barnett? Anyone?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Role Reversal
Mo has really gotten on the baby bandwagon as of late. He is spending most of his afternoons and evenings researching clinics, IVF financing, procedures, success rates, you name it.
He even found us an insurance policy that will (eventually) cover at least two rounds of IVF. It's part of a maternity rider that has a 12-month waiting period, so we will have to spend about $3000 on it before it kicks in. Then there's a $1000 deductible. But, all said, if we use it within 24 months of purchasing it, it will be like getting $15,000 worth of coverage for $6000. WAY AWESOME.
Because of the waiting period, we are shelving it temporarily and plan on using it either as A) a back-up plan if this summer's attempts are unsuccessful or B) for a sibling if we get so lucky as to conceive and carry to term.
I hesitate to even write our "plans" as the universe often seems to laugh in my face when presented with such notions.
Still, it's nice to think about.
Which is about all I can do. Mo is busy as a bee, making phone calls, emailing people, applying for Att.ain and A.R.C. and anyone else who offers IVF financing or refund programs. I haven't done a thing.
Except, of course, bemoan my childless existence and the unfairness of the universe.
When did this happen? When did Mo become the productive one and I became the one unable to put one foot in front of the other? When did I become "too busy" to make a phone call or schedule an appointment? When did TTC and IVF become persona non grata -- words I luuurve (in theory) and yet avoid with startling regularity?
While I have a lot of (contained) excitement for another attempt, I am also filled with trepidation. With anxiety, and fear. With....panic?
I told Mo that it was so much easier two years ago. Two years ago, I had no idea how much it would hurt to be unsuccessful. Or half-successful, if you will. I had no idea how much it would hurt to learn that my baby -- our baby -- had died within my womb. I mean, I thought I knew. But I didn't know.
Now, I know. I know exactly what we are risking. And it scares me beyond words.
ART is, always, a gamble. We risk our money, our hearts, on a 50-50 chance at happiness. We blindly close our eyes and leap, hoping that we soar instead of sink. Praying that there's some sort of pillow to cushion our fall.
Before, I had no idea how much it would hurt to go crashing into the cement sidewalk. Now, a year after our second loss, I'm still bruised, still broken. And still wanting -- desperately wanting -- to take that leap again.
It's just much, much harder than I ever thought it would be.
He even found us an insurance policy that will (eventually) cover at least two rounds of IVF. It's part of a maternity rider that has a 12-month waiting period, so we will have to spend about $3000 on it before it kicks in. Then there's a $1000 deductible. But, all said, if we use it within 24 months of purchasing it, it will be like getting $15,000 worth of coverage for $6000. WAY AWESOME.
Because of the waiting period, we are shelving it temporarily and plan on using it either as A) a back-up plan if this summer's attempts are unsuccessful or B) for a sibling if we get so lucky as to conceive and carry to term.
I hesitate to even write our "plans" as the universe often seems to laugh in my face when presented with such notions.
Still, it's nice to think about.
Which is about all I can do. Mo is busy as a bee, making phone calls, emailing people, applying for Att.ain and A.R.C. and anyone else who offers IVF financing or refund programs. I haven't done a thing.
Except, of course, bemoan my childless existence and the unfairness of the universe.
When did this happen? When did Mo become the productive one and I became the one unable to put one foot in front of the other? When did I become "too busy" to make a phone call or schedule an appointment? When did TTC and IVF become persona non grata -- words I luuurve (in theory) and yet avoid with startling regularity?
While I have a lot of (contained) excitement for another attempt, I am also filled with trepidation. With anxiety, and fear. With....panic?
I told Mo that it was so much easier two years ago. Two years ago, I had no idea how much it would hurt to be unsuccessful. Or half-successful, if you will. I had no idea how much it would hurt to learn that my baby -- our baby -- had died within my womb. I mean, I thought I knew. But I didn't know.
Now, I know. I know exactly what we are risking. And it scares me beyond words.
ART is, always, a gamble. We risk our money, our hearts, on a 50-50 chance at happiness. We blindly close our eyes and leap, hoping that we soar instead of sink. Praying that there's some sort of pillow to cushion our fall.
Before, I had no idea how much it would hurt to go crashing into the cement sidewalk. Now, a year after our second loss, I'm still bruised, still broken. And still wanting -- desperately wanting -- to take that leap again.
It's just much, much harder than I ever thought it would be.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Hope
Last night, Mo found a comrade in arms.
He was so filled with awe to find an old friend who also is experiencing infertility. Who understands the pain and frustration of IVF. Whose wife also bursts into tears over apparently nothing and whose raging hormones often leave him feeling bewildered, powerless, and frustrated.
He was sharing a phone conversation he had with this friend when he said the WRONG THING.
"They know exactly what we're going through!"
Gently (or so I thought), I disagreed.
"No." I said. "They do not."
An argument followed, in which Mo told me that I built up walls (true), that I lacked sincerity (not true), and that I was determined to feel alone in this journey (somewhat true).
I tried to explain it to him, but we're in such different places. I read a quote somewhere that men are about three years behind us women on this whole IF emotional rollercoaster, and I find that to be true. Two years ago, Mo was still thinking it might still happen naturally and was in no hurry to move forward. Now, he is researching clinics and insurance plans and anxious to get the ball rolling as soon as possible.
I think his feelings were hurt, because he said at one point, "This thing hurts me, too, you know." And I know it does. He is just as childless as I am. He has had to endure just as many annoying fertiles and pretend happiness at just as many (if not more) surprise pregnancy announcements. When I say that no one gets it, I don't mean HIM.
I do mean that very, very few people do. I know this is an unpopular belief in our circles, and I'm not trying for the pain Olympics here. Some women who have been trying much less time have endured much more heartache. I tried to explain to Mo last night that what it boiled down to was a matter of hope.
I know quite well how frustrating ANY length of infertility is. I also know how it feels to be two years into the process. While hope is greatly diminished at that point, there still remains a flicker that someday, somehow, you will cross to the other side. By five years, your flicker is much less bright. At five years TTC, often with failed interventions under your belt, your hope at conceiving and carrying a child to term seems much less of a reality.
And by ten years? Its virtually non-existent.
That's not to say I don't have my moments. I do. I have moments where I think that maybe, just maybe, my miracle is waiting.
But most of the time, I'm quite skeptical. I don't believe that God has been "withholding" my blessing until the "perfect moment." I believe that, biologically, our chances at conception are small, and it will take great medical interventions to make it happen.
I don't believe that, after ten years, I will magically get pregnant all on my own.
At two years in, that's still a possibility for many.
At five, it's less so.
By ten? It's just not realistic.
Now, I know everyone has an infertility urban legend that can prove me wrong. I'm not looking for those, so please don't post them here. I'm simply trying to explain (to Mo, to myself), my inability to feel like any other IF veteran TRULY gets my experience. That's not to say they don't understand almost all of what I feel. I know that you, especially, do understand the heartache, the frustration, the anger. Anyone who has undergone IVF, had a miscarriage, or spent any length of time TTC gets all of that.
What someone who has only been trying for two years, or even five, doesn't completely get is where my head is, after ten years at this game. Only someone who has spent just as much time on THIS side, waiting, can get that.
And, in all reality, that number of people is very small. Most people will try interventions much sooner than we did. Most people will not wait five years to see a specialist, nor another two to start treatments. Most people don't take year-long breaks in the midst of treatments. I know that our story is not the norm. And, in all honesty, I'm as okay with that as I can be.
Just don't try to tell me that you know EXACTLY how I feel. Because you don't, and your friends don't, and the fact is that they CAN'T. They can understand most of it, they can be a support system, and someone to lean on and commiserate with. They can sympathize (or is it empathize? I always get those confused).
They can do and say all the right things, and they can be a wonderful source of comfort.
But they will never understand, until they've been there.
He was so filled with awe to find an old friend who also is experiencing infertility. Who understands the pain and frustration of IVF. Whose wife also bursts into tears over apparently nothing and whose raging hormones often leave him feeling bewildered, powerless, and frustrated.
He was sharing a phone conversation he had with this friend when he said the WRONG THING.
"They know exactly what we're going through!"
Gently (or so I thought), I disagreed.
"No." I said. "They do not."
An argument followed, in which Mo told me that I built up walls (true), that I lacked sincerity (not true), and that I was determined to feel alone in this journey (somewhat true).
I tried to explain it to him, but we're in such different places. I read a quote somewhere that men are about three years behind us women on this whole IF emotional rollercoaster, and I find that to be true. Two years ago, Mo was still thinking it might still happen naturally and was in no hurry to move forward. Now, he is researching clinics and insurance plans and anxious to get the ball rolling as soon as possible.
I think his feelings were hurt, because he said at one point, "This thing hurts me, too, you know." And I know it does. He is just as childless as I am. He has had to endure just as many annoying fertiles and pretend happiness at just as many (if not more) surprise pregnancy announcements. When I say that no one gets it, I don't mean HIM.
I do mean that very, very few people do. I know this is an unpopular belief in our circles, and I'm not trying for the pain Olympics here. Some women who have been trying much less time have endured much more heartache. I tried to explain to Mo last night that what it boiled down to was a matter of hope.
I know quite well how frustrating ANY length of infertility is. I also know how it feels to be two years into the process. While hope is greatly diminished at that point, there still remains a flicker that someday, somehow, you will cross to the other side. By five years, your flicker is much less bright. At five years TTC, often with failed interventions under your belt, your hope at conceiving and carrying a child to term seems much less of a reality.
And by ten years? Its virtually non-existent.
That's not to say I don't have my moments. I do. I have moments where I think that maybe, just maybe, my miracle is waiting.
But most of the time, I'm quite skeptical. I don't believe that God has been "withholding" my blessing until the "perfect moment." I believe that, biologically, our chances at conception are small, and it will take great medical interventions to make it happen.
I don't believe that, after ten years, I will magically get pregnant all on my own.
At two years in, that's still a possibility for many.
At five, it's less so.
By ten? It's just not realistic.
Now, I know everyone has an infertility urban legend that can prove me wrong. I'm not looking for those, so please don't post them here. I'm simply trying to explain (to Mo, to myself), my inability to feel like any other IF veteran TRULY gets my experience. That's not to say they don't understand almost all of what I feel. I know that you, especially, do understand the heartache, the frustration, the anger. Anyone who has undergone IVF, had a miscarriage, or spent any length of time TTC gets all of that.
What someone who has only been trying for two years, or even five, doesn't completely get is where my head is, after ten years at this game. Only someone who has spent just as much time on THIS side, waiting, can get that.
And, in all reality, that number of people is very small. Most people will try interventions much sooner than we did. Most people will not wait five years to see a specialist, nor another two to start treatments. Most people don't take year-long breaks in the midst of treatments. I know that our story is not the norm. And, in all honesty, I'm as okay with that as I can be.
Just don't try to tell me that you know EXACTLY how I feel. Because you don't, and your friends don't, and the fact is that they CAN'T. They can understand most of it, they can be a support system, and someone to lean on and commiserate with. They can sympathize (or is it empathize? I always get those confused).
They can do and say all the right things, and they can be a wonderful source of comfort.
But they will never understand, until they've been there.
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