My husband is super-cute. I’ve said this before, right? Last night, when I was clearly tired, getting sick, and upset about this whole possible-ovulation-while-on-the-pill thing, he says, “See? You so much want to have a baby, even birth control can’t stop you!” To cheer me up. (Imagine that with his adorable accent, and you can’t help but smile. Go ahead, try.)
I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept waking up, thinking about what the results of the blood work would be, when I would get them, when I would know what the next steps will be. And whether or not I should go to work with this cold. When I finally woke up for good, about 6:30, I had the faintest of cramps. I began to think that maybe things would turn out all right. Maybe we’d still be on-track.
When I went to the bathroom, the spotting had gotten heavier, but still nothing close to a period. I called in late to work and waited for the clinic to call.
When 10:00 rolled around and I still hadn’t gotten a call, I called and left a message. And then I went to work. Just as I was leaving for my first home visit of the day–a full 24 hours since our appointment yesterday–I got a call from the clinic saying that they still didn’t have the results of my blood work. The dumb-ass lab had sent my blood out of state for some stupid reason, and the nurse was hoping to have the results just before noon. Which came and went, still without a call.
Sometime during my second home visit, I checked my phone and saw that I had a voicemail. Which I couldn’t stop thinking about the rest of the visit. When I was finally able to check, lo and behold, it was Dr. C himself–which is never a good sign. According to his message, it’s a cyst, not an unwise attempt at ovulation. And, if there’s any good news here, it’s that the cyst isn’t producing any hormones, as evidenced by the fact that I started bleeding in earnest right around lunch time. But he wanted to talk about what we should do about it, and asked me to let the clinic know when would be a good time for him to call back.
What I love about Dr. C is that when I called the clinic, I was informed that he wasn’t in the office today but was working from home. He called me from his house, you guys. And he called me back after work, as I had requested.
Here’s the thing. Even though the cyst isn’t producing estrogen, it could still fuck with our chances of getting good follicles–and therefore good eggs and embryos–by its mere presence. Apparently it’s huge. Dr. C also mentioned my high-ish FSH (thanks for the reminder) and the fact that there’s a possibility we won’t even have enough good-quality embryos to make it to biopsy and PGS as it is, so why start off with another strike against us?
He’s got a good point. As I type this, there are tears in my eyes, but I have to remember that the whole reason we’re opting for the extra expense of genetic testing is that we want to give ourselves the very best chance of this IVF cycle working. And this isn’t the way to do it.
So I have to go back on BCPs tomorrow (yay–no, wait, I mean, boo). The IVF coordinator will call to go over a new calendar, which pushes everything to after the holidays. This was the original plan, so I shouldn’t be so bummed out about it. Except I am.
I just am.
If there’s a silver lining (Hubby was just asking me what this phrase meant), I guess it’s that work-wise, the timing would have sucked. I have IEPs and other meetings coming up. Plus, we have a shitload of deadlines coming up before Christmas. Throw-myself-into-my-work-in-a-lame-attempt-to-distract-myself-from-the-calendar-of-events-hanging-on-my-refrigerator-that-we-should-be-following-but-we’re-not it is.