Bunny is the name I have christened my dear husband’s ex wife. It’s fitting because her house stinks to high heavens like rabbits. The resemblance stops there. Bunny is neither cute nor cuddly. She is a pain in the ass. 

Hubby’s eldest child is mildly sick with a cold. Now, this child has the immune system of the gods. He never, ever gets sick. But now his nose is a little runny. He has a cough. No fever, no strong desire to sleep, no decrease in energy. A cold. Bunny told him tonight he wasn’t allowed to run for two weeks, or else he would get pneumonia and have to have tubes down his throat. What the (*&^! The boy likes to gallop around for a few minutes in the evening to take off some energy. It was 50 degrees today and so I let him ‘gallop’ before Bunny came to pick him up for her two hours with him (dh is custodial parent, and Bunny gets the kids one evening a week and part of the weekend). The poor kid is scared to death that he’s going to have tubes down his throat and catch pneumonia.  

Why did she do that? I am way more pissed off than I should be. But I love these kids. I take care of them, and hell would freeze over before I’d let Eldest get pneumonia. Bunny doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and she’s needlessly scaring my stepson. Oh, but she’ll let the six year old watch rated R movies that give him nightmares for months. But that’s another post. 

One of the best things about having a child of my own with dh is that there will be no Bunny involved. We can take them to those places on Saturday. There will be no R movies until they’re quite a bit older. It’s so hard to be a stepparent, to have to share parenting. I know I’m not his mother. I don’t call myself that. But I’m an adult who cares, who loves him, and would never harm him. Dh and I have a very stable home. We have rules but they’re not excessive. We have structure. We have love. The kids have learned manners, respect, how to clean, and how to ride bikes with us. Bunny is the fun mom. She doesn’t have to discipline because we do. I know the boys need us to be their foundation because Bunny doesn’t give them one. No, she tells them they’re getting pneumonia if they run. Idiot. That’s all I can say. He probably got sick from smelling all that rabbit urine anyway. 

I’m not even half way through my 2ww and I’m bored to tears. I’m a stay at home stepmom, but I’m not supposed to do housework. I’m not to lift anything heavy or exert myself. Then what the hell am I supposed to do? Agh! I’m bored. And our dishwasher has a funny, burning smell. Just what we need. A burning dishwasher. I need to find some ways to kill the time. I don’t watch a lot of TV, especially when the kids are around. I can’t clean. I can’t do laundry. Hell, I was going to be looking forward to this “lazy time” and instead I’m going crazy. I’ll call DH and bug him at work. Then I’ll call my mother, three hours earlier in time zones than us, and  bug her. Then I’ll sit and google anything else I can about IVF and babies to make me depressed hopeful.

Well, it looks like my three little embryos are happy little things. They’re all grade 1, all four cell. Such tiny little creatures, now all in my uterus. I hope they’re happy. Jim and I were discussing what we would do with triplets. Ugh. But better than no baby! I have high hopes that this will suceed. I’m being an official couch potato today, letting Jim wait on me, cook dinner (although he kept setting off the smoke detector when he made me lunch), and watching junk TV. 

While I was waiting in the stirups at the RE’s office, I kept hearing this baby cry. Now, who in their right mind would bring a baby to a medical office full of infertile women? And it wasn’t like it was there for a few minutes. For well over a half hour I could hear it fussing. Is that cruel? Find a sitter!

I heard this afternoon that only three of my lowly six eggs fertilized. Three?!?!? Now they want me to do the embryo transplant tomorrow. I cried. Tomorrow? The eggs normally would be in the fallopian tubes, not in my uterus. They only want you to do a two day transfer if it looks like the eggs might not survive in the petri dish until a five day transfer. Hell, I can’t even get a three day transfer out of my hopeless eggs. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck!

For all of the horror stories about embryo transfers I’ve heard, I thought mine would be horrible. Lots of doctors put people under general anesthesia or at least knock them out a little. Mine didn’t, and that concerned me. My experience was great (if poking holes in the walls of my vagina could be called great). They had me take a Xanax two hours before the procedure, so I was pretty calm. Both Jim and I had to go to the reproductive diagnostic center next door to show our photo ID. I hope this prevents any mix up between eggs and sperm and makes sure the right things get put together. Then Jim did his donation and I went next door to my RE and waited. Jim and I went back into the nurses office where she gave me some paperwork, but told me I wouldn’t remember it (I do – clearly). I received a shot of a narcotic to make me relax even more. It made me sort of dizzy and was also to help with the pain. Once I was all drugged up, we went into the procedure room.

The doctor gave me a couple of shots to numb the vagina walls. He said they might hurt but they didn’t. The he took this funky needle ultrasound thing and started to suck out the follicles. There was one point where it hurt sort of bad, but again it was not horrible. Like menstrual cramps. My left ovary didn’t provide anything at all, but my right eventually yielded six eggs. Much less than I would have hoped for, but enough. The doc said they liked to see five or more. I’m barely more. I won’t know until tomorrow if they fertilize. We’re doing ICSI because of Jim’s sperm (they all have antibodies attached to them). I’m nervous about that, because the eggs could be immature, or they could just not fertilize.

Tonight was also my first progesterone in oil shot (pio, for short). It was not bad (today is the day of “not bads”). The only thing was that Jim had to do it. Here is how it went: I was bare butted next to the bed. The needle was prepared and ready. The skin was iced. He had the needle in his hand. We were ready. Me: “OK, I’m ready”. Jim: “OK, here we go”. Nothing. Me: “Uh, Jim, you can go now”. Jim: “Sure, yeah, here I go”. Nothing. Me: “You can do this Jim. Please. Please!!!!” Jim: “OK, here I go”. Nothing. Me: “Just poke the needle in – the suspence is killing me”. Jim: “OK” and he did. It didn’t hurt, except when he pulled the needle out.

Yesterday Jim  had to have his elbow drained of fluid. He had three needles poked into his elbow. That’s justice. Now if he could just repeat that 100 times.

 Tomorrow I’m going to count how many time’s I’ve shot myself. I’m morbidly curious.

I was just thinking about the fact that, 40 years ago, most of us with severe fertility problems would be out of luck. IVF treatment isn’t that old, and the stimulating medications they have are improving all the time. It really, truly sucks that we’re in this mess and can’t easily have the child that we want, but we have some real hope. That hope wouldn’t have existed 40 years ago.

For all my complaints and bitching and moaning about my situation, the endless needles and blood draws and invasive tests, we’re lucky that we have the hope these things bring. I know I may not get pregnant on my first IVF, or my second or ever, but I can hold onto technology and reproductive science and the future. At least until I get so depressed over all this s#!t that I give up and get another dog.

I received good news from the doc today – my egg retrival will be on Tuesday at 12:20 PM. No more blood draws, and only three more shots (until I start my progesterone in oil – ugh). But because it’s so late in the day, I also get no food or drink from midnight of Monday until after the retrieval. And being this late in the day makes me wonder if all the docs will be thinking about is lunch and rushing. But if I had it in the morning, I’d be worried that they’re sleepy. I just need to trust them in their professionalism, which is a little harder when they’re dealing with my most private of private areas.

Speaking of which…. my husband went with me to this appointment (normally he has to stay and take care of the kids). I wonder what it’s like for him to see this guy he doesn’t  know probing the depths of my vagina with a wand. Is it uncomfortable? Weird? Arousing? Amusing? All I know is that I have around 6 follicles that will be ripe by Tuesday. I’m happy with that. Now, Tuesday when they’re poking holes in the walls of my precious vagina with a needle I won’t be happy. But now I am, on this gloomy Saturday.