I’m cycling again.  It seems like it’s been forever.

I have read many blogs over the years about local monitoring and then traveling to another clinic for the transfer.  That’s what I’m doing now and it’s weird.

I had picked out a clinic near me thinking we’d transfer our embryos here, but then we lost our nerve (and took a good look at our insurance) and decided to just fly back to the clinic that’s already done six IVFs for us.

For some reason, possibly because I am an idiot and/or I get emotionally weird about cycling, I picked the local clinic that is out of our insurance network.  This would cost us thousands of dollars more than it should.  But I reaaallly liked them, I said.  My husband informed me that he reaaaally likes having that several thousand dollars for us, instead of buying some doctor another boat.

Of course all this happened last week when I’d already gotten my old clinic to send “orders” to the local clinic.  I was supposed to go  in some time this week for a day 3 workup, and then a saline ultrasound to see if my uterus was still seaworthy.  It would be fine, because I’m supposed to get my period today or tomorrow, and there would be time to get the coordinator in Chicago to send new orders to the new clinic.  But since I am 47, and since I needed a few more days to get all this arranged before starting my period, it came early.  On Saturday.

So I am either going to the new clinic for the day 3 deal, if the coordinator faxes the orders in time, or I’m going to the old clinic, or I’m going to a Kinko’s or someplace and making them do it.

In addition to the fact that I can now count on my period to arrive within a 7 day range instead of day-30-on-the-money, I now have a child who might not have a babysitter when I have to go to the clinic for this or that.  Thankfully, when I’m flat on my back getting an ultrasound I definitely can’t have him with me, and I’m pretty much always flat on my back getting an ultrasound, until I’m flat on my back having a transfer.  This is good; I do not want to be one of those horrible women who brings a child – and an extra cute one, at that – to an infertility clinic.

I get it now.  It’s hard to call a babysitter at 6:30 in the morning because you have to get to the clinic before 9, especially when you don’t always know until the day before that you have to go in for yet another blood test or lining check.  And I could see how I’d just grit my teeth and take him, and hope  no one was in the waiting room, or coming out to the waiting room after discovering their pregnancy was ectopic, or being told that they should consider donor egg, or any of the other many items of bad news you can get at the clinic.  If anyone was in the waiting room I’d wish I’d crammed him into his IVF onesie, and then fasten a look of apologetic gratitude on my face, and then wonder if hearing that he was the result of IVF #6 would be encouraging or terrifying.  Not that anyone would ask.

I need to find one of those emergency daycare places where I can show up unannounced and drop him off for a few hours.  A lot of people call that place “Grandma’s,” and I wish I could too… I have an excellent and willing grandma but she is many hours away and therefore geographically undesirable.

I’m feeling okay about the drugs, more than I did for a long time before.  I think I worried a lot about how the hormones would affect my mental health before, since deep down I knew I was at least a little bit depressed.  Now that I’m on antidepressants and enjoying the hell out of having energy and feeling good about myself, I figure I can weather the whatever.  There is also some really good growth in the area of weight / fat / body image, which used to be a prolific producer of self-hate for me.  I’ma write about that another day.

The biggest problem I have with this cycle (so far), setting aside that we may have to pay way too much for today’s Day 3 workup, is that I’m seriously overconfident that it will work.  I don’t remember how to be uncertain and pessimistic.  When I think about later in the year, I catch myself thinking “I’ll be X weeks pregnant by then,” and that’s not a good idea.  I seem to have lost my “if.”  Many infertile people would agree, because we have learned the hard way, that being chipper and positive about these things doesn’t help one bit.  I don’t know about you but I get seriously irritated when people suggest that “being negative” (I call that being realistic) will hurt my outcome.  If being ultranegative, or cautious, brings me peace, then that’s what I need to do.

Speaking of that sort of thing… I am on an email list for my infertility demographic and have caught a little bit of back-and-forth which I have seen many times before.  This is the situation where a woman has received a series of betas like 6, 18, 41, and the emails have subject lines like “Re: is there any hope?”

My experience says: no.  Obviously there is always a sliver of hope.  But does this poor woman really need 12 people to tell her about her sister’s cousin’s French teacher who had a beta of 2 and ended up with a beautiful blah blah blah blah?  Because betas that start that low are just plain not a good sign, and my heart breaks for her because I have been there, and the chirpy messages of unrealistic encouragement kinda bug me.

But since she emailed asking for hope, I guess that is what she wants, and who am I to say that’s a bad thing?