Mother fucking pieces of shit. Who is this rant directed toward you may ask? I don’t know! But someone is surely to blame in all of this. Right? RIGHT???
I’ve been monitoring for a frozen embryo transfer and yesterday the nurse calls. “Hi,” she says. “Hey,” I say. “How are you?” Oh for fuck’s sake, I think, what now. “Fine,” I say, like, move it along, what’s the deal, why are you handling me. “So not great news,” she begins. Apparently I surged (which is what they were waiting for, and makes me think of a geyser, so much dignity and grace in this fertility game!) but the levels were too low, so the doctor didn’t want to thaw the embryos. Instead I need to wait for next cycle and I now need to do a medicated round so that they can control things.
Let me repeat that. I now need to do a medicated frozen transfer. Now the entire point of even freezing these fuckers was so that I could do a natural cycle. And that was supposed to increase my odds because my body would have had a chance to return to a normal state. And now am I back where I fucking started??? So was there even a point? Did I pay a cryo fee AND an frozen embryo transfer fee just for nothing??? Oh, and because this round was cancelled it will of course be an entirely new fee. Out of pocket, of course.
“We’ll put you into a temporarily menopausal state,” the nurse explains as she tells me the process of using Estrogen patches and Lupron shots, and I feel like my head is going to explode. Because THAT sounds healthy as shit. And oh! Wonderful! More meds! More shots! More money! More stress!
Of course I was at work when she called and about to go into a meeting, and felt like crying and then eating massive amounts of chocolate. WHY can’t anything just be straightforward? WHY is it that as soon as I think there’s a course of action it changes up and I’m now signed up for yet another month, yet another round of medical intervention, yet another protocol? When the nurse mentioned that I would need to start intramuscular progesterone shots I wanted to throw my phone at the wall. Because I thought I was DONE with that shit. I was donate-all-my-extra-unused-syringes done.
And it leads me to wonder when I will be DONE done. Part of me feels like I want to pack it in. I mean I’ll do this fucking transfer, whatever, we’ve come this far and are in it this deep, but I feel farther away from getting pregnant than ever. It doesn’t even feel like a real possibility for me anymore. It’s been 2 1/2 years. When do I wave the white flag and tend to my wounds as best I can? I don’t know. But I don’t feel optimistic.