Bitter is the new Tasha

I was going to write an amusing day-by-day description of the hell that is shooting up every day during the IVF process, but the truth is…..it’s not that bad. Oh sure, on my first day of Menopur, immediately after the injection I felt like I was being eaten alive by fire ants – which led me to google “Is the Menopur shot supposed to hurt?” Which led me to an array of articles, most along the lines of “Menopur, the shot of extreme pain, fear, and loathing.”

So there’s that.

But otherwise, one gets used to them, especially if you’re not the least bit needle-phobic, which I am not. A good thing, too, considering it took a stalwart 7 tries the other day for my every-other-day blood draw.

But I digress.

Follicle Watch 2014 has proven to be interesting. The bottom line is that Shithead the Cyst is still in the fucking way, squishing together the follicles on that side and preventing them from growing. So that leaves around 6-7 follicles on the other side, which ain’t a lot, kids. This past week, as I’ve driven to ORM every other day, I’ve had a touch of PTSD as it’s recalled for me the early days of CancerLand, when I was still desperately trying to figure out a treatment plan, and went to each new appointment shiny and optimistic, only to leave completely crushed. One time in particular I went to see a renowned oncologist, who told me all sorts of wonderful things about my tumor being in a shitty spot and thus “your breast will never look anything like a normal breast” and so on. I left there and drove home like a madwoman, screaming the whole way, railing against god, fate, life, everything.

So yeah, déjà vu.

On those long drives home, I get to contemplate such things again, ie life, fate, the whole shebang. And I wind up with a little black cloud of bitterness swirling over my head, in true Schleprockian fashion. Yes, I’m bitter about the stupid choices I’ve made in the past, the twists of fate, the bad decisions, the idiot people who I let suck up too much of my time and energy, and so on.

But I also have that external bitterness. At, for example, idiot doctors of the past, who don’t really do their jobs. Like when I asked my gyno some SEVEN years ago if I should do fertility testing, and she scoffed at the idea – “what will you do with the info that you get anyway?” Well, dumbass, maybe if you had said “Yes, that’s a good idea, because your chances of having a child go off a cliff after 40,” then I would have done something. Same for the tests I actually did do several years ago. Maybe the doctor then should have told me that yes, even though I had rock$tar test results, that doesn’t mean jack shit when it comes to the age of your eggs and how viable they are, or aren’t.

Then there’s a whole slew of other people to be bitter about. The women who pop out kids without a second thought and then don’t take care of them. The people who seem to have completely lost their sensitivity chip. Those who make asinine comments like “having kids and getting cancer are really a lot alike – you don’t know beforehand what to expect or what you might be getting into.” Oh sure, they’re exactly alike. Except in one you have, you know, KIDS – and in the other scenario, you face death. Otherwise, totally the same. Yes, that’s really a comment someone made. Go figure.

The downward spiral here started when I tried to look up how many women of “advanced maternal age” actually tried IVF each year  - and while I couldn’t find those figures, I did find how many women of my particular age have been successful with IVF. Any guesses as to the number? Anyone? Bueller?

One.

There’s been one. The unicorn of fertility treatment, lauded in medical articles.

I brought this up with Most Awesome Dr. Barbieri, my RE, and she kind of looked at me sympathetically, as in “yeah, I tried to tell you, dumbass.” At least that’s how I interpreted it.

Me: So my solution is that I’m just going to boycott the internet. No more Googles.

Dr. B: Excellent idea! And whatever you do, don’t google celebrity pregnancies either.

Me: Oh yeah, I HATE them!

Dr. B: They’re terrible! They all use donor eggs but no one says anything!

Me: Jerks!

Dr. B: Exactly!

Suffice it to say that if this works, it’ll be a true miracle. Not as in “blah blah the miracle of birth blah fucking blah,” but rather an honest-to-god-walk-on-water miracle. In short, when I go in for my egg retrieval on Friday, I need to be the unicorn.

I really hope that Stan, my bowling, chain-smoking, beer-swilling guardian angel, is paying attention these days.