Retrieval Day {Part III}

Friday, 1-22-10 (Day 24)

Ciprofloxin (500mg tablet, twice daily): Since I couldn't eat or drink anything after midnight due to today's retrieval, my nurse coordinator allowed me skip my Dexamethasone. So besides the introduction of the E2 lowering Dostinex, this was my only pill of the day.

Clindamyacin (150mg suppository): Good thing this was the last one, because documenting these vaginal suppositories seems almost inappropriate.

Dostinex (.5mg, oral pill): I really don't mind adding another pill into the mix when it holds the capability of deflating bloat like this one does.

PIO (1ml, IM injection): I was trying to figure out why this injection was more painful than I remember it being, when my husband removed the shot and vocalized that he forgot to switch from the massive 22 1/2 gage needle that's included on the 3mL syringe to the smaller, less evasive 18 gage one before injecting.

Yeah, that would explain why.

Egg Retrieval: Since this was my third time going through the retrieval process, nothing was new. I was extremely comfortable and not in the least bit anxious, because I knew what to expect and I was thrilled at the thought of receiving an amazing number from the doctor as soon as the anesthesia wore off.

I was wheeled into the operating room welcoming the nice long nap I was about to take, scooting myself down the table and raising my wrist for the doctor without even being asked to do so. I smiled as I felt the cool rush of the anesthesia and the urge to cough that always follows as I start to drift off into a state of bliss, excited to get this party stated. And then I woke up quickly-as usual-alert and asking how many eggs were retrieved and how many were mature.

The nurse or the doctor-I don't remember which one because I was still a little loopy-smiled and congratulated me on my eighteen retrieved eggs with five thought to be mature, and seven still being watched.

I can't remember who told me, but the numbers bore into my brain and they still haven't left.

I remember thinking to myself that they must have mixed me up with someone else. I even passed a sharp glance over to the bed on the left to be sure I was the only one in the room to receive this news, because it just couldn't be right, it wasn't meant for me to hear. Because last I heard the doctor was thrilled with my response, beyond elated with my thirty-something follicles. I asked him how many he expected to retrieve, and he responded with a number between twenty-five and thirty, with around fifteen expected to be mature.

Fifteen, not five.

How did we retrieve less follicles and end up with even less mature eggs than last cycle?

I'm not going to lie; I was pretty upset. Disappointed, angry, saddened and confused don't even begin to describe the horrendous mix of emotions that ran hot through my body, burning and boiling inside of me. I wanted to strangle the news deliverer, tell them there must be a mistake and wipe that perky grin off their face.

I don't remember who it was, but I remember them smiling, and I wanted them to stop.

I was not the best patient after that. I got snappy with the new strange and slow nurse when she started to go over the instructions for the next few days with me, because I've heard them all before. I even waited until she left the room and started removing my IV, ready to escape that cold, sterile room, still holding a grudge from earlier when she did a horrible job of inserting it in the first place. It's a good thing she came back before I could finish removing the tape, or I probably would have made a mess of myself. I ignored her hand as she tried to help me to the restroom, because I was steady enough on my own. And after I got dressed, I rolled my eyes when she made me wait for the wheelchair.

And as she turned around, I walked myself out.

I feel completely horrified and embarrassed that I'm documenting myself being a less than desirable patient, and I'm not proud of how I was acting or how I took the news of my less than stellar meatball count. Now that a few hours have passed and I've calmed myself down, I realize that I should still be praising God through this storm and thankful for the blessing of my five precious eggs. God is still in control, and how I responded today did nothing short of exude a childish behavior and severe lack of faith.

I reacted like a spoiled brat, and in my disappointment I limited God.

There is still a part of me that wants to call up the doctor right now and discuss the matter, inquiring about the false hope I was given. Ask him why in the world he led me to believe we were expecting around fifteen mature eggs when he only managed to retrieve about five, and if he were to smile and tell me that it only takes one I would throat punch him. I want to know what happened to the thirty two follicles we were staring at on the screen last Wednesday, and why my otherwise noted healthy body happens to be a freak of nature when it comes to all things IVF.

I want to know if this is my fault because I messed up the trigger shot.

But then there's another part of me that refuses to give up hope. A piece of my heart that feels a deep and unconditional love for my five precious meatball eggs, and the other seven that just may reach maturity and fertilize after all, despite my bipolar negativity and uncharacteristic rudeness to all medical professionals involved. A part of me that knows despite today's setback, the doctor and his medical staff are doing all they can to impregnate my otherwise sterile womb; and for that I should be grateful.

Maybe this is just a test, one that will force me to relinquish control and pass all unnecessary worry on to my God that created the universe in less than a week. Because if He can part the Red Sea, heal the blind, and turn water into wine, He's certainly capable of blessing us with twelve mature, fertilized eggs by tomorrow. And although I'm still slightly irritated with this afternoons results, I'm still very calm; because I know this much to be true.

With God, all things are possible.

"What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise."
-Oscar Wilde