Fertility Part 1

Between the hours of 8-5 every day I find myself in a place where tragedy abounds. Kids who are really sick, kids who die, kids who don't die but are just a faint shred of the child they were. The ballerina who's now mute and immobile did me in this week. Heavy, depressing shit. The kind of sadness that you feel in your chest and it radiates to your fingertips and you need to catch your breath because all you selfishly think about is if it was your healthy kid at home. Except when I get home, I still can be irritable and angry and just want these healthy kids to shut the fuck up for one goddamn minute so I can think. You would think that I would live in a constant state of gratitude. That I would come home and let all the "small stuff' fly away because at least my kids aren't paralyzed and mute from a brain tumor. This isn't the case. I do sweat the small stuff- most of the time. Even though I have 101 reasons not to.
Depressing career aside (and yes, if I ever wanted to bring a conversation to a halt, I just have to tell someone what I do for a living which sometimes works to my advantage), I also have another reason to appreciate my kiddos, besides the obvious reason of them being able to breathe, pee, laugh, run, learn on their own. In order for me to have children I had to enter the world of assisted reproduction. In addition to being technologically challenged, I am also reproductively challenged. I have all the right parts but my ovaries don't work. They don't make eggs the way my mama did. They just kind of sit there and collect dust. They try, these special ed ovaries. But all they can do is make these little, useless, space-taking nubs.
So to conceive Kid 1, we entered this ridiculous galaxy of assisted reproduction. By assisted, I mean these docs and technologists basically do it all for you. You just sit there. Or lie there. With your legs in stirrups and a giant probe all up in your business counting follicles. Daily injections and blood tests determine hormone level and readiness for implantation. You look like a heroin addict and feel like a meth head in withdrawal when you're on injections. Estrogen at super high levels is never good. For anyone. Ever. One of the really shitty parts of this stage is that you gain 10 lbs automatically so you look pregnant and feel pregnant from the hormonal surge but you are anything but. Emotionally, its a train wreck with casualties.
The waiting room in my "Baby Lab" is a fascinating cross section of women. The egg donors in their tank tops and sparrow tattoos on their shoulders. The 48 year old women who maybe missed the boat a few years earlier and realizes it's never (?) too late. The young, thin 25 year old who's thinking "how is this happening to me?" The hirsute, chubby woman who just needs her ovaries to crank one out for gods sake.
 It's a beautiful waiting room with comfortable sofas and a waterfall built into the wall. Top of the line coffee tables. Mellow music to soothe all the cranky, miserable, bloated women. Its top of the line because this is mostly a cash-only business. Most insurance companies won't touch infertility, so most couples need to pay out of pocket for this good time. My favorite conversation was when I called my insurance company and asked about coverage for IVF. Customer rep informed me that the only think they will cover is any tests I may need to get to the diagnosis of infertility. Anything after the diagnosis (i.e TREATMENT) will not be covered. I told her she was a really good egg who worked for a stellar corporation. Then I hung up and hoped they all died at blue cross/blue shield. And then we gave over our credit and just bent over.
After the injection phase, is the implantation phase. So, you arrive at the point where your ovaries are so full of follicles they may burst. Literally. Some women have upwards of 30 follicles with 30 potential eggs ready to hatch. So you get the call to stop all injections. Pronto. Except for the HCG injection which will let these suckers out of ovaries and to a place where they're ready to be "retrieved. The HCG shot is made from Chinese hamsters, by the way. I imagine these Asian hamsters on their wheels just trying to get some exercise when a sterile lab tech probes them and sucks out their HCG. My kids are actually "Made in China".
Retrieval is a nice way to describe a loooooooooooooong catheter inserted vaginally to poke around there and suck out the eggs. You are knocked out for this procedure. Obviosuly. Propofol is a beautiful drug. When you wake up, they tell you how many eggs you got. You hope for at least 5 or 6. Some women get 30. I never got more than 8, I think. I don't remember the details so clearly anymore. While you're unconscious, getting probed - you partner is retrieving his sperm. In the Production Room. He doesn't get anesthesia. He gets a cup, some magazines and a carton of shame. Except for my husband- who doesn't have any shame. He proudly hands his specimen over and makes a joke each and every time.....I love that man. We laughed through most of these crazy days. Theres a lot of hilarious things that happen when you're making embryos. And then there are lots of very UN-funny things that happen. More later.....This is just Part 1.