Chasing A Child

PUPO again

The bad news is that the last Frosty Pup from our known donor family didn't survive the thaw. I had a bad feeling the last few days and particularly in the hour yesterday just before my cell phone rang. As soon as I saw the clinic's number, I knew. RIP, Frosty Pup.

I'm going to have to break the news to D this week. She sent me a very sweet good luck note the other night. After agonizing about how to tell her, I finally decided to tell her the truth -- if she and her husband hadn't decided to donate their embryos to us, I would never have found out about the clotting disorder (which the docs are now trying to tell me is only a "possible" diagnosis -- more on that later). If we hadn't tried with the Frosty Pups, I'd be leaving the IF world with 100% uncertainty about what happened to my pregnancies. But because we got that chance, and because I became friends with D and she suggested that I ask to be tested for APS, I have some hint of an answer and can be proactive with this cycle. It also gave me time to push the clinic about their policies on anonymity and form some strategies for dealing with the possible reality of raising kids conceived by anonymous embryo donation. All things happen for a reason.

The good news is that the Pinch Hitters are rock stars. The clinic thawed two and both survived very well. They used assisted hatching and both embryos were busting out of their shells at transfer. Honestly, I think they looked more healthy than the Frosty Pups did, but that could just be the Valium speaking ; ) The Mister stayed home with Squeaker again, although I was texting him the whole time I was sitting pants-less in the freezing cold room waiting for the nurse to tell me my bladder had reached capacity. I swear, I've never had to drink so much water in my whole IF history! And then she's pushing down on my bladder with the ultrasound thingy -- ouch! -- and I was thinking that if I just gave up and peed on the table, it would serve them right!

Anyway, except for the water torture, the transfer went quite easily. The doctor declared my twisty-turny cervix "not so bad once you get to know it" and the all-female staff at the clinic went above and beyond to be as nurturing and enthusiastic as any group of best-gal-pals could be. Everyone gushed over the pix of Squeaker (who, I must admit, is in a particularly charming stage of handsome these days). The nurse made me promise to send her a birth announcement. The donor program coordinator asked me if we were ready for twins (based on the boisterousness of the embryos), and -- wonder of wonders -- I learned that both my cycle counselor and the donor program coordinator personally know the donor family. They raved about what great people they are and how beautiful (and energetic -- oy!) their twins are. So, although this is an anonymous donation, I now know things about the genetic family that I didn't before, and if we ever needed to contact the family, there's a very very ultra-slim chance that it might actually be possible. Yes, I know that the clinic personnel are bound by all kinds of ethical obligations, but they *know* these folks. They're not just numbers on a file somewhere. There is something in that connection that could mean something someday. At least, that's what I'm telling myself today.

So, here I am, lounging around in a very nice hotel room, getting room service, watching bad daytime TV and reading books. When I told the room full of medical folks about my relaxation plans, all of the moms in the room gasped and said "You're staying in a HOTEL? By yourself?" They were absolutely drenched in envy. As I told the Mister last night, it's every mom's dream ; ) Did I mention yesterday's post-transfer 2-hour nap? Ahhhhh.

My beta is a week from Friday. I should be able to get a second beta the following Monday. And then the Mister and I are taking Squeaker on his first Disney cruise. So if it's bad news, I'll have plenty of wine and babysitters to comfort me. And if it's good news, I've already arranged for my clinic to call in prescription of Zofran for the seasickness.

Last. Cycle. Ever.

I know this blog has become a bit schizophrenic -- am I an adoption blogger or an infertility blogger? I knew I'd lose a lot of my infertility readers when we adopted and every post became "How Obsessed Can One New Mom Be With Her Kid?" And now I imagine the adoption readers who stumble across some of my more recent posts, thinking they're clicking on a nice safe "Life After Adoption Is Nothing But Sunshine And Roses" blog, only to come screeching to a stop in horror, realizing that I'm jabbering on about clotting disorders and donor embryos and by golly, didn't they leave all those miserable topics behind when they decided to adopt? I know I sure thought I did. New readers have my sincere apologies. I know how painful it can be. I really do.

But ... it's tough for me to hold onto the sad part of all of this. If I let myself go there, I'll just melt into a puddle and never get anywhere. I have about a nanosecond left in which to figure out how to bring a second child into our family without mortgaging Squeaker's future away in the process, so I've got to focus on that. And, hey, I'm a Gemini. We're supposed to have split personalities!

Really, when it comes right down to it, the title of the blog is still accurate. I'm perpetually chasing a child, in whatever form that child may take. Tonight, it was the real-life toddler, dashing down the sidewalk and absolutely refusing to stop when I yelled "red light!"  Two days from now, it will be the little possible-child(ren) in the petri dish, as I go in for my next (and last) FET. Yep, I said "last" and I mean that. My body can't take the hormonal ups and downs anymore. That much, at least, I'm willing to chalk up to age. Sigh.

So, here's where we are -- I finished the dreaded Lupron (my poor brain may never be the same again -- I can feel all of the holes that damn drug left in its wake) and I'm in the midst of the PIO shots. The docs have doubled (doubled!) the dosage because of my age (Really?! They had to drag out that tired word again?!) and because my lining looks too good (this is apparently a problem ... don't want to smother the poor little embryos) and because, y'know, the shot didn't take long enough to administer already. My hand cramps up every morning while I wait for the lovely goodness to make its way through the needle. Awesome indeed.

We have one Frosty Pup left from our wonderful donor family. If it survives the thaw, we transfer the one and cross our fingers. If it doesn't survive the thaw, we have the anonymous donor embryos on hold. I've been a bit leery about this from the get-go, as long-time readers will recall, what with the lack of identifying info and all, but I'm going with my gut on this -- if we have them on standby, we won't need them, and if we do need them, then things will work out as they may. I learned that the egg donor for the Pinch Hitters was a donor set up by the clinic, so she's (presumably) local, which somehow comforts me a bit. We'd be planning to register any resulting kids with the donor sibling registry, and the clinic has said they will place a letter in the file indicating that we are open to having contact with the genetic family. And, if we don't get a Live Baby from the Frosty Pups or Pinch Hitters, then we take a breath and think about Plan C. It's not perfect, but it's a plan.

There's also been an extended saga about the APS diagnosis and non-diagnosis and treatment or the lack thereof, but I'll save that for another post. It brings back some old characters from the past, so you can look forward to that ; )

Suffice it to say that, between Squeaker's sleep issues and my let's-try-to-get-a-bunch-of-doctors-to-agree-on-a-diagnosis-before-my-next-FET quest, I've been spending a lot of time in doctors' offices, on the phone, and writing snarky emails that are now a permanent part of my medical record (and probably get flagged for my HMO's legal department). Of course, my job hasn't eased up a bit during all of this, and I even got to lose the better part of a weekend jetting off to Las Vegas for a lawyer thingy. The stacks of work on my desk are terrifying, the HR department just laughed at my request for a half-time lawyer, I'm taking 2 days off this week for the FET, then going on "vacation" with the Mister and Squeaker in the first part of May, and when we come back? My in-laws arrive for a week's visit.

Um, yeah. So I may be a bit scarce for awhile.

Fighting the good fight

So in case anyone was wondering, yes, we're going to do one last FET with our one last Frosty Pup, assuming it survives the thaw. Cycling while raising a toddler is both harder and easier. Harder because the drugs make me tired and I'm already completely exhausted as it is. Harder because I've got belly bruises, nasty headaches, brain fog, weight gain, all that fun stuff, and Mr. Squalling Tantrum Man doesn't take a break in his tantrums just because Mommy has a migraine. Easier because I'm so distracted by trying to keep Mr. Daring-Do from running into the street, jumping off stairs and breaking his neck, climbing up the cupboards, throwing toys at the TV, peeking in the toilet for the x-hundredth time, yanking food out of the fridge, pulling chef's knives out of the dishwasher (swear to god, he did that last night and I nearly had a heart attack), and so on and so forth, that I don't have time to obsess about the cycle or the potential outcomes. I'm just trying to get from day to day with everyone in one piece.

Last cycle they had me on bcp's for about 6 weeks, which was not a good thing. I got all depressed and had serious heart palpitations. Now that I know I have a clotting disorder (the second cardiolipin antibody test came back at the same level, so the APS diagnosis is confirmed), I'm surprised that all those years of bcp's didn't kill me already. Must be that Mediterranean diet and all those bottles of wine : ) Anyhoo, this time I demanded something different, so it was 3 weeks of bcp's and then 3 weeks of Lupron. Oh, Lupron ... how thou doest fuck up my brain! I remembered from back in our IVF days that it made me loopy, but I didn't remember that it also made me moronically stupid and foggy and about as useful at work as a big stuffed chair. The past few weeks, I've been hiding in my office with the door shut, desperately trying to concentrate on something, anything, focusing on the screaming emergencies, because those got my adrenalin pumping enough to cut through the fog for a few minutes. But the routine boring stuff? Big fat pile on my desk. Ugh. A few days ago, I was about to call the clinic and give up, tell them that I'm completely batty with loopiness and can't take it anymore, but then it was time to decrease the dose and start the estradiol patches -- ahhhhh, estrogen. SO much better. Of course the patches give me big-ass headaches too, so I'm mainlining Tylenol and caffeine. I'll kick the caffeine once I start the PIO shots. Somehow the progesterone masks the caffeine withdrawal. I can't explain it. But yep, I've got this stuff down to a science now ...

I might have mentioned that my old IVF clinic is doing my monitoring, since my new clinic is out of state. Every time I go to a monitoring appointment, I see someone different, and so far, I hadn't seen my old doctor. On Wednesday, I saw him for the first time in over 3 years. I was a little bit excited -- he's a very nice guy who tried hard to knock me up and was so truly sad when it didn't work. I thought I'd catch him up on my life, show him some pix of Squeaker, let him know things are turning out okay for me. But you know what? He didn't remember me. He had my thick file and was flipping through it a bit confusedly, squinting in his effort to remember, but I could tell that I'd become one of many disappointed female faces in his professional history, and that the details of our friendly relationship had flown the coop. He even seemed to think I was doing another IVF -- maybe the monitoring requests from my new clinic don't mention that we're using donated embryos -- but when he started counting follicles, I nearly burst out laughing. I would no more try to make a baby with these old eggs than I'd fly to the moon. But before I could correct him, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, I was wanded, proclaimed "suppressed", and he was gone. I was momentarily sad, and then decided that it was a fittting way to close the door on that part of my life. I'm foggy, he's foggy, and all directions are forward. No looking back.

Today I met a woman in our local bookstore. She was squatting in front of the two or three shelves of fertility books. I was looking at the adoption books, which are in the four shelves above them (which always struck me as kind of insulting -- it's as if they're saying "here, you pitiful selfish infertile women, the few things we have to help you are down at floor level. Once you give up and see the light, you can stand up and read all of these wonderful books about adoption! Until then, you must sit on the floor." And meanwhile, both sections are squeezed between parenting books, just to make you feel like a total loser. I keep meaning to drop a note to the store about this. Someday.). Anyway, I know every book in both sections well. I mentioned that to her, and she asked me if anything in particular had worked for us. I thought "Yes! Of course! Some books are definitely better than others!" and then my brain went completely blank, as is so often the case these days. All I could do was offer her my blog address, since all the books that have helped me are listed here. And then I mentioned the Stirrup Queens, because without Mel and her posse, I would never have survived those years of TTC. I outed myself to a complete stranger, which is totally out of character for me, but she seemed so hopeful and untouched by the madness that is IF treatments. I hope that she and her partner have the best of luck, and if she stops by here or Mel's, that she is able to find a community to help her find her way.

I was Skyping with my IF "twin" in London last week -- we have the same birthday, the same profession, musical husbands, and our sons are close in age. Every time we email, we find out something else we have in common. It's downright eerie. Anyway, it was our first "face to face" conversation, after over 3 years of online friendship, and except for my unreliable internet connection, it was an awesome conversation. At one point, we were railing against the medical community, talking about how much we've had to direct our own care, do our own research, put our feet down firmly to insist on getting tests that the docs don't think we need, telling them something specific is wrong with us and having them disbelieve us and then being proven right, how hard we've had to fight to get to the point where we are. And we both fight hard because we CAN. We both had all sorts of personal hell to contend with in our younger years, which made us tough (in a broken-toy-held-together-with-superglue kind of way; if you know where to look, you can see the cracks), and then we became lawyers. We're trained to fight, to argue, to defend the defenseless. We both feel that when we're battling the medical establishment in our quest to build our families, we're fighting on behalf of other women, raising holy hell when mistakes are made, filing complaints when it's necessary, making sure things get on the record so that the next woman with the same problem, who might not have the skills and knowledge we have, won't have to endure the same roadblocks and battles we've faced.

Many of my battles came too late, much of my knowledge is tempered with "if I had only known then what I know now ..." It might be too late for me, but if I can help one woman find her way through the IF maze in a way that is as painless as possible, then I'll feel better about it all. It will have been for something. So, to those beautiful women I met in the store today, may your road be smooth and may your child find you quickly.

From "WTF Happened?" to a possible diagnosis

During the "WTF Happened?" phone appointment with my RE, we discussed the usual post-failed-cycle stuff. He made properly soothing "I'm so sorry it didn't work" noises, I asked all kinds of questions, he said it was probably a bad embryo, I said I didn't think so, because what about those weird hives?, he said it was probably just that I was so anxious about having a positive pregnancy that my body interpreted it as stress and reacted accordingly, I said I didn't think so, what about seeing if I'm allergic to something related to the cycle?, he said he doubted it, but he'd be happy to order a bunch of tests to make me feel better.

And so we did.

First, I had a long appointment with a very sympathetic allergist (one of the best in town) who had no experience with relationships between infertility/miscarriages and allergies, but was clearly interested in considering the possibilities. We decided I should be tested for allergies to HCG, sesame oil, and progesterone, in that order. I was shocked to have a doctor spend so much time with me, to listen so carefully and to take my (rather extensive) internet research so seriously! I'm so used to RE's and OB's just patting me on the head and saying "oh, it's your old eggs" or "oh, it was a bad embryo" that having a doc say "yes, I think you're right, there might be something else going on here" was like a shot of adrenalin to my system. Maybe finally I'd have someone actively helping me figure out why I can't stay pregnant. Imagine, not having to be carrying the full load of "what's next?" all by myself!! I was, for a few short hours, walking on air.

Of course, later that day, his office called to tell me that -- despite calling labs all over the US -- they were unable to find one that could test for an allergy to HCG. If I would care to fly to England or Australia, perhaps ...

Immediately, my mood plummeted back to its usual dark place. I had become absolutely convinced that my body was allergic to being pregnant, that the hives were a negative reaction to the HCG from a positive pregnancy. The realization that I wouldn't be able to determine that for a fact was really depressing. I was certain in my bones, as certain as I've ever been of anything, that my body killed my last pregnancy, and probably the pregnancy before that. Without being able to test for an HCG allergy, I'd have to move forward assuming that it wasn't the HCG. And if it wasn't the HCG, then what was it?

I didn't think I was allergic to the meds, but I went through the process anyway. I had my blood tested for a sesame allergy, and, as I expected, it came back negative. Then I was supposed to go to the allergist's office for a half-day progesterone test -- the plan was that I'd shoot myself up with 1/10th a regular dose and then sit around for 3 hours while they watched to see if I exploded. The day of the test I was sick as a dog, but took the day off of work, got up at dawn and dragged myself in anyway ... only to discover that the doc had called in sick and I'd need to reschedule. I was so disgusted by this turn of events that I refused to reschedule, pouting like a disappointed child. And now it's been almost 2 weeks, and I still haven't bothered to reschedule. I don't really think I'm allergic to progesterone (primarily because the hives went away while I was still shooting up daily), and I don't have another half day to waste anytime soon. Pursuing that round of tests doesn't feel like a good use of my time or energy.

I also had my blood tested for various hormone levels -- prolactin, TSH -- things that might indicate a thyroid problem. All came back normal.  They ran a lupus inhibitor panel, which came back in the normal range. My clinic insisted I update my mammogram (because of all the hormones I've been taking, not because my breasts caused my miscarriages), and that test came back fine too. So far, so good. And so much of nothing that might lead towards a diagnosis.

The final test they ran was one that my RE pooh-poohed but I insisted on -- a test that D, our embryo donor, of all people, suggested I ask for: I had them test my blood for anticardiolipin antibodies. The IgG series came back negative, but the IgM series came back at 22 -- in the low-medium positive range. And, suddenly, everything made sense.

Antiphospholipid Antibody Syndrome (APS or Hughes Syndrome) is an autoimmune function disorder that results in one's blood being "sticky" or prone to clotting. People often find out they have it when they get a blood clot or have a stroke. But it can also cause miscarriages. Lots of them. The syndrome causes clots in the placenta, killing the embryo. And .. it's treatable. A daily baby aspirin ... plus, during pregnancy, an anticoagulant like Lovenox.

I have to be retested in about a week to make sure the initial positive result wasn't a fluke. My guess is that it wasn't. My dad and I share the same blood type and, just last November, he had a blood clot in his leg. There's a good chance that it's an inherited trait. If the test comes back positive, there is a way forward. And ... an explanation. I'm right on the edge of it being too late to matter, but Oh.My.God. what a relief it would be to know WTF caused my losses.

[ETA: I spoke with a doctor friend tonight. She, too, spent years wrestling with unexplained infertility, and she and her DH are now the adoptive parents of two wonderful children. Her reaction, when I told her about the test results, was "Of course, that would explain everything." And then giant dark clouds of fury rose up over her head as she began berating my doctors for not testing me years ago ... Damn, it felt good to have that kind of support from someone who knows EXACTLY what I've been through.]

Moving along

My HCG levels on Monday were 16 and change. I started bleeding for real on Tuesday night. Today's HCG level was just under 5. So we know that it's not ectopic (thank goodness) and my body is very efficiently purging all traces of whatever happened.

Speaking of which, I have a WTF Happened appointment with my doctor next Wednesday. By phone, because I don't have the time or inclination to drive 6 hours round trip for a WTF appointment. It should be interesting, since I've only met the man once. He didn't do any of my pre-transfer tests, he wasn't in the office on the day of my transfer (another doctor did the transfer), and all my monitoring has been managed remotely by my old (local) clinic. Yet, somehow, he's still "my" doctor. Funny, that.

Will he have my complete history in front of him? I know I had all the files sent, but I have no idea if anyone actually read them. Will he listen better if he can't see me? Will it be easier for him to be brutally honest if he doesn't have a weeping woman in front of him? Will it be easier to be assertive if I can't see compassion or pity on his face?

Life is so busy -- continuously, relentlessly busy -- and the hormone drop has made it almost impossible for my brain to function, so I've been barely able get my work done, much less have time to process anything fully. I want to try to finish re-reading my book about miscarriages by next week so that I can ask intelligent educated questions that may get me some real results. But of course, life doesn't give me any breaks here. I'll be a single mom while the Mister travels for the next 5 days, so finishing even a few pages seems unlikely. Especially since Squeaker is Not Sleeping again. As in last night he was up not less than 8 times. Maybe more. I lost track.

And the Mister and I aren't getting any time to deal with this loss or with life generally, which means we end up yelling at each other at 2am, because, well, we were awake then (thanks to Squeaker), and that was the first time we had available to have an extended conversation, and the Mister's standard response to my being fragile is to become uber-defensive and get angry at me, somehow managing to completely erase from his mind that perhaps there are reasons why I'm asking for extra help and not being the sweetest wife in the world at this particular moment. Because, y'know, I'm sad and bleeding and stuff, and honestly, it's not All About Him and usually has absolutely nothing to do with him at all. Which he fully admits to recalling when I remind him, but then seems to forget almost immediately the next time I inadvertently use a less-than-perfect tone of voice. Which is not very helpful, since I can't exactly be Sally Sweetness 24/7 while in the midst of a first-class hormone crash.

And then Squeaker got up at 4, and 5, and 5:15 and 6 and ...

Well, that's that

Today's beta was 40. Bad news for several reasons. First, it means that there is no miraculous surviving twin. If there were, there would have been some increase in the numbers. Next, because the numbers are decreasing so slowly, there is some chance that it might be an ectopic pregnancy. Y'know, because that would be so totally awesome.

So I'm stopping the meds and waiting to bleed. This, at least, I know how to do.

All is not lost. We have one embryo left. D, who I expect is probably mourning the loss in her own way, has been urging me to remain positive.

Oh, I'm positive, all right. Here is what I'm positive about: I am positive that my body kills pregnancies. I'm positive that last weekend's hives were a sign of some bizarre autoimmune reaction. I'm positive that Sammy died 3 years ago because my body was a bad host. I felt that at the time but was too traumatized to push the issue. I'm positive that the doctors never considered these possibilities because blaming my old eggs was the easy answer. Before we risk our last frosty pup on the same old result, I'm going to insist on a few tests to rule out the most likely suspects. It's going to be expensive, but still less so than the alternatives. (I hope.)

This afternoon, I ran into my work friend who became a single mom by choice at 50. She's known all about this transfer and brief pregnancy. She burst into tears when I told her the news. I felt bad, but it was also so lovely to feel truly understood in that moment.

I've been reminded of what I hated most about IF treatments -- the gripping uncertainty, the highs and lows, the feeling of being caught in a spinning vortex that's not of your making and that only has the same recurring exit of agony. Ultimately, we chose adoption to escape that cycle.

I mentioned this to a friend after my second beta this week. She snorted, then laughed. "And we've been in the adoption pool so long that we're starting to explore overseas surrogacy programs! It's all relative."

Do you think the fertiles ever truly recognize how blessed their lives are?

No twins for me

Or singletons either. **

Today's beta was 46.

Fucking Hell.

And they want me to stay on the meds for another few days, then test again on Friday. What, like this dying pregnancy is going to suddenly bounce back to life and be viable?! Can anyone out there explain this to me?

[ETA: I suppose it could be a very early vanishing twin, in which case one would expect hcg levels to rise again ... but that possibility seems pretty damn remote, given the relative lowness of the first beta. Not holding my breath, but will hold off on getting sloppy drunk till the final bell tolls.]

Still PUPO!

Okay, gang, here it is. (Quickly, because I'm committing the horrible professional sin of blogging from work during my lunch hour, which I swore I would never do). Yesterday's beta, at 10dp5dt, was 54. Pregnant! Woot!

Which, actually, wasn't much of a surprise, since I've been peeing on every stick I could find since about 4dp5dt. And getting positive results. I swear to god, 4 days past the transfer, the faintest of faint lines came up and I thought I was imagining things. So I switched brands. And kept seeing lines. The Mister and I agreed that I wouldn't tell y'all until there was something in from the experts.

I'd been hoping for a number that was a bit more, er, robust, without being so ridiculous as to indicate that I was carrying a litter of bunnies. But 54 is definitely pregnant, so I'll take it! My clinic told me that often the initial beta numbers are lower for a FET. Something about having been frozen makes the little thawed popsicles take longer to implant or grow or something. I assume they catch up in time to make their high school graduation ...

Anyway, the important thing is that yesterday's number needs to at least double by tomorrow's beta. Once I see that, I'll heave a sigh of relief. I'm a bit nervous now because my primary pregnancy symptoms seem to have been frightened away by the hives. Come back, nausea, I miss you! So, for now, please keep sending positive thoughts and keep all limbs properly crossed. Prayers to your personal fertility god/dess of choice are also heartily welcomed.

Oh, and for the record? D's twin pregnancy from the same batch of embryos? Her 10-day beta was 40.

Ahem.

8dp5dt and ...

I've had every symptom in the book at one point or another. Cramps, sore breasts, nausea, even a sore throat, which in some Internetz circles is a sign and in others is just a sore throat. You name a pregnancy symptom, I might have it. For a day or so. Then it goes away and something else shows up. So who the hell knows.

Today's fabulous symptom:

HIVES. Head to toe hives. It started yesterday and by the time I woke up this morning my eyes looked like I'd gone 9 rounds with Rocky Balboa. I'm so scary looking that if I go out of the house today, people will definitely stare at me and the Mister might be arrested for spousal abuse. Hives on my scalp, the back of my neck, my face, my arms, my back, my legs ... hell, hives freaking everywhere.

I'm not an allergic person. No known allergies of any kind. Of course I've consulted Dr. Google, who tells me that I could be (1) under stress - ha!!; (2) allergic to something that I should promptly eliminate from my life except of course I have no known allergies so deciding what to eliminate is a bit of a dilemma; (3) ailing with some mysterious disease, thyroid disorder, etc.; (4) allergic to the PIO shots -- except that I never was before; (5) pregnant -- in which case the hives could last the entire pregnancy (WTF?!); or (6) pregnant with twins. Awesome.

So of course if I am pregnant, I don't think I should be taking Benadryl or any other antihistamine (right, Internetz?) which leaves me with cold showers, baking soda baths and calamine lotion. Yuk.

In the meantime, I'm a wee bit cranky.

Beta is Monday.

PUPO

Today was my FET. It was an absolutely lovely time. The clinic was awesome. My team was friendly and helpful to the point of being almost more solicitous than the front desk people at the schmancy hotel where I'm staying.

The embryologist explained that she had thawed 2 of our 3 embryos and both survived quite well. One was a bit more developed than the other, already trying to bust out of its protective shell; she used assisted hatching on the less-developed one. Both were at the blastocyst stage, which is good.

The ultrasound tech was funny and super nice as she tried desperately to locate my lady parts on her screen (my odd internal anatomy makes that a challenge), without pressing down so hard as to make my very full bladder burst. Phew.

The doctor was young, female, and also very nice. She took my warning that I have a kink in my cervix quite lightly until she actually got in there. "Wow, it's not just a kink, it's a speed bump! Oh, and there's another one!" My current theory is that, with my twisty-turny cervix, I could probably have skipped all those years of birth control pills. Those drunken little sperms would have gotten lost or given up the ghost before they found their way to my uterus. Ah, well.

They gave me photos of the embryos and I got to watch them on a TV, floating happily in their petri dish, then zoom! sucked up into a giant tube that of course was about the width of a hair. Here's something interesting: in the catheter, they put an air bubble in front of the embryos and behind them. The embryos are too small to see on the ultrasound, but when you see one, two flashes of white light land in the uterus, you know that whatever was between them is also there. Brilliant idea, methinks.

And so to the familiar "lie there for 15 minutes before you get up to pee." Then 5 people asking me where my (presumably deadbeat) husband , because I couldn't drive myself with all that V*alium in my system!. And the confusion on their faces when I say "he's home with our 2-year-old" because if I'm here for infertility ... ah, yes, secondary infertility. "Um, nope. Still the same old infertile first-timer." Oh, um, er ... "Ladies, could you please just call me a cab?"

I do so love messing with front desk people.

Anyway! I immediately shot off an email to D to let her know her embryos are still kicking ass. Then called the Mister, who had spent the day successfully exhausting Squeaker by taking him down the big slide at the local indoor pool ... 14 times. That child is a huge thrill-seeker. I love him to bits, but is it okay if I'm hoping the little critters formerly known as the Frosty Pups and currently known as the Bursting Bunnies are a bit more mild-mannered, even a bit geeky? I only have energy for one extreme sports kid in this lifetime ... [Ed.Note: D wrote me a good luck note a few days ago, noting that this was the year of the rabbit, she's a rabbit, and rabbits are the ultimate sign of fecundity. Thus, Bunnies.]

And now the waiting commences. I'm planning to lay abed in this lovely hotel tonight, calling upon room service and watching on-demand movies. Last night, I had an in-room massage that was just this side of heaven. The woman and I got to chatting, and she was totally excited about my plans for today. Gave me extra time and attention, and worked on some spots that have been bothering me for ages. I was completely wrung out at the end, and a bit sore when I woke up this morning. Took me forever to wake up, but when I finally did get going, I felt as prepared as I could be.

Ten long days to go. They recommended that I don't pee on a stick until my official test. Yeah, right.