The In-Vitro Play-by-Play: Prologue

Yesterday was the third month anniversary of my premature menopause, and this really means that I’m preparing for the fourth and final round of in-vtro fertilization. If this round does not produce a pregnancy, then we are through. It’s off to China adoption land we go, where we shall balance out the number of white ghosts who are stealing our Chinese babies out of the homeland. If I’m sounding bitter, it’s because I am. I am bitter and angry that I have to endure all of this, and that my marriage to the most wonderful man on the planet had to be tested in this fashion. If there’s a greater plan, then I just want to let the universe know that it sucks. Feeling like a failure is not my most-favored status, and this past year has made me feel like a failure. I have failed to produce “best-quality” eggs no matter how my “best-quality heart” has desired, and I have failed to let the precious embryos implant. They were the only true Yang Temkos on the planet, and I’ve let them go to waste. Those five little Yang Temki deserved a better place to land—not the embittered belly of a reproductive retard. (I never knew I was capable of such self-hatred) Gosh, sometimes I hate that stream-of-consciousness writing that GHP taught us now 18 years ago. Now that my senses have returned, the question to be answered is: How did a hopeful couple who carefully planned their path to parenthood end up here? Well, you’d never believe it.

Ben and I were meant to be parents. We knew from the very beginning that we wanted lots of kids, and that our first-born son would be named “Alexander.” Don’t know why, but we’ve always known. Then the plan formed. We would wait until I finished that damn doctorate, and then babies would flow from my womb. A year before we actually moved back to Atlanta, as I was nearing the end of my studies, I stopped taking the pill and we started trying. For the next four years we kept trying. I studied my basal body temperature, counted days, and monitored so many other things that I’ve stopped keeping track. We used to joke that we must be having “stupid sex,” and every month when my period came there was depression of great magnitude. Once we moved back home, the diagnostic odyssey began. Once we were both gainfully employed, my OB/GYN ordered several tests. The first was a metabolic blood panel, and this revealed that I was insulin resistant. Apparently this precursor to diabetes affects fertility and ovulation; however, he did not prescribe Glucophage, which is a way to regulate your body’s ability to use insulin. I could hold it against him, but then he's no fertility specialist. Also, I had to have a HSG (That’s Hystosalpingogram for you and me), which was humiliating, or so I had perceived at the time. Now I would consider it to be no big deal. In this test a catheter is inserted through the cervix, and then a dye is injected into the uterus to observe the flow of liquid through the fallopian tubes. This is to determine whether or not the tubes are blocked. The result was that my tubes were open. It was an uncomfortable test that bordered on painful (mind you I have one of the highest pain tolerances out there, so take it with a grain of salt). My OB/GYN ignored the radiologist’s observation that my uterus seemed a bit unusually uneven, and I’m still a little pissed off about it. This should have really been a clue to what was truly the matter with me. Meanwhile, Ben had to…give of himself into a cup and deliver it to the lab to see if there were enough boys and that they were swimming well. He scored highly on all fronts. Believing that there was nothing wrong physically, I was given a chart to monitor my basal body temperature and to set a schedule for intercourse, and we acted accordingly. Mind you we had lots of fun, but the disappointment at the monthly arrival of our “special friend” was becoming a serious bore. Another shameful year of nothingness went by, and I was finally ready to put that shame aside and see a specialist. We were referred to Reproductive Biology Associates, and at last we had an answer. I have endometriosis, and I’ve had it for at least twenty years.

When we heard the diagnosis we knew that we had been fucked over by the asinine doctors in south central Indiana. One of the signs of endometriosis is mid-cycle spotting that could not be eliminated by changing the strength of the pill or by adding estrogen in the form of Premarin. Looking back, this particular therapy probably exacerbated my endometriosis, since it feeds on extra estrogen. My Hoosier doctors decided that surely I had some form of venereal disease, and proceeded to test me for Gonorrhea and Chlamydia, over and over again. Each time when the results came back negative, they had nothing further to say. Ahh, Hoosier medicine is a great thing. They were lazy and failed to do one additional test that would have determined the actual cause—an ultrasound, or histosonogram. When Dr. Carol Mitchell-Leef performed the histosonogram, the resulting diagnosis could not have been clearer. Not only did I have endometriosis, I also had polyps in my uterus and my ovaries were full of blood, or endometriomas. It was bad, very bad, but she could not determine whether it was stage 3 or 4 until she could take a closer look. To make a very long story short, I was told to lose thirty pounds, take Glucophage, and to have laparoscopic surgery to remove polyps, adhesions, and have my ovaries drained of excess fluid. After surviving all of this, the In-Vitro fun started. Since this diatribe is now transforming into a saga of Wagnerian scope, I’d better take a break. Thus ends the prologue, even though I could go on about that damn surgery and how I sang a concert three days after having my insides shredded AND how I love the South Beach diet—it’s not just a diet, it’s a way of life.