I freely admit I have issues.

So it comes in a plain white wrapper, this magazine that arrives in the mail every few months.  I don't know why I get it; I never requested it, as far as I know, although I suppose it's possible that I accidentally subscribed to it when I was signing one of the dozens of forms before one cycle or another: We understand that it is impossible to predict with any degree of certainty the psychological implications of our participation in IVF — no, really, believe us, we get it; we understand that daily subcutaneous injection of gonadotropins will turn the patient into the scary, scary offspring of Baby Jane Hudson and the Incredible Hulk; we understand that, whoa!, hey!, can't say you didn't warn us where that ultrasound probe goes; yes, the words "giant-ass needle" and "vaginal walls" do ring a bell, thanks for asking; we understand that after retrieval, the patient will feel like she's been hit in the midsection with a sock full of nickels; we understand that if you're gonna make an omelette, you have to break some eggs; we can't think of a similar metaphor involving semen, and we agree that that's just as well; we understand that after transfer, anything, and we mean anything, could happen; as the very first page in the patient handbook stipulates, we agree to pay for this entire clusterfuck before injection one; and oh, what the hell, sure — we don't get enough mail I would be embarrassed for my letter carrier to see, so, yeah, go ahead and send us Infertility Times.

It's an earnest enough effort, this magazine, and I confess I do read it avidly upon arrival.  I never make it through an issue, though, without a Hulky growl of irritation.  I mean, what other response can there be to ads like this one for a fertility clinic?

What do you get when you combine state-of-the-art reproductive technology with personalized, comprehensive care?

Usually, you get pregnant.

Now maybe I'm being picky, but when I see "usually," I tend to interpret that as "unless things get pretty weird."  Not only "more often than not," which you could justifiably use with a success rate of 51%, but "for the most part."  "It is our most common outcome by far."  "Well, it doesn't always work, but... [Wink]"  That kind of thing.  The language of this ad seems to promise a probability of success somewhere upwards of, I don't know, 65%?  75%?  High, anyway, right? 

So naturally I checked the latest CDC stats to see what they actually deliver.  I wasn't able to find the clinic in the state-by-state listings — strange, I thought, but perhaps the name they use in their ad is simply an umbrella for several clinics.  So I checked their Web site, to find not the straightforward set of bar graphs I'd hoped for, but a condescending little treatise on looking "beyond the numbers" of success rates: "IVF success rates are available for all to examine," I read (though I was unable to locate them).  IVF centers select patients according to different criteria, I was told, with different protocols and lab conditions, all of which might influence success rates.  Therefore I should be careful when choosing a clinic based on their published numbers.  "You should ask your physician," the article concluded, to predict your personal chances for success.

Now why doesn't that sound like "Usually, you get pregnant" to me?  (We understand that the program's published success rates are merely serving suggestions — pineapple rings and aromatic cloves, if you will, crowning the savory canned ham of ongoing pregnancies.)

But let us move on.  In this month's issue, there's an article headlined "Physical Therapy to Treat Infertility."  It's about a massage technique that purports to break down abdominal and pelvic adhesions.  Common in women with endometriosis, adhesions form as the result of surgery or inflammation.  As the name indicates, they make your insides, um, stick to themselves.  "Physical and massage therapists specifically trained in this area have the ability to treat a woman's abdomen, seeking out areas of scarring, and working to release adhesions," the article explains.  Now raise your hand if this sounds like a rejuvenating afternoon at the spa to you.

As much as the thought of someone kneading my abdomen trying to get my fintoozler to stop sticking to my fishamajig skeeves me out — and, wow, is that a lot — the article itself isn't what bothers me.  It's the placement right below the article of a big freaking ad for the outfit that's patenting this technique.  Talk about troubling adhesions.

Finally, this month's issue included a feature titled, "10 Ways to Keep the Romance Alive While Trying to Conceive (TTC)."  I appreciate the intent of the article, and I agree that it's of paramount importance to keep seeing your partner as a lover instead of as just, oh, you know, a hangdog cup-wanker.  (We understand that the male partner will be required to ejaculate on demand, no matter how erotically uninspiring it is that the so-called collection room is actually just a hospital bathoom with an extra plastic chair in it.)  I just wish the author had shown a bit more imagination.  Sure, there's nothing wrong with "Go away for a dreamy weekend," or "Have a date night."  But longtime patients need some new ideas, suggestions that acknowledge the unique toll infertility takes on a partnership.

So here are my suggestions "to fuel the flame of passion" in an infertile couple's relationship:

1. Tell each other your fantasies without using the words "cervical mucus."
2. Look, you were going to trim your pubic hair for your RE anyway.  Let your husband think it's for him.
3. Be spontaneous in your lovemaking.  (CD 8, CD 10, CD 12, CD 13, CD 14, CD 15, and CD 17 should do nicely.)
4. Look at old photos of the two of you, before you got so old, fat, and sad.
5. Flavor your progesterone suppository with just a hint of honey and vanilla.
6. Leave steamy little notes for each other to find describing what sensual delights lie in store later: "...And then I'll break open that glass ampule with my teeth.  Rrowr.  Love, Tiger."
7. Refrain from counting the days aloud when you try to figure out whether it's okay to ejaculate this close to egg retrieval.
8. Take pictures of each other naked.  Photoshop out the belly bruises.
9. Role-play.  May I suggest infertility-patient-anxiously-awaiting-arrival-of-doctor and unwitting-building-maintenance-man-coming-to-change-a-light-bulb?
10. Turn on some soft music, warm up the aromatherapy oils, and treat each other to a long, relaxing massage.  Your fishamajig isn't gonna wrench itself loose, you know.

Look, I'm sorry.  I think it's great that information about treatment, alternative therapy, stress relief, and service providers is being made available to infertile people.  There's a lot of useful material in the magazine — notices about studies that need participants, abstracts of journal articles, and personal stories many will relate to.  And the magazine's founders contended with infertility, too, so I respect and appreciate their effort to reach out to people like themselves.  It's just that for all the good stuff in it, try as I might, I can't make it through an issue without sputtering.

(And, yes, we understand that the patient cannot use hormonal surges as an excuse for her free-floating crankiness until she actually begins injections, no matter how glued her fintoozler.)

Posted by Julie at 10:17:13 PM in I am full of good ideas

Comments

I freely admit I have issues.

So it comes in a plain white wrapper, this magazine that arrives in the mail every few months.  I don't know why I get it; I never requested it, as far as I know, although I suppose it's possible that I accidentally subscribed to it when I was signing one of the dozens of forms before one cycle or another: We understand that it is impossible to predict with any degree of certainty the psychological implications of our participation in IVF — no, really, believe us, we get it; we understand that daily subcutaneous injection of gonadotropins will turn the patient into the scary, scary offspring of Baby Jane Hudson and the Incredible Hulk; we understand that, whoa!, hey!, can't say you didn't warn us where that ultrasound probe goes; yes, the words "giant-ass needle" and "vaginal walls" do ring a bell, thanks for asking; we understand that after retrieval, the patient will feel like she's been hit in the midsection with a sock full of nickels; we understand that if you're gonna make an omelette, you have to break some eggs; we can't think of a similar metaphor involving semen, and we agree that that's just as well; we understand that after transfer, anything, and we mean anything, could happen; as the very first page in the patient handbook stipulates, we agree to pay for this entire clusterfuck before injection one; and oh, what the hell, sure — we don't get enough mail I would be embarrassed for my letter carrier to see, so, yeah, go ahead and send us Infertility Times.

It's an earnest enough effort, this magazine, and I confess I do read it avidly upon arrival.  I never make it through an issue, though, without a Hulky growl of irritation.  I mean, what other response can there be to ads like this one for a fertility clinic?

What do you get when you combine state-of-the-art reproductive technology with personalized, comprehensive care?

Usually, you get pregnant.

Now maybe I'm being picky, but when I see "usually," I tend to interpret that as "unless things get pretty weird."  Not only "more often than not," which you could justifiably use with a success rate of 51%, but "for the most part."  "It is our most common outcome by far."  "Well, it doesn't always work, but... [Wink]"  That kind of thing.  The language of this ad seems to promise a probability of success somewhere upwards of, I don't know, 65%?  75%?  High, anyway, right? 

So naturally I checked the latest CDC stats to see what they actually deliver.  I wasn't able to find the clinic in the state-by-state listings — strange, I thought, but perhaps the name they use in their ad is simply an umbrella for several clinics.  So I checked their Web site, to find not the straightforward set of bar graphs I'd hoped for, but a condescending little treatise on looking "beyond the numbers" of success rates: "IVF success rates are available for all to examine," I read (though I was unable to locate them).  IVF centers select patients according to different criteria, I was told, with different protocols and lab conditions, all of which might influence success rates.  Therefore I should be careful when choosing a clinic based on their published numbers.  "You should ask your physician," the article concluded, to predict your personal chances for success.

Now why doesn't that sound like "Usually, you get pregnant" to me?  (We understand that the program's published success rates are merely serving suggestions — pineapple rings and aromatic cloves, if you will, crowning the savory canned ham of ongoing pregnancies.)

But let us move on.  In this month's issue, there's an article headlined "Physical Therapy to Treat Infertility."  It's about a massage technique that purports to break down abdominal and pelvic adhesions.  Common in women with endometriosis, adhesions form as the result of surgery or inflammation.  As the name indicates, they make your insides, um, stick to themselves.  "Physical and massage therapists specifically trained in this area have the ability to treat a woman's abdomen, seeking out areas of scarring, and working to release adhesions," the article explains.  Now raise your hand if this sounds like a rejuvenating afternoon at the spa to you.

As much as the thought of someone kneading my abdomen trying to get my fintoozler to stop sticking to my fishamajig skeeves me out — and, wow, is that a lot — the article itself isn't what bothers me.  It's the placement right below the article of a big freaking ad for the outfit that's patenting this technique.  Talk about troubling adhesions.

Finally, this month's issue included a feature titled, "10 Ways to Keep the Romance Alive While Trying to Conceive (TTC)."  I appreciate the intent of the article, and I agree that it's of paramount importance to keep seeing your partner as a lover instead of as just, oh, you know, a hangdog cup-wanker.  (We understand that the male partner will be required to ejaculate on demand, no matter how erotically uninspiring it is that the so-called collection room is actually just a hospital bathoom with an extra plastic chair in it.)  I just wish the author had shown a bit more imagination.  Sure, there's nothing wrong with "Go away for a dreamy weekend," or "Have a date night."  But longtime patients need some new ideas, suggestions that acknowledge the unique toll infertility takes on a partnership.

So here are my suggestions "to fuel the flame of passion" in an infertile couple's relationship:

1. Tell each other your fantasies without using the words "cervical mucus."
2. Look, you were going to trim your pubic hair for your RE anyway.  Let your husband think it's for him.
3. Be spontaneous in your lovemaking.  (CD 8, CD 10, CD 12, CD 13, CD 14, CD 15, and CD 17 should do nicely.)
4. Look at old photos of the two of you, before you got so old, fat, and sad.
5. Flavor your progesterone suppository with just a hint of honey and vanilla.
6. Leave steamy little notes for each other to find describing what sensual delights lie in store later: "...And then I'll break open that glass ampule with my teeth.  Rrowr.  Love, Tiger."
7. Refrain from counting the days aloud when you try to figure out whether it's okay to ejaculate this close to egg retrieval.
8. Take pictures of each other naked.  Photoshop out the belly bruises.
9. Role-play.  May I suggest infertility-patient-anxiously-awaiting-arrival-of-doctor and unwitting-building-maintenance-man-coming-to-change-a-light-bulb?
10. Turn on some soft music, warm up the aromatherapy oils, and treat each other to a long, relaxing massage.  Your fishamajig isn't gonna wrench itself loose, you know.

Look, I'm sorry.  I think it's great that information about treatment, alternative therapy, stress relief, and service providers is being made available to infertile people.  There's a lot of useful material in the magazine — notices about studies that need participants, abstracts of journal articles, and personal stories many will relate to.  And the magazine's founders contended with infertility, too, so I respect and appreciate their effort to reach out to people like themselves.  It's just that for all the good stuff in it, try as I might, I can't make it through an issue without sputtering.

(And, yes, we understand that the patient cannot use hormonal surges as an excuse for her free-floating crankiness until she actually begins injections, no matter how glued her fintoozler.)