Sugar, advice, and dosage precise
My feelings about this upcoming IVF cycle can probably be pretty well summed up by the fact that I woke up this morning knowing I was supposed to start Lupron tonight, but having not the ghost of an idea what my dosage should be.
What, didn't I tell you? But I was sure I... Are you certain I never...? My goodness. Well, there just never seemed to be a good time and I... I mean, we just kept missing each other and...
Well. I am telling you now. We're doing another cycle.
After the last debacle, Paul was ready to throw in the towel. So ready was he, in fact, that he'd practically rigged a Wile E. Coyote-style rocket assist on one of our Pima cotton bath sheets. (The tasteful ACME monogram was just the touch of class our bathroom needed.) But I wasn't ready. Sure, before we started we'd agreed to just one more cycle. But I felt cheated, what with all the crashing and the burning and whatnot, and argued that that attempt didn't count because we hadn't made it to retrieval. Because I am a regular Daniel goddamn Webster, he agreed to try again.
And so I talked it over with my local doctor, whose recommendation was to try another cycle with Antagon. "But we won't get a lot of eggs," he warned me, and went on to recommend donor.
And so I talked that over with my doctor at Cornell, whose recommendation was to try another cycle with Lupron. "It worked for you before," he pointed out tersely, at which point I started to tell him all about how irresistibly delicious Charlie is in that adorable ladybug onesie of his, at which point the doctor abruptly terminated the call by pretending he was driving into a tunnel where there was no cell service.
Before "we got cut off," though, I had time to ask him about last May's failed cycle, which had been long Lupron. His theory, which he bolstered by referring to my chart — I know! Cornell is really good, huh? — is that I was oversuppressed after 17 days of Lupron, and that we'd bailed too early on that one, pointing out that back in May 2004, I didn't trigger until day 14 of gonadotropins, a slow response, to be sure, but in the end a decent one.
So back I scampered to my local doctor, who basically did the equivalent of throwing up his hands, saying, "Oh, for God's sake, Julie, do whatever you want," and intentionally leaving his prescription pad on the counter for me to appropriate, winking theatrically as he backed out of the room. (Strangely, the pharmacist didn't even blink when I showed up with a script for a 5-pound bag of dark brown sugar, a fifth of vodka, and a 6 mm glass pipe for freebasing same. I think it's because I have an honest face.)
Which brings us to today. I talked to the nurse and subsequently found that in all my vast and wondrous Aladdin's cave of IVF drugs, I do not have the correct formulation of Lupron. Apparently my dose is to be a tiny one, smaller than the one provided in the standard 14-day kits I have. Small enough, in fact, that you could hit Thumbelina with it without danger of oversuppressing her wee flowery lady parts. (This nicely complements my dose of gonadotropins, which is so large that it could make even an obese postmenopausal mastodon's fossilized ovaries roll over and work up a batch.)
Therefore, in the first documented fuckup of my last autologous cycle, I will need to start Lupron tomorrow instead of today because I can't get the right stuff locally. Last birth control pill on November 26. Baseline on November 29. Gonadotropins on December 1. And, hey, cancellation as early as December 8!
Ultimately that is how I'm feeling about this cycle: I want to do it but I am extremely pessimistic about the outcome. I know what a long shot it is, but here we are anyway. Because if there's one thing I've learned through all this, it's that hope, after all, has nothing, but nothing, to do with optimism.
Wait, I've learned something else, too. It seems kind of counterintuitive, but it turns out that speedballing brown sugar and vodka — 22-gauge needle riiiight between the toes — is much more effective than freebasing.
Don't ask me how I know this. And don't thank me, Thumbelina. You know I'm here to help. Now as long as I have this pad out, does anyone need a prescription for medical-grade turbinado?