Thursday, March 22, 2007
POF! Just like that, an ovary shrivels up. POF! Just like that, a hormone level more than doubles overnight. POF! Just like that, "I can get six eggs out of you" turns into "Your chances of success are less than 10 percent." POF! Just like that, premature ovarian failure. Things implode.
FSHHHHH …. You hear that? It’s the sound of old age creeping up on you. That follicle-stimulating hormone ricocheting out of control.
It was an unsuccessful couple of rounds back at the Center for Human Reproduction. For the last round, a pathetic two eggs produced, and a sympathy nod from the doctor that he’d proceed with IVF if I wanted to, but what was the point of siphoning out those poor two eggs and torturing and manipulating them in a process that probably wouldn’t work anyway? If I felt more clinically about them, if I believed in harsh Western medicine above all else, I would have gone through the retrieval, attempt at fertilization and transfer. But I felt protective of them. I wanted them to stay in the warm, dark confines of my insides, live out their days as they were supposed to.
After this, I was about ready to think about putting aside hopes of getting pregnant. Then, my pal in California, who happens to have the same reproductive problem as me – I’ll call her Tenacious D – e-mailed me that she’d dumped her previous practice, gone to a new one that specializes in poor responders like us … and gotten pregnant. And this practice just happens to be nationwide, and it just happens to have opened a branch on Long Island.
So it’s time for one more shot, the old college try. This guy built up my hopes, but with my last FSH level, tore them down again. Nevertheless I’ve already started down that road, so I might as well see it through. I could get lucky.
FSHHHHH …. You hear that? It’s the sound of old age creeping up on you. That follicle-stimulating hormone ricocheting out of control.
It was an unsuccessful couple of rounds back at the Center for Human Reproduction. For the last round, a pathetic two eggs produced, and a sympathy nod from the doctor that he’d proceed with IVF if I wanted to, but what was the point of siphoning out those poor two eggs and torturing and manipulating them in a process that probably wouldn’t work anyway? If I felt more clinically about them, if I believed in harsh Western medicine above all else, I would have gone through the retrieval, attempt at fertilization and transfer. But I felt protective of them. I wanted them to stay in the warm, dark confines of my insides, live out their days as they were supposed to.
After this, I was about ready to think about putting aside hopes of getting pregnant. Then, my pal in California, who happens to have the same reproductive problem as me – I’ll call her Tenacious D – e-mailed me that she’d dumped her previous practice, gone to a new one that specializes in poor responders like us … and gotten pregnant. And this practice just happens to be nationwide, and it just happens to have opened a branch on Long Island.
So it’s time for one more shot, the old college try. This guy built up my hopes, but with my last FSH level, tore them down again. Nevertheless I’ve already started down that road, so I might as well see it through. I could get lucky.
