She wanted something to happen, but she did not know that that something would be a phone call from her gynecologist’s nurse telling her that the numbers on the second FSH test were low. Real low. As in, too low to be giving her eggs the boost out of the ovary they need.
That comes out sounding less like Kate Chopin than Dashiell Hammett somehow. Needless to say, this is why I haven’t been posting. I’m bummed. Real bummed. The nurse, Cindy, suggested that I go ahead with the Day 21 serum progesterone level test, and that M go ahead with his test, and that we then meet with Dr. Kodack. But really, she said, “if I were you, I’d go ahead and think about a specialist. What comes next is ovulation induction, and you might want to go on and get with a reproductive endocrinologist for that.”
Fortunately I have a friend here in town, who had her only daughter at the advanced maternal age of 37, who had a very strong recommendation for just that kind of specialist. So that’s what comes next. We go meet and talk about whether we really want to go through hormone shots every day until it’s time for another kind of shot to get the ovulation going, then no-fun twice-daily how-much-have-we-spent-on-these-shots-let’s-do-it-baby-make-a-baby-maybe sex, all with no guarantee of actually making that baby before we turn around and do it again (and again and again and again, and after this past month, let me say, it’s not always champagne-and-roses soul-connecting sex, but buckle-down-to-it hard work).
And all of that without any guarantees about genetic defects, never mind how much folic acid I’ve taken over the last three months (ten times the daily dose at first, then 25 times upon reading a UK study that says that while 4 mg daily cut the incidence of neural tube defects by 40 percent, 10 mg daily cut the incidence by 80 percent).
Family, supportive. M’s parents even offered to contribute to the cost of the shots. Fortunately, at least right now, it looks like they’ll be covered to some extent by my insurance. Do I really want to go through it? I answer that this way. The question isn’t do I want to have the icky shots every day and have artificial hormones racing around my bloodstream and have breakouts and weight gain and the fear of an increased chance of cancer later. Because no, hell no, who does? But the question is this. Do I want to have an Emma or a Harry? Do I want to see M holding his son or daughter? Do I want that family? Then yes, yes, I say, yes.