As you know, being in ART-limbo has been driving me steadily insane. Last week, J and I decided to buy a little piece of sanity—we are going start paying out-of-pocket for at least some of the drugs that might (emphasis *might*) kick-start J’s sperm production. We figure that even if insurance eventually denies us coverage, we would probably pay for a couple of months of treatment, just to see if it was going to do any good. So we decided to pay for a few weeks while we waited to hear back on our most recent appeal.
Last Wednesday I faxed in J’s prescriptions to Schraft’s (the cheapest specialty pharmacy out there), along with a note saying that he would call to work out ordering and delivery. The next morning, I got a call from Schraft’s with a question for the doctor (they assumed that I was the nurse). Once I gave them the doctor information, I also gave them J’s information—phone numbers, e-mail, date of birth, etc. When she asked about insurance I told her not to worry about it. “We’re in a protracted battle with the insurance company right now, so we don’t have any coverage,” I explained. She suggested that I give her the information anyway, just so his files would be complete.
That night, J picked me up at the train station with “good news.” His prescriptions were covered! “Not possible,” I said. Our most recent appeal—the previous one having been rejected by the asshole HMO because we had the wrong pre-auth number on it—was only a day old.
“That’s what I told them,” he said, “but they told me it had gone through and I owed a $50 copay.”
“So you filled the whole thing? All three months?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yup.” He grinned. “They actually called back to tell me it was going to be a $50 copay per month. I was like, ‘okay!’”
“I don’t believe it,” I said, “They’re gonna call back and say it was a mistake. Tonight.”
“Probably,” he agreed.
We went into the house and I went back into the bedroom to change my clothes. The phone rang. Our caller ID—which we’ve never been able to take off of “audio”—announced “Call from . . . Schrafts.” We looked at each other. “Well, it was a nice 15 minutes,” I offered.
From what J was saying on the phone, it was obvious what was happening. “Not covered? . . . We’ve reached our ‘cap’? . . . What exactly does that mean?” After a minute, he pulled out his credit card and ordered a three-week supply. We both knew that there was no “cap” to our coverage; we just weren’t covered. But whatever.
And in a normal world, that would be that. But this was no normal world. Because 15 minutes later the phone rang again. “Call from . . . Schrafts,” announced our caller ID in its creepy computer monotone.
“What the fuck?” I muttered, handing the phone off to him.
A minute later, he was off the phone again, total confusion on his face. “That was the pharmacist. She was calling to tell me that the person who called earlier was wrong and we haven’t exceeded our cap.”
“So we’re covered?”
“That’s what they say.”
“And you filled the entire thing?”
“Yup.”
We waited all evening for the call that never came. The next day the drugs were delivered to our RE. Today J picked them up.
I don’t think Schraft’s come after us for this when our HMO realizes its mistake, can they? We were totally up front with them about this.
Score one for the little guy. (Not that J’s little, or anything.)
Monday, March 23, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Deer Ate My Crocus!
Not a metaphor. Last night, as I pulled into my driveway, I was struck by my favorite sight of the spring: the berm in front of my house covered with giant crocus (crocuses? croci?). Mostly purple and white, with a smattering of yellow, the bold colors—surrounded by the brilliant green of new growth on top of the dark mulch I laid last fall—seemed to glow in the gold, early-evening sunlight (god, I love daylight savings time).
This morning, the purple and white and yellow were gone, vanished. Standing on my porch, I thought the blooms had just closed up for the night, but it seemed too drastic a change from the evening before. When I got closer the truth became clear—some son-of-a-bitch, rat-bastard, greedy-ass deer ate my flowers! My first flowers of spring! The flowers that made me so happy last night are gone.
Again, not a metaphor. No greedy monster came in the night and ate my chances at being a mom. And it could be worse. A few years ago the deer came by and ate every bud off of my prize daylilies—on the same berm—killing my chances of getting any blooms that entire late summer and fall. The crocus would have been fading out in a couple of weeks anyway.
But it doesn’t have to be a metaphor to piss me off. It’s been a long, dark, cold, hard, painful winter for me. The coming of spring has been keeping me sane the past few weeks. And for me, spring is all about the bulbs blooming. Now the berm isn’t going to really be pretty until May (my giant daffodils have always been a disappointment), when my tulips bloom (provided, of course, that the deer don’t get to them). And yes, I will be spraying tonight. Fucking deer. They even nibbled on my new daylily foliage just breaking through. Must have been a tough winter for them, too, but I refuse to feel sorry for them.
Oh, oh, of course it’s a metaphor! (You had to know I’d get there eventually.) Because what I was really looking forward to this spring, what I’ve been waiting for since last August, was finally moving on with IVF, and getting an answer once and for all about whether I am going to bear a child. And that hope has been snatched away, pushed back into later in the year, as we battle the insurance company for coverage for super-expensive hormone treatment for J.
Or maybe it isn’t a metaphor, but just a piling on of disappointment and delay. At the end of last year, whenever I looked forward toward March, there were two bright spots on the horizon: finishing my chiropractic treatment in time for spring gardening, and starting IVF again. By the end of January, I knew that the chiropractic treatment was going to take much longer (and that any gardening would have to take place in the heat, humidity, and mosquito-terror of summer in the swamp), but I still thought we would soon be starting IVF. When we saw the doc in mid-February and learned that J’s sperm count had dropped to zero, and that it would be months before we even knew whether we could use his sperm, the only thing I had left to look forward to was my spring flowers. And now they, too, have been gobbled up.
Fucking deer. Assholes.
This morning, the purple and white and yellow were gone, vanished. Standing on my porch, I thought the blooms had just closed up for the night, but it seemed too drastic a change from the evening before. When I got closer the truth became clear—some son-of-a-bitch, rat-bastard, greedy-ass deer ate my flowers! My first flowers of spring! The flowers that made me so happy last night are gone.
Again, not a metaphor. No greedy monster came in the night and ate my chances at being a mom. And it could be worse. A few years ago the deer came by and ate every bud off of my prize daylilies—on the same berm—killing my chances of getting any blooms that entire late summer and fall. The crocus would have been fading out in a couple of weeks anyway.
But it doesn’t have to be a metaphor to piss me off. It’s been a long, dark, cold, hard, painful winter for me. The coming of spring has been keeping me sane the past few weeks. And for me, spring is all about the bulbs blooming. Now the berm isn’t going to really be pretty until May (my giant daffodils have always been a disappointment), when my tulips bloom (provided, of course, that the deer don’t get to them). And yes, I will be spraying tonight. Fucking deer. They even nibbled on my new daylily foliage just breaking through. Must have been a tough winter for them, too, but I refuse to feel sorry for them.
Oh, oh, of course it’s a metaphor! (You had to know I’d get there eventually.) Because what I was really looking forward to this spring, what I’ve been waiting for since last August, was finally moving on with IVF, and getting an answer once and for all about whether I am going to bear a child. And that hope has been snatched away, pushed back into later in the year, as we battle the insurance company for coverage for super-expensive hormone treatment for J.
Or maybe it isn’t a metaphor, but just a piling on of disappointment and delay. At the end of last year, whenever I looked forward toward March, there were two bright spots on the horizon: finishing my chiropractic treatment in time for spring gardening, and starting IVF again. By the end of January, I knew that the chiropractic treatment was going to take much longer (and that any gardening would have to take place in the heat, humidity, and mosquito-terror of summer in the swamp), but I still thought we would soon be starting IVF. When we saw the doc in mid-February and learned that J’s sperm count had dropped to zero, and that it would be months before we even knew whether we could use his sperm, the only thing I had left to look forward to was my spring flowers. And now they, too, have been gobbled up.
Fucking deer. Assholes.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Crappy News
J’s sperm count, as of yesterday, was 0.01. This from a guy who, three years ago, had enough sperm to get me pregnant unassisted. It’s been dropping since then, but we’ve never seen anything like this.
For the past four months, J’s been giving himself HCG shots. The idea (assuming I’m getting all of this right—biochem isn’t my best subject) it to stimulate the pituitary into producing more male hormone, which will in turn kick-start the testes into doing their job. But after four months there’s been only moderate increase in the male hormone and the testes seem to have given up. Our RE (who is one of the best in the country) assures us that the HSG cannot be responsible for this—it’s probably just the end game for where his sperm count’s been heading all along.
The RE is going to add FSH into the mix, which might help. It also might not. And we won’t know anything for several more months.
I’m so disappointed. I’m not sure how much of the disappointment is due to the ever-increasing likelihood that J is not going to be the biological parent of my child (of course, I might not be either—we’re just not there yet) and how much of it is due to the fact that we have made no progress with our treatment, meaning that it is unlikely we’re going to be doing another cycle anytime soon. Every year, I tell myself THIS is going to be the year that we finally learn whether we’re going to have a child. I just want to KNOW!!!
I wonder if I really am prepared for the news that J’s spermy days are truly over. I think it’s easy to be blasé about it when it’s just out on the horizon and you don’t actually have to make any decisions. But the truth is, part of me just wants to give up and start donor sperm now. Sigh. If ever anything has taught me patience, it’s infertility.
Of course, I’m also upset because J’s hormone imbalance is a health problem as well. It can lead to poor muscle tone, low bone density, etc. I want him to be fixed, dammit (not in the kitty-cat way, but in the burly manly way). I want him healthy.
And we’re having a huge fight with insurance over this. At first they denied coverage altogether, claiming that the hormone treatment was for “IVF support” and our IVF coverage has been exhausted. We appealed, and then they gave us half-coverage, labeling it “fertility,” but not necessarily IVF. We had decided to let it go. The HSG is pretty cheap, and we figured we’d fight that battle after I was either pregnant or we’d given up on that. (After all, when you’re not trying to get pregnant it’s hard to claim your treatment is “fertility” related.)
But now that J has to take FSG, we’re looking at a huge expense if we don’t get covered. So we’re going to have to file yet another appeal with our insurance company. And they’re going to take another five weeks to get back to us.
Christ. This is so fucking frustrating.
For the past four months, J’s been giving himself HCG shots. The idea (assuming I’m getting all of this right—biochem isn’t my best subject) it to stimulate the pituitary into producing more male hormone, which will in turn kick-start the testes into doing their job. But after four months there’s been only moderate increase in the male hormone and the testes seem to have given up. Our RE (who is one of the best in the country) assures us that the HSG cannot be responsible for this—it’s probably just the end game for where his sperm count’s been heading all along.
The RE is going to add FSH into the mix, which might help. It also might not. And we won’t know anything for several more months.
I’m so disappointed. I’m not sure how much of the disappointment is due to the ever-increasing likelihood that J is not going to be the biological parent of my child (of course, I might not be either—we’re just not there yet) and how much of it is due to the fact that we have made no progress with our treatment, meaning that it is unlikely we’re going to be doing another cycle anytime soon. Every year, I tell myself THIS is going to be the year that we finally learn whether we’re going to have a child. I just want to KNOW!!!
I wonder if I really am prepared for the news that J’s spermy days are truly over. I think it’s easy to be blasé about it when it’s just out on the horizon and you don’t actually have to make any decisions. But the truth is, part of me just wants to give up and start donor sperm now. Sigh. If ever anything has taught me patience, it’s infertility.
Of course, I’m also upset because J’s hormone imbalance is a health problem as well. It can lead to poor muscle tone, low bone density, etc. I want him to be fixed, dammit (not in the kitty-cat way, but in the burly manly way). I want him healthy.
And we’re having a huge fight with insurance over this. At first they denied coverage altogether, claiming that the hormone treatment was for “IVF support” and our IVF coverage has been exhausted. We appealed, and then they gave us half-coverage, labeling it “fertility,” but not necessarily IVF. We had decided to let it go. The HSG is pretty cheap, and we figured we’d fight that battle after I was either pregnant or we’d given up on that. (After all, when you’re not trying to get pregnant it’s hard to claim your treatment is “fertility” related.)
But now that J has to take FSG, we’re looking at a huge expense if we don’t get covered. So we’re going to have to file yet another appeal with our insurance company. And they’re going to take another five weeks to get back to us.
Christ. This is so fucking frustrating.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Where Are You on the Infertility Age Spectrum?
I have two friends entering the IF rollercoaster, both of whom I referred to my RE’s office (J’s snarky comment: “Oh yeah, because they’ve done such a great job getting us pregnant!”). One friend is 43; the other is 32. And I just turned 37, so I’m right in the middle. The differences between our reactions to the IF are stark and I find them interesting.
My 43-year-old friend, T, just got married two years ago. The way she sees it, she came late to the party and now has a chance to try for a child, but she knows she has to work with what she’s got. When she came to me for information on IVF, she seemed totally at peace with it. It’s not that being a mother is less important to her, or that she’s calm about the process itself (shots and hormones and surgery, etc.). But she has known for years that time was running out. For her, infertility is not a disease—it’s a hurdle she faces because of the way her life has played out. She understands that the odds of IVF working are long, and that she might have to use donor eggs. But she’s decided to take her shot at it, and if it doesn’t work she’ll do what she can to adopt.
I don’t mean to make light of her problems. I’m sure she’s scared and hurting. But I almost envy her lack of trauma over the idea of infertility itself. I think of my first year of infertility as a “lost year” in my life, which I can barely see through the haze of shock and desperation I was going through at the time. And it wasn’t like it happened all at once, either. For most of us, it takes a lot of treatment before you know how bad your infertility is, before you realize that you could actually reach the end of the road without a baby.
I know that’s how I was. I didn’t consider us “infertile” when we first went to an RE to check things out. After all, we’d conceived once on our own, so surely all we needed was a little nudge. And our tests came back fairly positive, so we assumed that the trip to the RE was just a little glitch in the parenting road.
Even then, when I thought that going through IUI was just a hiccup in the rhythm of our lives (I’m metaphor-happy today), it was traumatic. I can remember sobbing in the RE’s office when I first was told we would need IUI. I can remember freaking out over the expense ($1,000). And then one BFN after another, and the shock at learning we would have to go to IVF (again, the expense even with insurance seemed so daunting). And then learning about the fibroids, and then the miscarriages, one after another. The decision to have surgery, and the decision to take out the second mortgage and do the shared risk plan. The feelings of betrayal when our RE finally decided—two years too late—to try to treat J’s hormone deficiencies. And the struggle to accept the likelihood of donor sperm as our only option.
So I look at T, who seemed to skip all these steps, and there’s just a little bit of jealousy on my part. She knew going into this that it was a long shot; she knows she might have to use donor gametes. She has a simple plan that will never drag on for years and years.
Of course, I prefer my odds over hers. And yet I wonder what that kind of peace would have been like.
My 32-year-old friend, D, is on the opposite side of the spectrum. (I know, a 22-year-old would be closer to the true other side of the spectrum, but most of the women I know tend to wait until their 30’s to start trying to conceive.) She and her husband have been TTC for over a year, and she’s been charting (TCOYF) for more than half of that. We’ve spent a lot of time talking about what steps she should take. She seems inclined to go to her gynecologist for advice, while I have been urging her to just skip all that and go straight to the RE. (I know that my RE would repeat all the tests anyway.) I can’t tell whether she’s in denial or if I just assume the worst.
But while we talk about the facts, we have yet to discuss how she’s feeling about all of this. And I don’t know how to broach it. I don’t want to say “I’m sorry,” because that’s assuming infertility (and the need for real treatment), and I know she’s hoping that a simple does of clomid might do the trick. And it might, and I really hope it does. Mostly I think she’s not ready to talk about her feelings until she has some answers.
Right now, she’s where I was 3 years ago. And it’s hard to watch that and want to help, but to fear overwhelming her with my own advice. On the one hand, I wish I knew 3 years ago what I know now. I wish I’d known how hard it could be, how long it could take, and even how much strength I would find in myself and my marriage. On the other hand, she already knows some of this—she’s been watching me go through this, after all. And I don’t want to scare her.
So where are you on the spectrum, and how has it affected your perspective?
My 43-year-old friend, T, just got married two years ago. The way she sees it, she came late to the party and now has a chance to try for a child, but she knows she has to work with what she’s got. When she came to me for information on IVF, she seemed totally at peace with it. It’s not that being a mother is less important to her, or that she’s calm about the process itself (shots and hormones and surgery, etc.). But she has known for years that time was running out. For her, infertility is not a disease—it’s a hurdle she faces because of the way her life has played out. She understands that the odds of IVF working are long, and that she might have to use donor eggs. But she’s decided to take her shot at it, and if it doesn’t work she’ll do what she can to adopt.
I don’t mean to make light of her problems. I’m sure she’s scared and hurting. But I almost envy her lack of trauma over the idea of infertility itself. I think of my first year of infertility as a “lost year” in my life, which I can barely see through the haze of shock and desperation I was going through at the time. And it wasn’t like it happened all at once, either. For most of us, it takes a lot of treatment before you know how bad your infertility is, before you realize that you could actually reach the end of the road without a baby.
I know that’s how I was. I didn’t consider us “infertile” when we first went to an RE to check things out. After all, we’d conceived once on our own, so surely all we needed was a little nudge. And our tests came back fairly positive, so we assumed that the trip to the RE was just a little glitch in the parenting road.
Even then, when I thought that going through IUI was just a hiccup in the rhythm of our lives (I’m metaphor-happy today), it was traumatic. I can remember sobbing in the RE’s office when I first was told we would need IUI. I can remember freaking out over the expense ($1,000). And then one BFN after another, and the shock at learning we would have to go to IVF (again, the expense even with insurance seemed so daunting). And then learning about the fibroids, and then the miscarriages, one after another. The decision to have surgery, and the decision to take out the second mortgage and do the shared risk plan. The feelings of betrayal when our RE finally decided—two years too late—to try to treat J’s hormone deficiencies. And the struggle to accept the likelihood of donor sperm as our only option.
So I look at T, who seemed to skip all these steps, and there’s just a little bit of jealousy on my part. She knew going into this that it was a long shot; she knows she might have to use donor gametes. She has a simple plan that will never drag on for years and years.
Of course, I prefer my odds over hers. And yet I wonder what that kind of peace would have been like.
My 32-year-old friend, D, is on the opposite side of the spectrum. (I know, a 22-year-old would be closer to the true other side of the spectrum, but most of the women I know tend to wait until their 30’s to start trying to conceive.) She and her husband have been TTC for over a year, and she’s been charting (TCOYF) for more than half of that. We’ve spent a lot of time talking about what steps she should take. She seems inclined to go to her gynecologist for advice, while I have been urging her to just skip all that and go straight to the RE. (I know that my RE would repeat all the tests anyway.) I can’t tell whether she’s in denial or if I just assume the worst.
But while we talk about the facts, we have yet to discuss how she’s feeling about all of this. And I don’t know how to broach it. I don’t want to say “I’m sorry,” because that’s assuming infertility (and the need for real treatment), and I know she’s hoping that a simple does of clomid might do the trick. And it might, and I really hope it does. Mostly I think she’s not ready to talk about her feelings until she has some answers.
Right now, she’s where I was 3 years ago. And it’s hard to watch that and want to help, but to fear overwhelming her with my own advice. On the one hand, I wish I knew 3 years ago what I know now. I wish I’d known how hard it could be, how long it could take, and even how much strength I would find in myself and my marriage. On the other hand, she already knows some of this—she’s been watching me go through this, after all. And I don’t want to scare her.
So where are you on the spectrum, and how has it affected your perspective?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Hiding Out
It's 150 degrees in my office (a common occurance on unseasonably warm winter days), yet I'm sitting in here behind a closed door because I'm hiding from an office baby shower. I'm afraid if I even peek outside my door someone will "remind" me that they're all meeting in the library to celebrate.
This so sucks.
Oh, and today I refused to give my second fan to another pregnant lady in my office. (Pregnant lady of previous fame, posted here.) I can't decide if that's passive aggressive or just plain aggressive, but I'm at peace with my decision. I need both fans, and fuck her.
This so sucks.
Oh, and today I refused to give my second fan to another pregnant lady in my office. (Pregnant lady of previous fame, posted here.) I can't decide if that's passive aggressive or just plain aggressive, but I'm at peace with my decision. I need both fans, and fuck her.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Chronic Pain: or One Reason Why I’ve Been Such a Bad Blogger
Let’s face it: I’ve become a bad blogger. Not just have I stopped posting very often myself, but I’ve abandoned my friends as well, checking their blogs only once a week, discovering important events too late, offering lame advice after the critical moment has passed.
The truth is, I’m exhausted and depressed and trying to escape myself, my life. And while part of this funk is due to my perpetually childless state, a lot of it is due to my chronic pain. So far, I’ve avoided writing about it, because for some reason it embarrasses me. I feel like I’m supposed to be this interesting, vibrant person, full of energy and vitality and activity. For some reason, talking about my “bad back” (is there really no better phrase for it?) makes me feel like a hypochondriac whiner who can’t get off her ass and get her shit together. It makes me feel old, unsexy, unlikeable.
Anyway, here’s the scoop: My lower back hurts. Pretty much all the time. It’s been hurting on and off for most of my life. When I was younger (high school, college, even law school) the pain wasn’t constant. I would occasionally throw out my back and be stuck flat on a heating pad for a week. As I got older, the pain became more frequent. During phases when I was feeling better, I would try to build up my strength by exercising, doing yoga, lifting weights, stretching, whatever seemed smartest. This would work for a little while, but then one day something would go wrong, and I would overdo it, and there I would be, flat on my back on a heating pad again, planning how much more careful I would be with my exercise next time. It was a desperate cycle, and in retrospect, a really sad lifestyle.
A few years ago I saw a chiropractor—someone partially covered by my HMO. He told me the problem was my feet (I pronate) and he prescribed me soft orthotics. I’ll be honest with you: I cried when he told me that I would never wear heels again. I had to replace all my shoes, because none of them fit with the orthotics. Soon I found that I could only wear running shoes. So I would wear running shoes to work every day, and leave them on all day unless I was seeing clients or going to court.
But soon the soft orthotics stopped working and I had to go for rigid ones. So I switched to a podiatrist, then replaced all my shoes again because the rigid orthotics fit differently. Again, the orthotics helped for awhile, then stopped working. Over and over again, I found myself just starting to get into shape when I would hurt myself again, and have to completely stop, sometimes for months at a time.
This November, I finally went to see the chiropractor my podiatrist recommended. He seemed really good, but wasn’t covered by my HMO. Then again, the guy covered by my HMO had sucked, and I was desperate. This guy, the infamous Dr. K of my previous post, thinks he can actually fix the structure of my spine. He showed me an x-ray of my neck; I’ve almost lost the curve of my spine there. This means my head is being held several inches too far in front of my body, which is putting strain on my whole spine. He thinks this structural problem (called “anterior head syndrome”) is the source of my lower back pain as well as my shoulder pain.
So I shelled out more than two thousand dollars for a flat-rate plan to fix the structure of my spine. The idea is to do traction 3 times a week for 3 ½ months, reshaping my cervical spine so that my spine isn’t getting pulled out by my enormous, heavy head (that’s how it feels once I’m aware of it). But less than a month into this treatment my lower back completely freaked out. I guess I was too aggressive with the traction, and my body is just so damn sensitive about everything. I remember a day about a month ago where I couldn’t even put my own socks on. That really did me in.
Since then we’ve been trying to get my body back to the point where I can start the traction again. I have a DDS Belt, which is essentially a lower-back traction device. I wrap it around my waist really tight, then I pump it full of air and it expands vertically, separating my discs. So now not only can I wear no pretty shoes, I am having to try to hide this belt under my clothes, even though it squeezes my fat out above and below it. As long as I wear bunchy clothes or sweaters, you can’t really see it, but I feel like a circus freak. I wear the belt at least half a day every day. I thought it was only going to be for a few days, but my recovery has been ridiculously slow.
And that leads to the depression/escapist angle. Because my recovery has been so slow, and I’m so desperate to feel good again. I’ll feel a little bit better for a day or two (as long as I use the DDS belt), tender and sore but not in serious pain, but then I’ll slide back into joint-throbbing pain where I have to take percocet and lay on an ice pack and just pray that it gets better soon.
Dr. K has been a godsend. He’s basically extending my treatment plan so that when we start doing traction again (which we have to do sometime) I can still finish the plan without paying more. He also basically gave me the DDS belt, which is expensive. And he still believes that I can be healed. I wonder whether we’re both delusional.
I’m exhausted and discouraged and after awhile the pain has just worn me down. I’ve been seeing a doctor three nights a week for three months, and I haven’t even really started my structural treatment program. I feel like this never is going to end.
The strange thing is that this has so neatly replaced my IF treatment. Here I am, spending a lot of money, seeing a doctor so often I’m on a first-name basis with him and his entire staff. I’m in a lot of pain, and all I can do is hope that in the end I’m going to get something worthwhile out of it.
And like my IF treatment, I still have hope. Maybe I won’t be crippled or addicted to painkillers (or both) before I’m 40. Maybe I really will be healthy enough to do my own housework, garden, and have sex. (That’s right, I can’t even have sex.) Maybe I really will be able to handle a pregnancy and a baby someday.
Also like IF, I have fear. Because maybe not. And the thought of what I might become is terrifying.
The truth is, I’m exhausted and depressed and trying to escape myself, my life. And while part of this funk is due to my perpetually childless state, a lot of it is due to my chronic pain. So far, I’ve avoided writing about it, because for some reason it embarrasses me. I feel like I’m supposed to be this interesting, vibrant person, full of energy and vitality and activity. For some reason, talking about my “bad back” (is there really no better phrase for it?) makes me feel like a hypochondriac whiner who can’t get off her ass and get her shit together. It makes me feel old, unsexy, unlikeable.
Anyway, here’s the scoop: My lower back hurts. Pretty much all the time. It’s been hurting on and off for most of my life. When I was younger (high school, college, even law school) the pain wasn’t constant. I would occasionally throw out my back and be stuck flat on a heating pad for a week. As I got older, the pain became more frequent. During phases when I was feeling better, I would try to build up my strength by exercising, doing yoga, lifting weights, stretching, whatever seemed smartest. This would work for a little while, but then one day something would go wrong, and I would overdo it, and there I would be, flat on my back on a heating pad again, planning how much more careful I would be with my exercise next time. It was a desperate cycle, and in retrospect, a really sad lifestyle.
A few years ago I saw a chiropractor—someone partially covered by my HMO. He told me the problem was my feet (I pronate) and he prescribed me soft orthotics. I’ll be honest with you: I cried when he told me that I would never wear heels again. I had to replace all my shoes, because none of them fit with the orthotics. Soon I found that I could only wear running shoes. So I would wear running shoes to work every day, and leave them on all day unless I was seeing clients or going to court.
But soon the soft orthotics stopped working and I had to go for rigid ones. So I switched to a podiatrist, then replaced all my shoes again because the rigid orthotics fit differently. Again, the orthotics helped for awhile, then stopped working. Over and over again, I found myself just starting to get into shape when I would hurt myself again, and have to completely stop, sometimes for months at a time.
This November, I finally went to see the chiropractor my podiatrist recommended. He seemed really good, but wasn’t covered by my HMO. Then again, the guy covered by my HMO had sucked, and I was desperate. This guy, the infamous Dr. K of my previous post, thinks he can actually fix the structure of my spine. He showed me an x-ray of my neck; I’ve almost lost the curve of my spine there. This means my head is being held several inches too far in front of my body, which is putting strain on my whole spine. He thinks this structural problem (called “anterior head syndrome”) is the source of my lower back pain as well as my shoulder pain.
So I shelled out more than two thousand dollars for a flat-rate plan to fix the structure of my spine. The idea is to do traction 3 times a week for 3 ½ months, reshaping my cervical spine so that my spine isn’t getting pulled out by my enormous, heavy head (that’s how it feels once I’m aware of it). But less than a month into this treatment my lower back completely freaked out. I guess I was too aggressive with the traction, and my body is just so damn sensitive about everything. I remember a day about a month ago where I couldn’t even put my own socks on. That really did me in.
Since then we’ve been trying to get my body back to the point where I can start the traction again. I have a DDS Belt, which is essentially a lower-back traction device. I wrap it around my waist really tight, then I pump it full of air and it expands vertically, separating my discs. So now not only can I wear no pretty shoes, I am having to try to hide this belt under my clothes, even though it squeezes my fat out above and below it. As long as I wear bunchy clothes or sweaters, you can’t really see it, but I feel like a circus freak. I wear the belt at least half a day every day. I thought it was only going to be for a few days, but my recovery has been ridiculously slow.
And that leads to the depression/escapist angle. Because my recovery has been so slow, and I’m so desperate to feel good again. I’ll feel a little bit better for a day or two (as long as I use the DDS belt), tender and sore but not in serious pain, but then I’ll slide back into joint-throbbing pain where I have to take percocet and lay on an ice pack and just pray that it gets better soon.
Dr. K has been a godsend. He’s basically extending my treatment plan so that when we start doing traction again (which we have to do sometime) I can still finish the plan without paying more. He also basically gave me the DDS belt, which is expensive. And he still believes that I can be healed. I wonder whether we’re both delusional.
I’m exhausted and discouraged and after awhile the pain has just worn me down. I’ve been seeing a doctor three nights a week for three months, and I haven’t even really started my structural treatment program. I feel like this never is going to end.
The strange thing is that this has so neatly replaced my IF treatment. Here I am, spending a lot of money, seeing a doctor so often I’m on a first-name basis with him and his entire staff. I’m in a lot of pain, and all I can do is hope that in the end I’m going to get something worthwhile out of it.
And like my IF treatment, I still have hope. Maybe I won’t be crippled or addicted to painkillers (or both) before I’m 40. Maybe I really will be healthy enough to do my own housework, garden, and have sex. (That’s right, I can’t even have sex.) Maybe I really will be able to handle a pregnancy and a baby someday.
Also like IF, I have fear. Because maybe not. And the thought of what I might become is terrifying.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Paranoid, Insecure, and Socially Inept
I have had the strangest week. Ever since the inauguration last week I’ve been a mess, swinging wildly from anger to frustration to paranoia. As often happens when depression rears its ugly head, I also feel socially insecure. This doesn’t mean that I become shy or anything (perish the thought!). What happens is almost worse—I find myself constantly replaying conversations with friends and colleagues, wincing at my words, my tone, wondering whether I was being fun and witty or awkward and perhaps rude. This leaves me feeling constantly unsettled, paranoid even.
Let’s add to this that I’ve totally blown ICLW week (which is kind of like “ATM machine” or “PIN number,” both pet peeves of mine). When I signed up I thought I’d be cycling again, ready to write and read and give support. Instead I just bitterly wait. I can almost feel my eggs aging as I sit here.
I hate being moody. My husband is the proverbial rock; his moods consist of teasing (good mood) or quiet (which could mean stressed, frustrated, sad, tired, or just mellow). But I spend a lot of my time fighting my Inner Crazy. I also have to remain ever-vigilant against my Inner Truly Crazy, the surface of which I have grazed only a couple of times, but which I know lurks in my genetic makeup. (I used to worry I was going to end up crazy like my mom. I can remember having conversations with J about this early in our relationship, wondering if he really wanted a long-term commitment with someone who had that possible future. But if there’s one thing the past few years have taught me, it’s that I’m a lot stronger that my mom—and both of her parents. I’m grounded enough to handle a lot more than she can, and I now know I’m not going to end up like her. Thanks, IF, for teaching me how much I can take.)
I had an odd conversation about my IF treatment plans last week. My chiropractor, Dr. K, and I have become pretty chummy during the past two months. He’s only a year older than me, and he’s a nice guy who has really gone out of his way to help me. Last week, he mentioned that he thought my chiropractic treatment would help me get pregnant.
“It would help more if our problems weren’t primarily male-factor,” I said.
Dr. K started telling me about a doctor he knows in New York who’s had luck improving sperm count with some new treatment. I cut him off. “We’re mostly done with all that,” I told him. “If J’s hormone treatment doesn’t work, we’re going to go with donor sperm, and if that doesn’t work in a couple of cycles we’re going to stop.”
“It sounds like you’ve already given up,” he said, sounding upset.
I should have been mad. Instead I just felt tired. “It’s been three and a half years,” was all I said. “At some point we just have to stop.”
The strangest thing about this conversation was its stark contrast to ones I’ve had with my friends and my sister, several of whom were pushing for me to give up and start the adoption process more than a year ago (solicited advice). I couldn’t stop wondering why Dr. K was in such a different place than my friends. Then I realized that it was just about being there. Dr. K has only known me for a couple of months, months that I haven’t been cycling. The years I’ve suffered with IF are just an abstraction to him—the time isn’t real. For him, it’s measured in terms of his life, time which raced by while his kids grow older, learn to read, to ride a bike. Time that flew past while he built his practice. Time in which he lived his life.
For me, time has stopped. I don’t see time in seasons and years anymore. Instead I see it as daily frustration, constant anger, a persistent underlying dread and fear, empty weekends with nothing to do in my cold, quiet house. I see my life through the hours spent watching TV and movies, reading books, not quite finding the escape I’m seeking. I see my life through the four vacations I’ve taken, each one thought to be the “last chance” at a break before we had to give our time to a pregnancy and a new baby. I see it through the meaningless holidays, the baby showers I’ve skipped. I see my life through the growth of my nephew.
My close friends have been with me, day by day. They’ve seen the hope for each new cycle, for each new type of treatment. They’ve read my one-word, end-of-cycle e-mails: “negative,” or “miscarriage.” One of my best friends told me that she has had to harden her heart (just like I try to) every time I go into a new cycle, just so she won’t get so upset when it doesn’t work out. Unlike Dr. K, my friends understand that what I’m doing is insane—beating my head against the wall again and again, refusing to stop because there’s always a new treatment, a new approach. Anyone who’s been with me for the past three years would never suggest: (a) that I’ve given up, or (b) that it would be a bad thing if I did.
And that’s why I couldn’t be mad at Dr. K. He just didn’t get it. He doesn’t know.
Let’s add to this that I’ve totally blown ICLW week (which is kind of like “ATM machine” or “PIN number,” both pet peeves of mine). When I signed up I thought I’d be cycling again, ready to write and read and give support. Instead I just bitterly wait. I can almost feel my eggs aging as I sit here.
I hate being moody. My husband is the proverbial rock; his moods consist of teasing (good mood) or quiet (which could mean stressed, frustrated, sad, tired, or just mellow). But I spend a lot of my time fighting my Inner Crazy. I also have to remain ever-vigilant against my Inner Truly Crazy, the surface of which I have grazed only a couple of times, but which I know lurks in my genetic makeup. (I used to worry I was going to end up crazy like my mom. I can remember having conversations with J about this early in our relationship, wondering if he really wanted a long-term commitment with someone who had that possible future. But if there’s one thing the past few years have taught me, it’s that I’m a lot stronger that my mom—and both of her parents. I’m grounded enough to handle a lot more than she can, and I now know I’m not going to end up like her. Thanks, IF, for teaching me how much I can take.)
I had an odd conversation about my IF treatment plans last week. My chiropractor, Dr. K, and I have become pretty chummy during the past two months. He’s only a year older than me, and he’s a nice guy who has really gone out of his way to help me. Last week, he mentioned that he thought my chiropractic treatment would help me get pregnant.
“It would help more if our problems weren’t primarily male-factor,” I said.
Dr. K started telling me about a doctor he knows in New York who’s had luck improving sperm count with some new treatment. I cut him off. “We’re mostly done with all that,” I told him. “If J’s hormone treatment doesn’t work, we’re going to go with donor sperm, and if that doesn’t work in a couple of cycles we’re going to stop.”
“It sounds like you’ve already given up,” he said, sounding upset.
I should have been mad. Instead I just felt tired. “It’s been three and a half years,” was all I said. “At some point we just have to stop.”
The strangest thing about this conversation was its stark contrast to ones I’ve had with my friends and my sister, several of whom were pushing for me to give up and start the adoption process more than a year ago (solicited advice). I couldn’t stop wondering why Dr. K was in such a different place than my friends. Then I realized that it was just about being there. Dr. K has only known me for a couple of months, months that I haven’t been cycling. The years I’ve suffered with IF are just an abstraction to him—the time isn’t real. For him, it’s measured in terms of his life, time which raced by while his kids grow older, learn to read, to ride a bike. Time that flew past while he built his practice. Time in which he lived his life.
For me, time has stopped. I don’t see time in seasons and years anymore. Instead I see it as daily frustration, constant anger, a persistent underlying dread and fear, empty weekends with nothing to do in my cold, quiet house. I see my life through the hours spent watching TV and movies, reading books, not quite finding the escape I’m seeking. I see my life through the four vacations I’ve taken, each one thought to be the “last chance” at a break before we had to give our time to a pregnancy and a new baby. I see it through the meaningless holidays, the baby showers I’ve skipped. I see my life through the growth of my nephew.
My close friends have been with me, day by day. They’ve seen the hope for each new cycle, for each new type of treatment. They’ve read my one-word, end-of-cycle e-mails: “negative,” or “miscarriage.” One of my best friends told me that she has had to harden her heart (just like I try to) every time I go into a new cycle, just so she won’t get so upset when it doesn’t work out. Unlike Dr. K, my friends understand that what I’m doing is insane—beating my head against the wall again and again, refusing to stop because there’s always a new treatment, a new approach. Anyone who’s been with me for the past three years would never suggest: (a) that I’ve given up, or (b) that it would be a bad thing if I did.
And that’s why I couldn’t be mad at Dr. K. He just didn’t get it. He doesn’t know.
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