Surviving Infertility, Part Two

Part Two
If you haven't read Part One, click HERE 

I'm no longer embarrassed by my experiences 

because I endured...

I had no way of knowing the next six months were going to be far more than just an emotional roller coaster ride.  We'd already spent years trying to conceive a second child, and we were familiar with the ups and downs of the monthly hope and disappointment. It was difficult to talk about our struggles conceiving a second time because we had conceived a child. If I had dollar for every time someone threw us a platitude about already having a child and being lucky or not having a reason we couldn't have another one if we did once...well...I could've had those treatments in the US and not went through the subsequent Hell of the following months.

I've not shared the details of the remainder of this story with many people over the years.  They are painful and unpleasant and used to be embarrassing to a degree.  Infertility is a special kind of Hell that makes it difficult to separate head and heart.  No matter what I knew to be wrong in my head, my heart so desperately wanted to have another baby that I would've done almost anything Dr. X asked since he was promising us another baby.  I'm not the same person now as I was then.  I didn't think I could stand up for myself because it might upset the doctor or get in the way of getting pregnant somehow.  The me of now, of today, sometimes wants to shake the me from then.  And yet I still understand her, you know? I know the fears and insecurities she faced, and I know why she didn't speak up for herself.  I know she endured Hell only to be treated like a criminal later when she spoke up, and I know she learned from all of those experiences and is stronger for them. It may be thirteen years later, but maybe sharing these experiences will help even one person feel like they aren't alone. 

Onward and...downward...

It didn't take long to settle into the routine of waking early every morning, dragging our three-year-old out of bed, and heading to the doctor's office for a blood draw and an ultrasound.  Dr. X insisted that Americans and his regular patients be kept separate.  When we asked why he explained we received more attention since we had military insurance and his patients were generally all via social medicine.  He said his patients would be jealous and upset if they realized the difference, so all visits and treatments would keep Americans separate from his local patients.   The early morning hours weren't ideal, but they made it possible for Wes to attend many of the appointments.  The problem with keeping patients separate weren't apparent to us until it was time for our first attempts to conceive.

Dr. X told us it was finally time for our first insemination, but I still wasn't ovulating.  A shot to force ovulation and waiting for changes in the blood work and ultrasounds finally led to the first real chance at conception.  I say that tongue in cheek, really.  Why?  Because each month he was telling us the larger the follicles were, the better chance we had to conceive.  He would share the follicle growth with us every morning telling how wonderful it was when they would grow up to 40 mm and over.  (YES, I now know how bad those measurements are, but that comes later)  Ovulating 40 mm follicles is horrifically painful—at least it was for me. But ovulate I did, and despite the doctor's news that it was time, we weren't given an appointment for the insemination...

Wait.  What?  Yeah...

Returning back to his previous insistence that Americans and his regular patients be kept separate, he told us he couldn't give us an official appointment for the procedure because it had to be when all of his other patients were gone for the day.  And he couldn't say when that would be.  He said we had to wait for his phone call and then be ready to come right over to his office.  His office wasn't far from the base, but did I mention we didn't live on base?  No, we lived half an hour away in a small village, and we only had one car.  So my toddler and I would have to wait around base or nearby for a phone call telling us it was time.  Oh, and that phone call?  We didn't have a cell phone, so that was super fun.  Whether I was calling the office off and on through the day or he was calling Wes's work to leave a message, I never knew what to expect.  Inseminations were often done after seven or eight in the evening...sometimes later depending on the doctor's schedule that day.

We finally received the phone call telling us to come to his office.  I was excited by the prospect of pregnancy but terrified of the unknown.  When we arrived, Wes was sent off to make his deposit, and I was prepped for the procedure while we waited.  To our surprise, Dr. X said he had to put in an IV line for extra medication and "just in case" I had a reaction to anything.  When we asked what sort of medication, he said it was called buscopan—an anti-cramping medication to inhibit my uterus from pushing out the sperm after the procedure.  Despite my confusion as to why my uterus would push it out, I allowed the IV.  Why wouldn't I?  He said it was necessary.  Wes returned with his contribution, and right before the doctor took the sperm for washing, he put the medication into the port of my IV. About thirty seconds later I was nauseated and felt lousy.  The sperm wash cycle took five minutes  (We'll talk about that later too) and it was time to climb into the chair (as I came to think of it) for the  insemination procedure.  The IUI procedure itself should be fairly quick, simple, and painless.  Absolutely none of my procedures over the next six months were quick, simple, or painless.  My forward-facing uterus, a narrow cervical opening, and inept medical care made them progressively worse.

Another problem we faced with late evening procedures was the lack of nurse assistance for the Dr. X.  Out of more than a dozen IUIs, only a few times did we have a trained nurse to assist him.  As time went by his wife helped once, and towards the end ---> WES <--- assisted a couple of times out of dire necessity.  I'll let you think about that before explaining later.  Some of the worst experiences for both of us happened in those moments.

Earlier I mentioned the buscopan (anti-cramping medication) administered directly to the IV port.  It made me sick.  With each IUI the nausea was worse, so the doctor started handing me the medication and having me administer it into my port in small increments while he spent the five-ten minutes washing the sperm. (I don't think I've typed the word sperm in my entire life as many times as I have in this post.  My kids will have a cringe fest with this one.) After several IUIs I hit a wall with the medication.  And by wall I mean anaphylactic shock.  Suddenly I couldn't swallow anymore, I was having difficulty breathing, and when I looked down at my arms, they were covered in hives.  I pulled up my shirt to find I was covered in them.  I'm not going to lie, I was scared.  Wes called the doctor into the room who diagnosed an allergic reaction (duh) and ran steroids through the IV port to counteract.  After a few minutes I began breathing easier and the hives slowly went away.  Once I could swallow again, my heart rate slowed down, but the fear didn't go away.  I knew things weren't right in this office.  Doctor X, instead of acting concerned, announced gleefully that my reaction was exactly why IV lines were so necessary during the procedure.  Strangely enough, he also told us I was the first person to have a reaction to the medication.  So why he believed an IV line would ever be necessary is unknown. 

In America, having a medicinal allergy that leads to anaphylaxis means it's plastered all over your charts.  I've had quite a few surgeries, and I have to wear a bright red bracelet anytime I'm in the hospital that tells everyone I have a dangerous allergy.  Dr. X didn't even flag the chart in his office. How do I know?  He insisted on putting an IV line in the next month "just in case"...AND THEN TRIED TO GIVE ME THE SAME MEDICATION! Just as he was getting ready to give it to me, Wes asked him what it was.  When he said buscopan, we were both shocked.  He then proceeded to berate us for not reminding him sooner.  He told us he had too many patients to keep up with details like that, and if I didn't want to accidentally be given that medication, it was our job to remind him every time. He shamed us and made us feel stupid. What in the actual Hell? Later I would chastise myself for not speaking up and telling him it was his job to know these things.  But I didn't because I thought he held the key to getting pregnant.  I kept hoping things would get better...boy was I wrong.

Due to the length of this story, it was posted in three parts. 

Click HERE if you missed part one

Click HERE to continue on to parts three and four

The country and name of the doctor are intentionally kept anonymous.  The purpose of these posts isn't to spread negativity but to give others going through infertility the knowledge they aren't alone in their struggles.  Infertility sucks enough without people taking advantage, and my life was made so much better because a few women spoke up and shared their knowledge.  Feel free to reach out if you want or need to share your story.  

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