Ladies in waiting

Not much to share today, except the bit of whimsy that follows. I've been a bit down. They say that women experiencing infertility have depression deeper than women undergoing cancer treatment. I believe it.

Earlier this week I called my egg donor coordinator for no real reason at all. I just wanted to hear her voice (isn't that sweet?). Our donor will be coming in sometime this week to see if she's down-regulated and ready to start stims, at which point the coordinator will call and strike my chains: No more Lupron! I can't wait for a mainline hit of Estrace, so I can stop sweating and start sleeping.

You know what gets me about this whole donor egg process?

Don't answer that. The replies would be legion. Today, however, my issue is with Waiting. And her hag of a sister, Worrying. I am a child of the first TV generation; I was born in 1964, the very last year of the Baby Boom. My attention span (unless I'm reading a really good book) has been irrevocably shaped by episodic drama and news-at-eleven sound bytes. Delayed gratification? Not.

So yeah, Waiting and Worrying drive me bughouse. They've been stopping by lately, hanging out, like good girlfriends do. Waiting asks me out to lunch a lot, trying to fill up my time. Worrying yap, yap, yaps in my ear and goes at me with her little rat teeth if I don't find some way to shut her up. I wonder sometimes, how many of our infertility decisions are driven by sheer exhaustion. We're tired of Waiting and Worrying. They're such bitches.

First I Waited to reach the top of my clinic's egg donation list. That took about a year, but I filled that time profitably by having my fibroid-infested uterus cleaned out, getting pregnant twice with my own eggs, and having miscarriages. Worrying had a field day during both of those pregnancies. After each ended, she smiled a smug and self-satisfied smile and said, "I told you so."

Reaching the pinnacle of the egg donation list was a less-than-welcome achievement after the worst year of my life, but it finally happened. Next, I Waited until a donor we liked became available. We passed on three donors for various reasons before we were matched. And then Waiting piped up: "Are you sure you didn't jump the gun a little bit? The next donor they offer might be just perfect. Maybe you should think about this. C'mon, let's you and me go out for a drink...."

I loved my donor's profile, and when I looked at her picture, I felt an instant click: Yes, that's the one. But our donor is not proven. I was just bored with Waiting. And Worrying reminded me that some other couple could snatch her up while I was dithering. (Our clinic gives you a week to consider a donor before they'll offer her to the next people on the list.) I caved.

Then, I Waited for our donor to recover from bronchitis, poor girl, and to get "Day 1" of her period. Never has the old auntie been so welcome, especially when not coming to my own house. Since then my donor and I have both been injecting ourselves with Lupron, in an attempt to downregulate and match up our cycles. This process is taking a very long time, but I have kept myself busy exchanging e-mail with Waiting and Worrying. (Is our donor taking care of herself? Is she taking her shots? Am I taking care of myself and taking my shots?)

In fact, I must thank Waiting and Worrying for this blog. It was their idea.

As soon as this cycle starts for real, Waiting and Worrying will be moving in to my house. I think they'll be sleeping in my bed and eating my food. They'll be very busy girls after my donor begins her stimulation drugs, and we face the whole how-many-eggs, how-many-embryos agony. And after transfer, they'll call their mother...the foul Queen of all the Waits, who reigns in the special circle of Hell named for Her: the Two Week Wait.

"Assuming you get that lucky," Worrying reminds me. "Not everyone gets pregnant from their first donor egg cycle." She's sitting on the edge of my desk, filing her nails to nice, sharp points. The better to scratch me with, later.

"Shut up," says Waiting, hovering behind me. She glances at her watch. "I told her to write a blog to kill a few minutes, and her lunch break is almost over."

Worrying pouts. "Well okay. No need to be rude. I was just saying."

I could get used to these two. I'd better.