AMH makes an appearance

If only my eggs looked this good! With Easter around the corner and talk of eggs in the air, my doctor (new doctor) thought it was time I rallied for the dreadful and dreaded AMH test. I think it’s the one test all fertility-challenged women want to avoid. Why? It’s said to be a pretty good indicator of a gal’s eggs supply. Now, I didn’t have this test¬†before my prior IVF (why? no idea!), but my new doc said the information would help him out as he planned my June fun. As if he needed any more info on my low egg count. (If you don’t remember, I was hopped up on crazy amounts of follistim, but the doctor only harvested three eggs, all of which were immature. Awesome.) Not wanting to start off on the wrong foot with the new doc, I obliged and got the test. The results: .91. I have a low ovarian reserve. Shocker!

I’ve come to realize that the reason I go to acupuncture and blog is to help me keep things in perspective. There’s always someone with a lower AMH (acupuncturist’s words were: that’s borderline low, but I have other patients with a much, much lower number) and someone with a worse situation than mine (the gal who’s been through seven IVF cycles!). Of course, I’m also turning into that story friends tell other friends about the girl who’s struggling with infertility. Sweet!

So to reclaim some of the negative energy around the awful AMH test, my brother and his wife have decided to name their baby such a fab name her initials will be AMH! How crazy is that? Sure, I’m reading too much into it, but now I have two AMHs in my life, and one will surely be more exciting than the other.

I’ve also decided to take a few steps in preparation for our June IVF: I joined the local yoga studio and I’m seeing a therapist. The first was something I needed because my energy is gone and my lethargy is over-powering. I know a lot of this has to do with my lack of training or running, but I’m not running or training as much because I feel like my body needs a break. But like most training-plan-obsessed athletes, I don’t work well without a game plan. Enter the yoga studio with bargain basement pricing. I’ve been to three classes in four days, and I’m excited to get into a routine that gives me some peace of mind and some exercise. The second item is also a step I’m taking to try and get my head around what’s going on. It’s not like I don’t know I can’t get pregnant, but as my hubby said the other night, we operate in one of two modes: obsession or denial. I figure there’s got to be a third, more healthy option. Right? Who knows what June will hold. Who knows what another round of IVF will cause. And while I know my husband and I are a strong unit, I also know we’re being stressed in the most significant ways: emotionally and financially. If it were simply one or the other, no problem, but mix the two together and it’s exhausting.

I head to the doc in a few weeks for yet another baseline ultrasound and a mock transfer. Then we wait and fill prescriptions and step fully into the chaos that will hopefully, just maybe help us expand our family.



Would you still have married me?

It’s funny how the timing in my life is most often out of sync with my brother’s. We live on opposite sides of the country, work in opposing fields (I’m in education; he’s in finance), and live very different lives. Don’t get me wrong, I lean on my brother often: he is a resource, a confidant, a friend. But sometimes I laugh at how different we are.

A week ago I was emailing with my brother about our genes. Yes, our genes. It seems he has his triglycerides. Really high. Like, get on the meds fast, high. I don’t, not even close. My mother did, and my brother’s doctor thinks it’s genetic because he shows no other signs or symptoms of someone who should have high cholesterol. This week we’ve been emailing because I too have a genetic tick passed on from my mother: I have a low antral follicle count. A what? The antral follicles are the eggs that are forming and growing, getting ready to be released from my ovaries. (In other words: they’re the sassy southerners just waiting to get kicked out of the den to meet Mr. Peanut!) My doc thinks that maybe our fertility struggles come down to the fact that I’m no productive chicken in the egg department. Seeing as I’m all jacked up on hormones and stimulants, my follicle number should be high. Really high. But no such luck. As all the previous blood tests have shown, my hormone levels are spot on. My ovulation cycle is dialed in. But those pesky eggs I was born with, those eggs that developed when I was developing in my mom’s belly, just aren’t what they should be.

But wait! Just yesterday I said I would avoid the should. So, here’s how the new me, the newly intentioned IVF conquerer sees it: it’s quality not quantity. Less is¬†more. All it takes is one or two fabulously formed eggs to meet my hubby’s sperm, and a little one or two will be on the way. Some is better than none! Who cares what the numbers say. This is what I’ve got. And this is what I’m excited to be working with.

Of course, I did turn to my husband and say — if you knew I had a low antral follicle count, would you still have married me? ha ha ha ha.

Meds taken: Repronex, Follistim & Cetrotide (a new and exciting addition to the morning!)
Shots given by hubby: 1
Shots administered by myself: 1
Number of times I dry heaved before administering my own shot: 1/2
How I calmed myself down: Promise of chocolate