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Part IAfter a couple of calls and lookups we settled on a place called FCI Chicago. They specialize in fertility issues and were located downtown as well up North by us. Best of all they took early morning appointments which were conducive to our work schedule.
We entered the office, nervous of course, and we were greeted by about a dozen raised heads that did a quick scan of us checking to see what our story was. In this place, in particular, it seemed to be populated by Gold Coast trophy wives and hardcore professional women that put off having kids hoping that medical science can give them the boost that they need. It was part WASP nest, part Business Leader Convention. The average age seemed to be around 40 so we were about a decade younger than most people that were there.
I checked with C later and she agreed with the feeling that we were being judged negatively because of our age. We both felt that these women (and I do mean women; I was almost always the only male there throughout) seemed to think that we hadn't suffered the way had, which may be true, because up to that point we had hardly been trying to conceive.
We were finally called into the inner sanctum to meet Dr. Moises. (The weirdest part of the
situation is that his colleague actually helped Courtney's Mom conceive 3 decades prior. It's a pretty small world.) He was sitting in his office surrounded by files and folders and papers and in typical geriatric fashion he was complaining about his computer when we walked in. (Why older --sorry seasoned-- people can't get computers is going to be another topic sometime) He welcomed us in and asked us to sit. Moises looked and sounded like Telly Savalas, you know, Kojak.
M: "So yous all wanna conceive, huh?"
K&C "Yes."
M: "Yaknow yous came to the right place?"
K&C "Yes."
M" "Who loves ya, baby?"
Good guy really. He told us about the procedures and the shots and what to expect and everything else. C was hung up on the shots. This woman turns into the biggest quivering blob of traumatized panic whenever she has to be poked with a needle. She really is a HUGE baby.
K: "I'll hold your hand the whole time, it's going to be OK."
C: (Sob)
K: "Really I will be here for you."
M: "That's right buster, you will be there for her because you need to give them to her."
K: "Dammit."
I am only a little better than C when it comes to shots. Immediately, the thought of inserting a thin needle and piercing my wife's skin made me nauseated. I am sure I turned pale but I kept a strong appearance and told her that my palms were only wet because it was sympathy sweat.
Moises finished up and called in his lead person to walk us through the actual steps and process of administering the shots..
(On intercom) "Hey, where's my blondie?" (Seriously, he said this into the intercom.)
In walked a petite, obviously blond, obviously annoyed, woman. Moises was an older gentleman and seemed to stick to old-school observations on women in the workplace. Moises was a great doctor, but he had no clue on how to run an office and that is where Julie came in. The way she worked him was fantastic though.
"No, Dr., the yellow papers go in the magenta folder. You have processed them so they can now move on to the waiting rack for review."
"Oh, that's my blondie"
She looked at us and rolled her eyes and we chuckled. She then looked at the piles of paper on his desk and glared. You know how you have to talk to some people really slow and succinctly to make sure that they understand that Wednesday is creamed corn night and Thursday is prunes; not the other way around. She really was a fountain of patience.
Julie took us into a room for training. She took out a series of increasingly larger needles and two little pads for practice. She explained to us the drugs that we were going to have to use.
I have no idea what the technical term was for these so I will try to explain them the best that I can. The first drug came in two vials. One contained a simple saline solution and the other one contained a substance that looked cakey like what is on the faces of the traders when I am walking past the Chicago Board of Trade on my way to the train.
She showed me that you take 15(?)CCs of the solution and then inject it into the powder and shake until dissolved.
K:"You know, Courtney, just like in our meth lab."
The bruise on my shin went away in about a week. I swear that no one has a sense of humor any more. Julie looked at me funny and then started talking to me really slow and succinctly.
The second shot was called the trigger. She told us that based on our counts we would be told how much would be used when it was time to use it. She picked up what looked like a Slurpee straw and said that this is what we were going to use for the trigger. I saw a Discovery channel show where they were trying to give medical attention to a rhinoceros and used a stun dart to bring it down. Let's just say that this could have given a T-rex a nice 3-day vacation.
J: "This one is not sub-cutaneous"
K: "Uhhhh"
J: "It's intra-muscular"
K: "Errrrr"
J: "In the butt muscle?"
K: "Gotcha"
The scariest part is the motion in which it had to be inserted. Think Freddy Kruger, think Jason, think any serial killer. In a stabbing motion (her term, not mine) you must lunge this 22" needle almost to the hilt, check to make sure no blood entered the chamber and then plunge this viscous liquid deep into her body and finally pull it out prepared with a alcohol swab to douse the opening. That's right stab, lunge, plunge and remove. If you do notice blood in the chamber, you are not supposed to push the plunger in, you must remove the needle and start over with a fresh needle. You only get two chances. Don't even get me started about the sidebar on the air bubbles that have to be flicked out.
Now I am thinking my wife is terrible with shots and I always sucked at throwing darts. She can't stand knowing that pain is coming. She sat in our bedroom for 3 days working up the courage to pull a band-aid off. I can't imagine OJing her with a needle only to say, "Whoops, baby, I need a do-over."
To better explain the process, the first shot was given nightly (NIGHTLY!) and built her viable egg count up. By the end of a "cycle" C was the walking Chicken. She literally would have 12 eggs in each of her ovaries. That's 12 eggs, normal people have, maybe 2. She walked around, her sides killing her, eggs practically bursting out of her ovaries. She would even list to one side like a drunken frat boy when coming down the hall.
We had to come into the office every other day for an ultrasound to track the growth progression. This routine consisted of waiting in the office, waiting in the back portion of the office and for me waiting in the inner office while Courtney changed into her paper lingerie.
I tried to make small talk with the technician, but it was always awkward. I don't think she was used to dealing with many guys.
K: "So is that the part you rub over her stomach?"
T: "No this is insertable."
K: "Oh. Why are you changing that rubber wrapper on the wand?"
T: "Because you touched it."
After about ten days of shots and we had clearance from the doctor’s office we had to bring out the trigger. This is a one-time, magic bullet solution that activates all of the eggs and makes them ready for action. As you can imagine this needle was the size of a Crayola marker.
We were ready to put our plan into action and see if we could actually play doctor, not in the biblical sense.
Stay tuned for Part three: “Why Maya was almost named Willow”
daughter.
