Mistakes
After two or three of these shots, I was sore. Like having trouble walking, waddling around, possibly doing more injury than good to my back and thighs because of the way I was walking kind of sore.
I took a picture of the giant needle I was injecting myself with, thinking I would include it here as I did with my bruised stomach. My brain also tossed around the idea of posting it on Facebook, as I'm pretty sure that most of you reading this are friends with me. I figured I could throw the picture up there as an illustration for what's occurring. I did waffle - is that TMI? Are there people who I don't want to know what I'm going through?
Eh. I'm an open person about these sorts of things. (Maybe too open, but I know that about myself. I can't hide my emotions on these difficult topics, and I can't lie about why I'm feeling a certain way. I don't like when people are vague and cagey with me, so I'm not with others.) Up went the picture.
It turned out to be a great decision because a friend of mine who's gone through this process immediately sent me a message to let me know I've been using the wrong needle. The picture that I posted is of a needle that is 4 gauges thicker than the one I should be using. Whoops.
So how did this happen? It's a mildly confusing process, but I'm going to do my best to explain it.
When I got the schedule of pre-transfer meds, I received some basic instructions for administering the progesterone shots that were wordy, written explanations. They did specify what gauge of needle to use for each step; an 18 gauge needle to draw the thick progesterone in oil solution into the syringe and a 22 gauge needle to do the actual injecting. Nothing was bold or highlighted, just mentioned in passing. I also watched the administration instruction video I linked to in the last entry, which is something that the pharmacy my meds come from allows access to. In the beginning of that video, there's a section that discusses the materials you need to gather together prior to your injection. It shows a syringe with no needle attached sealed in plastic, as well as what they call a "drawing needle" and an "injecting needle," both separate and sealed. It does not discuss gauges; it does not remind users to check anything.
When hubby and I went to put together my first injection, we found that the syringe had a needle attached to it in its wrapper. Hubby assumed that this was the drawing needle, as the syringe comes with no solution included. I knew that the gauges were mentioned in my instructions, but I think I simply asked, "Are you sure you have the right needle on there?"
"Yeah," he told me. "I used the needle that came on it to draw and then changed it for the injection."
Because that makes logical sense, right? I thought so, which was why I went along with what he said.
Until my friend pointed out that we were wrong.
Then I had hubby really look at the packaging and check the needle gauges. I humbly admit that they're not hidden or anything; they're not written in super small font. Of course, if you don't know to look for them, which hubby did not, they're not going to mean anything to you. My fault. I should have told him. I should have been more clear.
But.
It also seems to be common practice that the pharmacy sends the syringe with the 22 gauge needle attached. So why is the needle gauge information that I received from the clinic not bold or highlighted? Why doesn't someone, whether it be from the pharmacy or a nurse from the clinic, draw your attention to the fact that this may be the case? Injecting yourself with a needle that's too big seems kind of like it might be something the clinic would want to prevent. But what do I know?
I'm taking some of the blame here, but I was pretty upset with the clinic for not being a little clearer and, if we're being honest, for making me feel foolish. Because I felt incredibly stupid when I knew I could have prevented this and I didn't. My fault.
And I'm placing some of the blame, too. Someone should have pointed it out. Someone should have made a bigger deal about it. As many supportive friends reminded me, I'm not a medical professional. I shouldn't have necessarily understood what we were doing wasn't exactly right. And I'm quite intelligent, so if I did this, I can only imagine how many other patients of theirs have made the same mistake.
Another friend told me that her clinic operated differently. Whenever she had to give herself an injection, she and her husband would be sat down with a nurse one-on-one to be shown how to administer it. Meanwhile, here I am working with this bombastic place that proclaims to be the best and really does have a great success rate, but they couldn't care less if I'm stabbing myself in the butt with a larger-than-necessary piece of metal. And the two times I did ask to speak to someone about the injections, I was treated like I was a nuisance.
The frustration, I think, is understandable.
Now that we've gotten the needles straightened out and I've been doing them correctly for several days, I can honestly say there's not much of a difference in how the injecting feels, if you can believe it. For the first two or so days after I switched over to the right needle, I didn't feel any difference at all. I guess I had done so much damage to my bum muscles that they had to recover. Now, several days later, the muscular pain is lessening.
That said, I did manage to give myself one of those large, bumpy bruises like the one I developed on my stomach on my left side. It has made sitting, laying on my side (the only way I can sleep), walking, standing up, pretty much everything, excruciatingly painful. The amount of times I've made faces, winced, sucked air in between my teeth, or mentioned aloud how much pain I'm in is embarrassing. Anyone around at the time (mainly hubby) says they don't mind, but it makes me feel whiny and weak, at least to some extent. (Maybe that's for the best as there's more than enough of me that feels like after going through all of this shit, I deserve plenty of respect for how badass I am.)
My butt currently looks like a pin cushion that lost a fight. Just last night, I went to decide which side I should stick myself in, and I burst out laughing when I saw the sheer amount of black and blue on both. Who cares anymore? It all hurts. Whatever. At least I don't agonize over it all day anymore; the shot has just become part of the daily routine.
But the theme of this entry isn't the regularity of it all; it's the mistakes. And there were a few more.
On the 30, the day before the transfer, I went in for blood work and ultrasound. It wasn't particularly crowded for the first time in awhile, which was refreshing. But while I was in the ultrasound waiting room, something strange happened. Nearby, a woman and her husband were in an exam room; I saw a doctor go in and emerge a few minutes later. The couple were still in there - I presume the woman was still getting dressed - when another doctor, the one I had really liked last time, approached the same door, gave the signature curt knock, and barged in, asking, "Shauna?"
Um, nope. I was still in the waiting room. Did he just barge in on a half-naked woman? (I mean, not like the doctors don't all see all of our lady parts anyway, but there's a little more dignity to it when you're laying down with a papery blanket draped over you pretending this prevents people from seeing anything.) Doctor didn't look thrilled when he came back out of that room.
I did get to see that doctor, which I was initially happy about. But he wasn't as great as he had been four days earlier. He wasn't bad, but he wasn't as nice. Just ran through things as quickly as possible, said everything looked good, and left. It was disappointing after how much I liked him before, but not terribly. At least he wasn't anything like that bitch doctor. A few people, as well as my own sense of self-worth, had urged me to tell someone about the needle confusion so it could be fixed, and I had considered telling the doctor, but when he was so short, it didn't instill any confidence in me, didn't make me want to admit my stupid mistake to him. But also, I knew that the doctors don't really have time for such complaints and that he probably wouldn't have been the person to tell if I wanted things changed, anyway.
Almost as soon as I got home, I got a phone call with instructions for my transfer, which I wasn't expecting until the next day. The woman who spoke to me was beyond friendly and personable. She told me that seeing as it was New Year's Eve the next day, everyone who worked there wanted to move things along so they could get home earlier. Because of that, I would be taking my suppository at 10am instead of 11, and I would come in for my transfer at 11:45. I was so relieved to know all of this the day before; my original instructions said they would call me "sometime before noon" on the day of. I'm not a huge fan of waiting on someone else's schedule to make my own.
But then about an hour later, the clinic called again. This time it was a nurse who was... calling to give me instructions for my transfer the next day. She got as far as telling me that I should take my suppository at 11 before I cut her off. I told her someone had already called.
After a short pause, she said, "Oh. They called you? Nobody checked you off."
"Well, they did call. And they said to take the suppository at 10."
"Oh." Another pause while she thought about it. "Well, someone will call you tomorrow and tell you what to do."
"Before 10?!" I asked, because that seemed awfully early to ensure that I would hear from them.
"Yeah," she said, like it was no big deal.
And that was that conversation.
Later, I started to panic because of that not liking an unsure schedule thing. Why hadn't I demanded a solid answer on the suppository question? Surely someone should have been able to figure that one out for me. What if no one called?
By the time I decided I should call them back to get a definite answer, it was kind of late in the day. I knew no one would be in, and I'd just have to leave a voicemail, and if I was assured they would call me the next morning, what was the point of going through that hassle?
Overall, I was starting to get really annoyed. Someone recommended going elsewhere if I was that unsatisfied. Obviously, the day before the transfer was a little late for that. But if I had to endure all of this again, would I go somewhere else? I don't know. I don't know if they would release our embryos, though I would think they should as they're ours and I'm paying for them to be frozen. But the bottom line is this clinic's success rate is awesome. And do I really need the information that they're not giving me? Maybe some of it, but maybe not all. Maybe my naturally curious Ravenclaw mind just wants to know more than the average bear.
Is it worth it to take some dissatisfaction if this is the place that's most likely to get you what you want?
It's a good question.
Eh. I'm an open person about these sorts of things. (Maybe too open, but I know that about myself. I can't hide my emotions on these difficult topics, and I can't lie about why I'm feeling a certain way. I don't like when people are vague and cagey with me, so I'm not with others.) Up went the picture.
It turned out to be a great decision because a friend of mine who's gone through this process immediately sent me a message to let me know I've been using the wrong needle. The picture that I posted is of a needle that is 4 gauges thicker than the one I should be using. Whoops.
So how did this happen? It's a mildly confusing process, but I'm going to do my best to explain it.
When I got the schedule of pre-transfer meds, I received some basic instructions for administering the progesterone shots that were wordy, written explanations. They did specify what gauge of needle to use for each step; an 18 gauge needle to draw the thick progesterone in oil solution into the syringe and a 22 gauge needle to do the actual injecting. Nothing was bold or highlighted, just mentioned in passing. I also watched the administration instruction video I linked to in the last entry, which is something that the pharmacy my meds come from allows access to. In the beginning of that video, there's a section that discusses the materials you need to gather together prior to your injection. It shows a syringe with no needle attached sealed in plastic, as well as what they call a "drawing needle" and an "injecting needle," both separate and sealed. It does not discuss gauges; it does not remind users to check anything.
When hubby and I went to put together my first injection, we found that the syringe had a needle attached to it in its wrapper. Hubby assumed that this was the drawing needle, as the syringe comes with no solution included. I knew that the gauges were mentioned in my instructions, but I think I simply asked, "Are you sure you have the right needle on there?"
"Yeah," he told me. "I used the needle that came on it to draw and then changed it for the injection."
Because that makes logical sense, right? I thought so, which was why I went along with what he said.
Until my friend pointed out that we were wrong.
Then I had hubby really look at the packaging and check the needle gauges. I humbly admit that they're not hidden or anything; they're not written in super small font. Of course, if you don't know to look for them, which hubby did not, they're not going to mean anything to you. My fault. I should have told him. I should have been more clear.
But.
It also seems to be common practice that the pharmacy sends the syringe with the 22 gauge needle attached. So why is the needle gauge information that I received from the clinic not bold or highlighted? Why doesn't someone, whether it be from the pharmacy or a nurse from the clinic, draw your attention to the fact that this may be the case? Injecting yourself with a needle that's too big seems kind of like it might be something the clinic would want to prevent. But what do I know?
I'm taking some of the blame here, but I was pretty upset with the clinic for not being a little clearer and, if we're being honest, for making me feel foolish. Because I felt incredibly stupid when I knew I could have prevented this and I didn't. My fault.
And I'm placing some of the blame, too. Someone should have pointed it out. Someone should have made a bigger deal about it. As many supportive friends reminded me, I'm not a medical professional. I shouldn't have necessarily understood what we were doing wasn't exactly right. And I'm quite intelligent, so if I did this, I can only imagine how many other patients of theirs have made the same mistake.
Another friend told me that her clinic operated differently. Whenever she had to give herself an injection, she and her husband would be sat down with a nurse one-on-one to be shown how to administer it. Meanwhile, here I am working with this bombastic place that proclaims to be the best and really does have a great success rate, but they couldn't care less if I'm stabbing myself in the butt with a larger-than-necessary piece of metal. And the two times I did ask to speak to someone about the injections, I was treated like I was a nuisance.
The frustration, I think, is understandable.
Now that we've gotten the needles straightened out and I've been doing them correctly for several days, I can honestly say there's not much of a difference in how the injecting feels, if you can believe it. For the first two or so days after I switched over to the right needle, I didn't feel any difference at all. I guess I had done so much damage to my bum muscles that they had to recover. Now, several days later, the muscular pain is lessening.
That said, I did manage to give myself one of those large, bumpy bruises like the one I developed on my stomach on my left side. It has made sitting, laying on my side (the only way I can sleep), walking, standing up, pretty much everything, excruciatingly painful. The amount of times I've made faces, winced, sucked air in between my teeth, or mentioned aloud how much pain I'm in is embarrassing. Anyone around at the time (mainly hubby) says they don't mind, but it makes me feel whiny and weak, at least to some extent. (Maybe that's for the best as there's more than enough of me that feels like after going through all of this shit, I deserve plenty of respect for how badass I am.)
My butt currently looks like a pin cushion that lost a fight. Just last night, I went to decide which side I should stick myself in, and I burst out laughing when I saw the sheer amount of black and blue on both. Who cares anymore? It all hurts. Whatever. At least I don't agonize over it all day anymore; the shot has just become part of the daily routine.
But the theme of this entry isn't the regularity of it all; it's the mistakes. And there were a few more.
On the 30, the day before the transfer, I went in for blood work and ultrasound. It wasn't particularly crowded for the first time in awhile, which was refreshing. But while I was in the ultrasound waiting room, something strange happened. Nearby, a woman and her husband were in an exam room; I saw a doctor go in and emerge a few minutes later. The couple were still in there - I presume the woman was still getting dressed - when another doctor, the one I had really liked last time, approached the same door, gave the signature curt knock, and barged in, asking, "Shauna?"
Um, nope. I was still in the waiting room. Did he just barge in on a half-naked woman? (I mean, not like the doctors don't all see all of our lady parts anyway, but there's a little more dignity to it when you're laying down with a papery blanket draped over you pretending this prevents people from seeing anything.) Doctor didn't look thrilled when he came back out of that room.
I did get to see that doctor, which I was initially happy about. But he wasn't as great as he had been four days earlier. He wasn't bad, but he wasn't as nice. Just ran through things as quickly as possible, said everything looked good, and left. It was disappointing after how much I liked him before, but not terribly. At least he wasn't anything like that bitch doctor. A few people, as well as my own sense of self-worth, had urged me to tell someone about the needle confusion so it could be fixed, and I had considered telling the doctor, but when he was so short, it didn't instill any confidence in me, didn't make me want to admit my stupid mistake to him. But also, I knew that the doctors don't really have time for such complaints and that he probably wouldn't have been the person to tell if I wanted things changed, anyway.
Almost as soon as I got home, I got a phone call with instructions for my transfer, which I wasn't expecting until the next day. The woman who spoke to me was beyond friendly and personable. She told me that seeing as it was New Year's Eve the next day, everyone who worked there wanted to move things along so they could get home earlier. Because of that, I would be taking my suppository at 10am instead of 11, and I would come in for my transfer at 11:45. I was so relieved to know all of this the day before; my original instructions said they would call me "sometime before noon" on the day of. I'm not a huge fan of waiting on someone else's schedule to make my own.
But then about an hour later, the clinic called again. This time it was a nurse who was... calling to give me instructions for my transfer the next day. She got as far as telling me that I should take my suppository at 11 before I cut her off. I told her someone had already called.
After a short pause, she said, "Oh. They called you? Nobody checked you off."
"Well, they did call. And they said to take the suppository at 10."
"Oh." Another pause while she thought about it. "Well, someone will call you tomorrow and tell you what to do."
"Before 10?!" I asked, because that seemed awfully early to ensure that I would hear from them.
"Yeah," she said, like it was no big deal.
And that was that conversation.
Later, I started to panic because of that not liking an unsure schedule thing. Why hadn't I demanded a solid answer on the suppository question? Surely someone should have been able to figure that one out for me. What if no one called?
By the time I decided I should call them back to get a definite answer, it was kind of late in the day. I knew no one would be in, and I'd just have to leave a voicemail, and if I was assured they would call me the next morning, what was the point of going through that hassle?
Overall, I was starting to get really annoyed. Someone recommended going elsewhere if I was that unsatisfied. Obviously, the day before the transfer was a little late for that. But if I had to endure all of this again, would I go somewhere else? I don't know. I don't know if they would release our embryos, though I would think they should as they're ours and I'm paying for them to be frozen. But the bottom line is this clinic's success rate is awesome. And do I really need the information that they're not giving me? Maybe some of it, but maybe not all. Maybe my naturally curious Ravenclaw mind just wants to know more than the average bear.
Is it worth it to take some dissatisfaction if this is the place that's most likely to get you what you want?
It's a good question.
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