When You Care Enough to Send the Very Best

I'm not sure what to think about this. Hallmark has a series called "Cards with real words for real life." If you go on their website one of the options is "Help Cope with trying to get pregnant, having a miscarriage or an aging parent." The above card is Hallmark's answer to showing support for an infertile friend or family member. 

Now on the one hand, I see this as a breakthrough in mainstream media to include a card about infertility. It is getting the topic out of the shame closet and showing how prevalent this problem is and that it's okay to say something to an infertile person instead of running for the hills because you are too uncomfortable with it. So I do applaud this. But my first reaction to the card was a big giggle at how cheesy this seemed. Saying it with a hallmark card has never really been my style anyway, but I tried to think hard and honestly about how I would feel if I got this in the mail from a friend. Would I be really happy that a friend thought of me or would I feel like this was a lame way of avoiding talking with me about it?

I'm probably being too harsh because in the end I have a hard time figuring out what I want from people. I really don't want packaged responses from people about my losses or infertility because it makes me want to strangle them. I despise when I sense a person is so uncomfortable with the topic or feel they are walking on egg shells around me. Sometimes I don't want to feel like a freak and don't want people to talk in a pitied tone to me. But then sometimes I get so angry when people just ignore my losses and pretend nothing bad has happened. So what do I want from people? A hallmark card? In the end my mood plays a huge part in all this. I guess my preferred interaction is when a person can just be real with me. They can frankly say this sucks so bad and is angry along with me that this is happening and doesn't show awkwardness. Maybe I am just asking too much. But the people who haven't been afraid to talk frankly with me about this (hubby, mom, dad, sister and sister in-laws, and 2 close friends) are the people who continue to make me feel the most comfortable sharing my experience. 

So Hallmark is making the right step. But of course it got me thinking of some infertility cards I would like to submit to Hallmark for consideration. If they want to get to real words for real life, I got some doozies in my pocket that I can throw out there. What about some of these?

THE SURROGATE SERIES - When you want to avoid awkward questions, send the very best. 

For Intended Parent to Friend:



For Friend to Intended Parent:


THE NOSEY NEIGHBOR SERIES - When you can't hold your tongue, send the very best.

THE COMPLETELY UNHELPFUL SERIES: When you want to make light of an insanely complicated situation, send the very best.

I kid you not, I actually received this message from a friend in an email (word for word transcription!):


THE DREAM SERIES: When you have real insight into the infertility struggle, send the very best. 

I can dream can't I?



Can you think of any more for Hallmark?

Funny New Yorker Cartoon

From the New Yorker Magazine

"Are you sure you're ovulating now?"

I was flipping through an old New Yorker from June and in the cartoon caption contest they had this line submitted as one of the entries for this cartoon. Pretty hilarious! I wonder if the submitter is going through fertility treatments, but God bless her for a funny line. Unfortunately it didn't win the contest even though in my mind it far beat the others. I suppose most readers (and most New Yorker editors) can't appreciate the great lengths it takes to get pregnant. I don't know about you, but it seems that all business trips, family visits, pre-planned vacations fall at the same time as ovulation. So I know I would love to strap a parachute on my hubby, and on myself for that matter.

An Outlaw called "Intended Parent"

I never quite thought baby making for me would enter this new terrain of law, morality, and intention. Who knew I would have to add lawyer to my long list of reproductive attendants. Isn't doctor, nurse, IVF coordinator, embryologist, pharmacist, blood technician, early morning cab drivers, fertility yoga instructor, acupuncturist, insurance representative, and surrogacy agency enough?

I, as an "Intended Parent," have every intention of having a baby. Is that so wrong? Did I ever think I'd have to be on the run, like some bandit outlaw? For those who haven't had the pleasure of cracking the shell of surrogacy, every state of our United States has a particular opinion on surrogacy that dictates how and whether it can be done. (Click here to see a breakdown of state surrogacy laws) Unfortunately, my state of New York may accept all sorts of characters within its borders but it does not allow for surrogacy. So the story goes that in July of 1993, the legislature passed Article 8, Section 122 of the Domestic Relations Laws of New York. This law states that surrogate parenting agreements in New York are void, unenforceable and against public policy.

So now that I've been long barred from the natural mommy club, and slowly not qualifying for the IVF-on-my-own body club, I'm not only barred from my own body, I'm now barred from reproducing in my own state. My marginalized status seems to be becoming more and more remote. I'm not sure where I will be at the end of this - Siberia? My days are filled with waiting for a surrogate match and contemplating one last IVF on myself. I've felt lonely these days as I used to be a bulletin board whore - joining every type of buddy group from immune issues, to tubal infertility, to pregnancy loss, to repeat pregnancy loss, to lining issues, to ectopic survivors, and now surrogacy. But I'm not sure where I fit in on the bulletin boards anymore. If there was a group called "outlaws" or "road less traveled" or simply "Siberia" then I might join. 

But in my banishment, I realize this is where "intention" has the most profound meaning. As I feel in so many ways already labeled, I need to get used to my newest title of intended parent. Intention involves stretching, bending of the mind toward a goal, determination, purpose, and design. I'm running with my ball and chain out to sweeter and freer states that will let me put my embryos into another dear lady's uterus. Intent is pretty darn significant in a court of law. So if I face a jury of my fertile peers, they must remember that foresight and recklessness shouldn't be equated with intent. Don't condemn me if I don't have the foresight to see what pain lies ahead of me. Don't handcuff me if my choice to use a surrogate seems reckless. But if my crime is the intention to be a mother, intention to raise a child with love, intention to build a family, then I'm ready for my sentencing. 

A Disease of One's Own

Idiopathic is an adjective used primarily in medicine meaning arising spontaneously or from an obscure or unknown cause. From Greek ἴδιος, idios (one's own) + παθος, pathos (suffering), it means approximately "a disease of its own kind."

A simple word can be quite powerful. All that I needed was a letter from my RE stating my fertility history so my surrogacy agency could have it on record. The agency prefers to have the RE state that he has advised me to pursue surrogacy but since my case is so gray they told me just a fertility history would suffice. So I had told my RE that I just need my fertility history stated in a letter to give to the surrogacy agency. When I received my RE's letter in the mail I expected to see just the review of my three tragic IVFs on paper, typed out before me as another confirmation of my story. But at the end of his recap, my RE stated, "Due to idiopathic uterine defects, it appears that [my name] will not be able to carry a pregnancy to term."

Whoah! At first I felt sort of stunned by this. All I could look at were the words "will not be able to carry." Was he just saying this so the surrogacy agency would work with me? Did he finally have a diagnosis for me and why had I not heard it before? Why was I so hurt by the wording? Why did I even care if I want to do surrogacy anyway? Clearly I was still holding on to some hope that I could carry a pregnancy. All the REs I talked to never made it so permanent by declaring I cannot carry. The uncertainty of my case made all of them assume I still had a chance verses assuming I no longer had a chance. I guess I wanted to feel like I wasn't forced to choose surrogacy, but I was making a choice to spare my body potential pain. It wasn't an issue of "can't" but "won't." 

But then I turned to the word idiopathic. What the hell did that mean? And then I realized how little it really means. It essentially describes my entire experience with baby making. It's been my "own suffering" due to unknown cause. I have my very own special disease. If I were Virgina Woolf, my book would be called "A Disease of One's Own." All this to say that it's the medical world's total cop out term. So unscientific. So obscure. So unanswerable. So lacking cause. It points to that space where all the brains, teaching, higher education, and fancy degrees are meaningless. It's a diagnosis that says nothing. I read online that in the book The Human Body by Isaac Asimov, he comments that the term "idiopathic" is a "A high-flown term to conceal ignorance." I also read that in the television show House, the main character says the word "comes from the Latin, meaning 'we're idiots, because we don't know what's causing it.'"

So yes, due to my idiopathic bad luck, my idiopathic losses, my idiopathic uterus, my idiopathic fallopian tubes, my idiopathic life, I've moved on to surrogacy -- but for me, not for the diagnosis. It's the big unknown whether I could ever carry myself but I am reminded that we are beyond that question now. I realized I still hold out hope that I could carry someday but right now it's just not feeling like the right move. But wouldn't it be great if this word could actually be of some use to me? Could it be loosely thrown around explaining myself to stupid fertile people? For instance:

"Oh, you asked when will we have kids? Due to idiopathic uterine defects we are a little delayed on that front."

"Oh, you want me to come to your baby shower? Due to my idiopathic uterine defects my RSVP is NO."

"Oh, you are pregnant again? Well, I have idiopathic uterine defects so would you mind fucking off?"

My Scientific Conclusions

Science is rational. Experiments are performed to gather numerical data from which relationships are derived, and conclusions are made. As my study shows above, beta patterns that follow the same past data equal predictable outcomes. My third beta went up from 68 to 145. Just like my IVF#1 ectopic went up on the third beta. So yes, it doubled, but if you connect the dots, all you get is a broken heart. 

So why do I still read through beta bulletin boards trying to find stories of success with low rising betas? What is it about humans that either need to torture ourselves or are innately hopeful? I've read about a zillion online posts with the same desperate plea of finding hope in low rising betas. I tend now to just skip to the last post where I inevitably find the "So sorry" because the person's story always ends in ectopic or miscarriage. Sure, there were a handful with the success stories of a vanishing twin or just slow rise that made it to a heartbeat, but those posts also tend to stop before really knowing if they made it to a live baby. 

Right now, miracles and faith don't seem to work on my graph. I tried to fit them in but they certainly aren't data points, they are generally off the charts. So I find myself trying to stay one step ahead of this doomed outcome. I am constantly trying to reconfirm I am right all the time that this is going to end badly because it gives me some satisfaction. It makes me feel like I am in control and that I've won. Yes, it's like some arm wrestle between all this bad evidence against that sliver of unknown we call the future. I can somehow take all my bad evidence and slam the arm down saying that you can't fool me. I can predict the future and I can be ready for the news so you can't hurt me. 

This is opposite to my husbands outlook, who's graph would be quite different. He would have my beta points plotted and then say, "Waiting for next step." So simple, so clean, no mess, just very open to what the future brings. I am amazed by that. I can only be this Tasmanian devil of cynicism whirling around saying, "I told you so, I told you so. I knew this would never work." So what is the next step you ask? Monday we meet with our RE and I assume he'll do another beta and ultrasound. It's probably too early to see anything, so we probably won't see anything. Then he'll say come back in a couple days and we'll look again. Then we'll do another ultrasound because my betas will continue to rise and we will see nothing. Then I will have to make the hard choice of getting surgery and losing a tube or going through the hell of the methotrexate shot and wait endlessly for beta to get to zero, all the while worrying I might rupture. Did you notice? I'm doing it again. I am finding satisfaction in predicting the future because I can say, "I was right." 

So with all this confirmation of being "right," I still find myself hoping I am wrong. How much do I want to write "SUCKER" on my forehead whenever this feeling comes to me?! It's amazing what the heart keeps trying to do to make the story end happily, even an already broken heart.

P.S. I want to send out my most sincere thank you to all of your outpouring of support and sympathy. I know all of you really understand what this disappointment means and how hard it is to get through without some kind words. I also realized that writing is truly a good friend to me and that if I abandon that, I will be left with no spirit. It's hard enough to try to walk away from trying to have your own biological baby, that I think I must keep writing.

The Wait

This crap shoot we call "reproduction" involves a hell of a lot of waiting. Yesterday's transfer went well and so I have officially begun my 2 week wait. I now lay in bed dreaming of my three embryos starting their new adventure. I envision my uterus saying "Welcome aboard!" like a perky cruise ship director pointing my three embies toward the sunny deck chairs where they can plop themselves down, order a margarita, and grow. I make sure my uterus informs them of the cruise ship's strict policies. Number one - absolutely no one is allowed down either of these fallopian tubes. They may look enticing but they only lead to darkness and your imminent death. Second - no jumping ship, there are no life rafts. Once on board, stay on board. Then my ship sets sail into the beautiful horizon and all together we take our slow boat to China.  

So when I think of this long boat ride with hours, days, weeks looking out onto open ocean waters with no end, I can't help but log everything that I've waited for and will have to wait for in this infertility process. In reviewing all these waiting moments, the only thing I know for sure is that this experience has required something beyond patience. A new word should be invented to describe this kind of waiting because there is nothing in the English language that really comes close to describing it. 

• 3 minutes waiting for a home pregnancy test result (10 min if you fish it out of the trash to check one more time that it didn't suddenly change to positive).
  
  
• 30 minutes to an hour waiting at my fertility clinic to be called in for my blood tests and ultrasounds.
  
  
• 7 to 9 hours waiting for the nurse's phone call telling my results for every test.
  
  
• 3 days waiting to see if my embies survived.
  
  
• 2 weeks waiting to know if my beta is positive. Then weeks more waiting to see if your beta doubles, then weeks more waiting to get through your ultrasounds. Altogether potentially 9 more months of waiting through an endless slew of tests before I finally, maybe, possibly, hopefully have a live baby.
  
  
• 11 weeks waiting for my miscarriage to get to zero.
  
  
• 15 weeks waiting for my ectopic to get to zero.
  
  
• 3 years waiting to get pregnant - not half ass pregnant, really pregnant.
  
  
• 23 years waiting for pregnancy to finally give my tiny chest a chance for real boobs only to be foiled by infertility.
  
  
• Waiting for what feels like an eternity for my luck to change.
  

Lemon Dates

Oh yes, I am bitter. I know it's not healthy, but when you've gone through multiple pregnancy losses these calendar dates that I call "Lemon Dates" still creep up. By definition, these are the dates that "could have been." Everyone has these markers and once there is any chance of being pregnant the dates all pop up. When is my first ultrasound? When will first trimester be over? And of course, the most significant, when will this baby be due? So today is a lemon date. If my first IVF had not been ectopic, I would be due to give birth around now. You might say, "Why think of such pointless 'what ifs' when all it does is torture you?" So why does this phantom due date irk me more than the one coming in July for IVF#2 miscarriage? The explanation requires a back story.

How many of us have had the unfortunate experience of a friend getting pregnant so effortlessly while you wait at your fertility clinic for your next god damn blood test? I bet many of you out there, if not all of you, have a story to tell about this most unfortunate thorn in a friendship.

My story begins with IVF#1. There is a very distinctive kind of hope during your first time because it's all unknown territory. You have no IVF failures yet to jade you. There is the freedom to believe this will finally be the answer. So nothing can explain the joy and utter relief I felt when my first IVF resulted in a BFP. Nothing. However, it didn't last long. If you can imagine how high I got, you know how far I had to fall. The rest of the story unfolds in a disastrous mess of betas not rising, taking a chemotherapy drug called Methotrexate to basically kill off the growing embryo, and living like I was a time bomb, fearing my fallopian tube would rupture at any moment and I would bleed to death. It took 15 gut-wrenching, devil-spawning weeks to get to zero. Needless to say, I felt seriously fucked over. 

During those 15 weeks, a very close friend who lives far away, but knew of my loss, called to check up on me. After spewing out my agony to her, she proceeded to say back to me, "Well, I have good news." My stomach turned and all the muscles in my body tensed as I said, "You're pregnant." So yes, my friend got pregnant with her THIRD child exactly when I had my ectopic pregnancy. However, she chose not to preface her news with a "I know this is a crazy time for you, but I have to tell you..." Nada. It was as if I had not even mentioned to her anything about an IVF and a now obliterated embryo once lodged in my fallopian tube. She went on to talk about how "stressed" she was about the nanny situation...blah blah blah. What could I do? I was shocked and played along. She didn't want to look at the 500 pound gorilla in the room so I let her believe I didn't see it either. 

Maybe you are thinking to yourself, "Your friend is an asshole." Yes, in the heat of that moment, I thought that too, and for several weeks following. I went into the deepest depression and internal anger I've had during this infertility experience. When I managed to climb my way out of it, I emailed her to explain how pissed I was about how she handle it. As much as I would like to portray her as the villain, I knew she simply didn't know how to deal with this ugly situation. She's never experience any major death or loss or tragedy to know what's it's like. She might have wanted to spare my feelings by not saying anything but whose feelings are really being spared? If you can pretend you aren't hurting someone you can almost get away with believing it. I wasn't about to let her get away with it. So it was good to let her express how horrible she felt about the situation and for me to hear that. In the end, I had no choice but to lay out my conditions to her - I can't hear about her pregnancy. 

Now, 9 months later, in the back of my mind I've been preparing for the email. The one I know is coming like all the other announcements of the newest additions with various photos attached, sometimes even a link to a whole fucking website. So an email arrived today. My strongest desire was to just hit delete and I could vaporize the whole situation. I didn't want to remember my ectopic. I didn't want to think about the baby she is having at exactly the same time I would have had my baby. I didn't want to remember how easily she gets pregnant. I didn't want to have to fake happiness. I finally decided to get it over with. "Just read it like you are ripping off a band aid - quick and painless," I thought. Within all her small talk, she basically was informing me of her induction date next week. Is it a preemptive strike email to warn me that the bigger email announcement is coming? I'm not sure. I am hoping this is her way of letting me know the birth date and I will be spared the mass email announcement. But most likely these things don't cross fertile people's minds. 

The hard part is that my bitterness is always mixed with guilt. It's not her fault that she's a constant reminder of my loss. She mentioned in the email feeling stressed about whether the baby will be healthy or not and I just don't know how to sympathize. I know anything can happen, but I place all my bets that her delivery will be just fine. Am I a bad friend for not writing back a nice email reassuring her that it's all so exciting that your baby is coming? Am I a bad friend to not want to hear about this kind of stress that I can't relate to? Am I a bad friend for not putting aside my own pain. Yes I already know I am, but I am also human. I'll come around I am sure, but bear with me today, I'm angry that she gets sweet fruit and I get a lemon. 

Be My IVF Valentine

I was never a huge fan of Valentine's Day as a holiday. It goes way back to kindergarten. I remember the smell of glue and scatterings of doilies, colorful papers, and scissors. Back then in the utopian world of elementary school everyone got a Valentine because love was to be for everyone. We all picked out packages of Valentine cards to give to the entire class. Everyone expected one in their cubby and that was that. On the other hand, the construction of our own Valentine's cards during class was slotted for the special people in your life - Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, and maybe if in a good mood, a sibling. There wasn't suppose to be anyone romantically "special" to receive these hand-crafted cards. 

So when a little boy at my table gave me a huge crayon colored heart with my name + his name on it, I got really mad. Madness came from the fact that he was NOT the boy that I liked, but regardless of even that, it is nearly impossible at that age to enjoy such blatant publicly spelled out love attention from a boy. One might expect a pull on a pig tail or a sticking out of the tongue, but the worst thing he could have done was give it to me in front of my entire table of fellow kindergarteners. They all proceeded to roar with laughter doing the sing songy "My name and His Name sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" In my utter embarrassment, I tore up the Valentine right in front of the little boy's face awaiting the audience's reaction. I did it painfully slow so he could feel every rip. The table paused and then burst out with a new rigorous laughter, but this time it was for him. I guess even at that young age the drama of rejection is thrilling entertainment.

I will always feel bad for what I did to that poor sweet boy who innocently tried to show me his love. What can I say, I just snapped. I became heartless to protect my own skin. No doubt kids are cruel in that particularly doggy dog world of kindergarten. So the memory stayed with me and I never felt very gushy about Valentine's Day after that. The funny thing is that in the end, I married that boy who gave me the Valentine. Not literally that same boy, who I hope is not today also blogging about the girl in kindergarten who scarred him forever, but a man who very much would have been a boy like that in kindergarden. A person who wears his heart on his sleeve and would have probably gone up to many girls in his elementary school with earnest and heartfelt Valentines. It was confirmed when my husband confessed that he was indeed that type of little boy and even fell in love with his kindergarten teacher who he would call on the phone just to talk. 

So years later I think the gushiest feeling I can admit to having on this Valentine's day is the fact that IVF has revealed the sweetest kind of valentine, the most supreme form of love, which goes well beyond any puppy love crush, or a lustful encounter, or even "husband" in the traditional meaning of the word. Through IVF our partners are the people who keep us standing through unbearable, unthinkable moments.  You know it's really love when your partner will masturbate into a cup on command, tolerate your hormonal insanity, keep optimistic about your prospects, and hasn't tossed you aside for wife number two or three like some emperor in need of an heir. They are quite happy to spend their lives with us, with children or without. What better kind of valentine could you have?

Tell me your most memorable Valentine moment. Good, bad, sappy, romantic?

CD21: And, we're out of the gates!

I never thought this day would arrive. I've sat poised for so long ready to jockey my race horse full speed ahead only to be told time and time again "Not yet." But today the bullhorn has blown and the gates flew wide open.

As I surge forward, blinders on, kicking up dirt, toward the baby finish line, it's first important to note that my long and torturous wait for zero has come to an end. After 11 weeks, my HCG is finally negative. Now, because this is the wacky world of infertility, today is like "opposites day." Picture this: I walk backwards, I love chocolate ice cream instead of vanilla, I go uptown instead of downtown, I am tall instead of short, and of course, most importantly, I must switch my brain from wanting a negative beta to longing for a positive one. 

Now that I have this clean slate, another important change has occurred. Falling on the same day as this beta, I was allowed to also do my CD21 test. I'm in a bit of shock that my nurse's phone call is actually informing me of good news. All is well in uterus land and I've gotten the green light to start lupron. 

So I am taking the reigns, even to the point where I will be doing this first shot tonight by myself. I wish I could say I'm doing this because of a new sense of empowerment, but it's really because my husband is away on a business trip and what choice do I have? But point being, I will be putting aside my wimpy squeamish self to break out that first needle (luckily the smallest one) and on the count of 3 - one...two...three! - I will do the deed with my very own hands. IVF#3 is finally beginning and I'm ready. 

Handed to you on a silver platter

If you had your old life handed back to you on a silver platter, would you take it? There is no end to the sacrifices made in this baby making endeavor. How many vacations did you not take or cancel? How many job opportunities did you not take? How many social engagements have you avoided? It goes on and on how many times I decided not to do something because it might interfere with IVF.

So what's plaguing my brain these days is the possibility of a new full-time job. The new job would start exactly when I will start my next IVF -- naturally, since "good timing" doesn't seem to like me. It's a job that is very similar to the job I had two years ago - a job I got bored and frustrated with so I left to live a "less stressful" life trying to conceive. I was going to free myself from the golden handcuffs and gladly turned my back on the 9 to 5 grind towards a life of freelance and independent work. My vision was that this would be better when starting a family because I would be able to enjoy raising my kids at home if I worked from home. Well, the rosy picture never happened. The baby never came so all I was left with was myself alone in my pajamas working at home. 

A month went by and no one had called yet about an interview. I was partly relieved and partly my ego was bruised since I knew I was more than qualified for this job. So I decided to find a middle ground. I would start a part-time job at my husband's design company. They need my help, I need to get out of my apartment, it seems like a perfect fit. But then last week I get called for an interview for this full-time job and it just opened up all these insecurities about whether I am investing too much in this phantom baby and not enough in my career. So I am constantly flip-flopping. On the one hand, I'm in this bubble right now where I don't have my next IVF schedule and I've been "on break" since my miscarriage so the prospect of my old life is highly seductive. Wouldn't it be great to forget 2007 ever happened? How delicious would it be that these past two years just turned out to be a bad mini-series where the main character was just having a bad dream. She woke up and she was exactly where she was two years ago getting ready to jump on the subway to head to her boring yet stable job. But the problem is that damn dangling baby swinging in front of my face, taunting me, telling me I want to be a mother and how lucky you are to have a flexible lifestyle. I start to think I am crazy not to take a more relaxed part-time job when I am in the middle of the most stressful experience of my life. Even though I absolutely hate that trying to get pregnant feels like my only identity, I can't help but constantly kowtow to IVF as the master of my life. 

So there is no clear answer yet. I have a lot more thinking to do and I can't complain about having job options. I know it's very tempting to think that your old life was easier. We all know that we have the option to wake up one day and say "I'm done," and wallah your pre-baby-making days return and life could presumably go back to normal. All those bastards who made you feel bad you were not pregnant suddenly become your friends again. I can't tell you what I would give for a mind-erase and all that disappointment and loss and physical pain would vanish. I read that a lot of couples who do finally say, "This is the end" feel a huge sense of relief to not to have to think about it anymore. Of course saying those words is no picnic. I'm not there yet. But boy, oh boy, there are these moments where it seems so easy to simply take your old life back. 

Chinese Water Torture

I was on my short happy hiatus from blogging to gear up for a whole new year, but I have to post a little rant today. Please explain to me why this HCG hormone so wants to stay in my body as long as it possibly can and yet a pregnancy wants to vanish from me before I can even blink? My beta today was around 70. Five weeks after my miscarriage I am still not at zero. Even after bleeding out my eye balls I am still waiting for this miscarriage cycle to be over. Yes, I was warned by the nurses and doctors that it could take 4 to 6 weeks to resolve, but I had convinced myself that Christmas would bring zero to me. Let me also add a little context here. I'll save the full war story of my ectopic for a later post, but it's good to mention that it took 15 weeks, yes 15 weeks, for my beta to get to zero after that whole affair. I was sure I would be spared this time around. So I am not being impatient and whiny, well yes I sort of am, but it must be known that I've been a victim of this Jekyll and Hyde HCG before. Drip, drip, drip. Every beta week I am reminded of the Chinese water torture method that slowly makes the prisoner go insane.