Restraint.

I am a veritable model of virtue. I am also a veritable model of bitterness, sarcasm, extreme anxiety and disappointed cynicism, but at least I’m virtuous as I engage in the aforementioned activities. 

After, quite rightly, receiving a stern (albeit affectionate, or at least I hope affectionate) bollocking from so many of you about my rampant pee-stick abuse last cycle, you will be pleased to know that I have taken heed.

Yes, occasionally I do actually listen to advice.

Today marks nine days post ‘ovulation’.  You will all be pleased to note that I have not molested my pee-stick collection in any way.

My urine has all been resolutely flushed.

It’s easy to be so resolute when still getting this emerging from one’s lady parts for going on 72 hours straight:

It’s nice to see all that horribly expensive extra progesterone has not dissuaded my uterus one whit from an impressively determined effort at bloody endometrial eviction, no? 

I guess I should be proud to have a uterus as determinedly obstinate as it’s owner, once decided on a course of action.

I don’t think this state of affairs will last for much longer, however.

The progesterone is too expensive and my psyche too fragile for all this palaver.

I may die of urinary retention as a direct consequence of avoidance of using the bathroom if this continues. My stomach sinks just that little bit further each time I am confronted with the all-too-real evidence of continued bleeding. At this rate it’s going to dig a hole clear through to the opposite hemisphere before my official ‘Guess what? No really, guess? You’re not pregnant! Bet you thought you were, because we know how well the spotting totally diddled with your tiny mind. You were totally hoping it was implantation bleeding, weren’t you?  Well just check this result out, it turns out we’ve had better progesterone levels from the scraping off this mouldy sandwhich. Isn’t that just such a complete RIOT? Fancy a bite?‘ date.

I’ve left another message with my long suffering RE, politely speculating as to just how how far I can reasonably expect to move up my P4 and Beta HCG.

I’d really, really like to end this charade, soon. It’s getting wearying.

Yours (with much love for all the kind suggestions about implantation bleeding, and shit I hope that it is),

The woman in a bit of a shitty emotional space right now, a.k.a. me.

I thought so.

It’s been a busy day. I’m sorry that I didn’t write earlier, but I was horizontal with extra pessaries oozing their greasy goodness up my never-you-mind.

Let me fill you in on the last 24 hours of my life.

After finally recieving a callback from the nurse at my clinic yesterday morning, do you know what I did?

Apart from thinking ‘Oh my g-d, oh my g-d please, please, please tell me that this blood emerging from my cervix is not a Bad Thing in a believable way’.

I politely listened to what she had to say, thanked her for calling, then promptly hung up and dialled (from memory, sadly) my RE’s number as fast as my stubby fingers would allow, searching for an answer that actually made sense.

By ‘sense’ I mean an answer that I agreed with (of course) and the nurse didn’t win that particular prize with her version.

Now I’m going to have to explain just why (apart from the small matter of the unscheduled BLEEDING) I’m being such a rabid b!tch about a perfectly nice nurse.

If it helps any, I wasn’t rude to her face. I just had some rather uncharitable thoughts in-between my ears where I would hope that they will not cause offence. Unless she can mindread, of course, OR happens to be the mysterious visitor from my clinic who stops by to check up on me every now-and-again.

Ahem.

Let me recreate the conversation I had:

Nurse OOM: ‘Hello this is Nurse One-Of-Many from Big Clinic, what seems to be the problem you’re having?’

Geohde: Gibbering down the phone. ‘Um, well you see I’m in an artificial HRT cycle after transfer and yet my vagina appears to be leaking blood. I’ve heard a rumor that THAT’s not meant to happen until after I stop taking the drugs’.

Nurse OOM: Mentally patting Geohde on the head. ‘Well sometimes in an IVF cycle, the embryos aren’t right and they just don’t implant and you bleed. It can happen before your pregnancy test. It’s not that uncommon’.

Geohde: Confused. ‘Let me try this again. HRT cycle, not spontaneous.  Bucketloads of progesterone yet unexplainedly unstable endometrium. FIVE FREAKING DAYS post transfer. Embryos probably only considering the prospect of implanting now, really. Bit early to menstruate all things considered. 7 days = sucky luteal phase, even in a natural cycle.’

Nurse OOM: Who-the-hell-knows-what-she-was-getting-at. ‘It can still happen if they don’t implant’.

Geohde: Still confused. ‘Sigh. Is this thing working? HRT cycle. Embryos could be wrong as hell but I shouldn’t bleed until I stop the meds. I’m kind of dependant on the drugs, here, sans corpus luteum. Worried. The pessaries are intended to stabilise my endometrium for a freaking trimester, if required. They sure as hell shouldn’t fail now.’

Nurse OOM: Out of further commentary. ‘Well you could put in an extra pessary today, I suppose, and see how it goes. If you bleed heavily, you should probably stop using them.’

Geohde: Gives up. ‘Error. Error. Does not compute. Thank you anyway.’

And that’s how the grumpy lady came to hassle her RE, yet again.

She, bless her fancy nylons, agreed with my version. I shouldn’t be bleeding.

The plan is to have me increase my insertions of my 200mg-progesterone-pessary-delivering fingers south of the border to a total of six times a day (three lots of two, up from the normally entirely adequate TWO lots of two) in the hope that it might do the trick in stopping the bleeding.

I think I’ll l have to ’insert-at-work’ to get the extra doses to their destination. It certainly puts a whole new spin on questions as to what I did with my lunch hour.

I don’t precisely hold out much hope for pregnancy, but I’d like to know if I can control my recalcitrant womb.

At least I’ve learnt a valuable lesson for next time.

HRT cycles and my uterus do not play nice. I may consider resorting to ovulation induction for future FET’s, although that has it’s own problems, to say the least. The last few times I tried the OI road, I was the  proud owner of a wonky luteal phase and took forever to ovulate.

My choice seems to be either A: bleed randomly on HRT, or B: bleed randomly on my own.

Happy days.

Sitting by the phone.

I’m currently sitting by my phone, willing it to ring whilst anxiously counting down the last ten minutes before I know that the first disgruntled nurse of the day will check the clinic voicemail messages, sigh resignedly, mutter ‘Her!’, and quite possibly by now speed-dial my number.

It’s a minor feat to have so many nursing staff conditioned to make unpleasant faces at the mere mention of my name, but, well I can’t help it if things keep going pear shaped.

I’m just talented like that.

In answer to requests to share my minute-by-minute south of the border situation, let me clarify:

• It was what I’d call heavy spotting, not full on bleeding. Being a frequent menstruator, I am somewhat of a connoisseur about these things, so I think that my take is reliable. Lots of brown-pink gook. I’ll bring  the paint swatches back out to show you what I mean:
• 
• Mostly Ridinghood, with a dash of Indian Peach thrown in for good measure:
• 
• No cramps have eventuated, so it’s not a full on uterine-puke of endometrium, just some of it spontaneously choosing not-life and undergoing necrosis, dropping out my vagina. Possibly taking embryo(s), if they’re still alive, right on out with it. Ergo, by the time I see blood, it’s too late to attempt to stabilise things with more progesterone.
• I think there’s less this morning, although it’s a complete greasy mess up there, courtesy of the pessaries. I’ll certainly never get any stretch marks in my never-you-mind at this rate. Small mercies.

Screw it. Would you mind awfully if I return to just staring at the phone? I’m finding it hard to concentrate.

You’re kidding me, Universe?

Sigh.

My losing-karma battle continues unabated, apparently the score is not yet settled after all.

You’d think a dead baby, one bombed IVF and the more recent attack of selfish-carspace-stealer and rampant shits would have been enough, but apparently no.

• I’m bleeding.
• I’m bleeding at 5 days post transfer.
• I’m bleeding at 5 days post transfer in an artificially medicated cycle.
• I’m bleeding at 5 days post transfer in an artificially medicated cycle in which they specifically state that I should no way no HOW bleed.

Bleeding is ‘irregular’, to quote the rather wry turn of phrase on my cycle paperwork.

You see, the dose of progesterone I am currently taking should be enough to halt the menses of an elephant.

Apparently my uterus didn’t get the memo. Either that or I was right about the gastro being a Bad Thing for medication absorption.

Being the anxious person that I am, I’ve left about three voicemails with my clinic nurses. Unfortunately they’re not currently actually available to do something helpful (like listen to my anguished squeals) because it’s after hours.

Did I mention that part? Oh. Well, with my usual sense of impeccable timing:

• I’m bleeding at 5 days post transfer in an artificially medicated cycle  in which they specifically state that I should no way no HOW bleed after office hours.

Bet you’re jealous.

Ergo, before I can speak to an actual human being I’m likely to bleed for too long to retrieve the situation, although it probably isn’t truly retrievable in any sense other than the ‘Oh, how odd, I guess we better do your cycles another way next time’.

It’s a real shame I’m unceremoniously evicting two perfectly good grade one embryos as I type, my last grade one embryos, really it is.  Although I overuse this phrase, I am compelled to say that ‘it figures’.

I’ll also say fuck, piss, and shite, if that’s okay with you all.

Ya, wohl!

The above title constitutes almost the entirety of my limited German.

I guess ‘Yes, indeed!’ is not a bad choice of phrase to be limited to, after all I’m sure I could make many more friends with this than I do with my usual tactless sounding off in my native English.

Should I ever go to Germany, I’ll be sure to test that theory out.

Along with my ability to flawlessly say ‘Salamat Pagi’ and count to ten in Indonesia, five in Italy and two in Spain. If I go to France, I can cheerfully explain in my best butchered high-school French that ‘Je ne parle pas Francais, je suis Anglais’. That is a good (or at least understandable with a resigned sigh on the part of the listener) excuse for almost any unacceptably daft behaviour overseas these days.

Clearly all that language teaching in school did me wonders. I am a vertiable (albeit incredibly limited) Babelfish.

Where am I going with all this linguistic musing?

Here:

Obsessively checking my stats package for Google derived laughs, I came across this little gem recently.

Ladies and Gentleman, I appear to have cracked the German market. Don’t I look cute?

I just adore the translation of ‘Fish-wife’ to ‘Fische-Frau’. Makes it sound rather less crass than the strident truth, all things considered.

I think that I even look rather more intelligent in German, if only because I have no bloody idea what it all says.

In a similar vein, I wonder what on earth the translating program makes of my regular abuse of bollocks, shag, knockers, shite etc etc. I would think that those sort of words, although they have universal meanings, are rather difficult to translate. My favourite part of learning languages, now that I remember it, was the swear words.

Oh Germanic one, care to blow your cover and share some bad language? I could do with the ability to swear creatively about infertility in an entirely new tongue.

Yes, I got nosy and looked up your blog. Don’t ask me how, it’s a secret between myself and a handy little gizmo whose sole job it is to trawl the web for links to yours truly, here.

Call it a leap of deduction, but I assume that the owner of the only German blog to list me is probably my Exotic Mystery Reader. Whilst I’m on topic, I must thank you for the listing under ‘favoriete’ and not something rather more derogatory.

Danke (my only other word of German), 

Ms G.

I’m dedicated.

I’ve emailed out all the cross-pollination matches today. Whilst under the weather, no less. True dedication etc etc.

Check your email, get in contact with your match and, of course, let me know if you have any questions or I’ve made any horrible errors.

I look forward to the 9th of November. The day before I’ll post a big list of participants (but not who’s swapping posts with who!) for those who like to play guess-the-blogger.

Thank you all again for putting your hands up to participate.

Karma is a b!tch.

I’d really, really love to find out just WHO the hell I’ve wronged so deeply and thoroughly. I’ve been wracking my brains, in between runs to the bathroom to vomit, and I’m drawing a complete blank.

Let me explain.

Last night it became abundantly apparent that, well, one of those geriatric medical patients had managed to get revenge for my thinking unflattering thoughts about them. If I had to point a finger, I think it was the crusty demented old nursing home resident with the nasty penchant for punching staff who was admitted with diarrhoea and dehydration.

Can you see where this is going?

I’ve been puking on-the-hour-every-hour all night, and if that wasn’t scintillating enough, I added painfully exploding bowels on alternating hours from about, ooh, midnight to my performances. Variety is the spice of life, after all.

Thanks, mad old guy.

When the sun came up about four hours ago, I made the obligatory dash into work to break the bad news that I was infectious (not to mention hallucinating with fatigue, and completely unable to be more than 30 minutes from a bathroom). I verbally handed over my patients and drove back home, exhausted.

Promptly hitting several road closures.

My bowels were giving me distinct warning that my time was limited, so I raced like a under-skilled rally driver around the detours and pulled into my building’s parking garage. Relieved to have made it home.

But apparently I really, really deserve total misery since it doesn’t end there.

Some total ar$ehole has cheerfully parked in my designated space and buggered off, leaving no note, name, or apartment number. I, of course, promptly double parked them in and called the security company that manages the car-park. We’ll probably both get fines for not being in the right spot, but at least I get the satisfaction that they can’t go anywhere until I feel like moving my car, which I currently do not feel like in the least, all things considered.

I think I’ll wait until Tuesday.

Now do tell me because I’d really quite like to know, do any of you have the faintest clue as to why I’m getting these ridiculous Karmic beltings, or am I just earning credit for a future whopper of an indiscretion?

Yours (a.k.a. time to puke again),

The woman who can’t keep the substitute-for-ovarian-function FET drugs down.

P.S. I can’t see this ending at all well.

They’re out to get me.

Pregnant women.

Really. I’m beginning to think that they all get together once a week to scheme on how to best really get under my skin. It’s war.

Apparently it isn’t enough to have my retinas periodically scorched with the painful image of random content-looking pregnant women on the train each morning, OR be blindsided by unexpected pregnancies at work.

No.

I have developed resistance to these tricks, and so in response my local pregnant-eurs have adapted their line of attack.

One did venture trialling the added effect of mentioning just how pregnant she was repeatedly, but by now my powers of selective deafness and diversionary rudeness are legend.

Just watch me deflect their hands-on-swollen-abdomen impertinent queries as to when I plan to procreate with ‘Sorry, what did you say? I was distracted thinking about how truly impressive your varicose veins are right now. Tell me, do you have hemorrhoids?’.

Works every time….

Those scheming fertile have sunk to new lows, presumably in retaliation. Like I said, it’s war, and the fighting is getting pretty damn dirty.

Their chosen representative, clearly a woman just pulsing with desire to really shit me as she’s been the most painfully guilty member of the ‘Oh, I’m sooooooo preeeeeeggggggnannnnnnt right now’ club, really crossed the line the other day.

How, you ask?

Walking past me, she turned rapidly (for no apparent external reason) and belted me with her belly. Then she stopped dead still and laughed, still in physical contact. It seems that they’re now literally bashing me with their gestatory capabilities. I had, quite literally, a gut-full of pregnant abdomen sandwiched against mine. Her explanation for using her foetal-containing torso as a weapon?

‘Oh, that keeps on happening, I forget just how preeeeegggnnannnnt I am right now’.

Fu@k you, lady. You don’t win that easily.

My eyelid? It always twitches like this….

Quit it.

To all those who come by my blog courtesy of a Google search,

Hi there, and welcome.

Attention seeker that I am, I just LOVE to have fresh visitors. It warms the cockles of my bitter heart to see actual visits on my statistics package, truly. It also appears to help keep the crickets and spiderwebs off the site, which is also a good thing since I don’t like bugs.

In summary, I am rather glad that you could stop by. Those of you who found this site by virtue of an actual infertility related query, raise your hands now so I know who you are. Feel free to hang around.

Pull up a chair, search my archives, post me a comment or question. Did I mention that I love to talk?

You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you like.

Cover your ears for a minute while I talk to the others, okay?

For all those whose hands are NOT raised.

As for those of you who Google has, with it’s usual humour, directed here looking for this:

“H@ad in v@gina”

It’s getting out of control. I don’t need 20 plus hits a day for a service that I have no plans to provide.

Sit down while I yell and pay attention, please.

What on earth do you expect me to offer you? It sure isn’t going to be a free show. I write about infertility. Yes, that does mean that I refer to the old vayjayjay upon occasion but not in the way I think you mean.

So take THIS all you twisted seekers of head up the whatsit:

For once and for all let me clear the air. Heads do NOT belong in vagin@s unless childbirth is occurring, and even then ideally not for long.

You naughty little perverts,

G.

Double your fun.

In honour of Tracy’s rather valid point that perhaps I should badmouth my womb less if I expect it to co-operate with me by gestating, I will say nothing further on the matter. Until after the beta, anyay. As the adage goes, if you can’t say anything nice, it is best not to say anything at all.

I’ll just have to find something else to bitch about for the next fortnight. Did I mention that I’ve had my transfer?

Oh goody, because the TWW does not make me the least bit histrionic OR neurotic.

The transfer went fairly well, all things considered. This time around I noticed a few details that I missed the first time, namely:

• An awful lot of lube seems to go on the speculum. Enough to require serious application of tissues to the fun-zone before leaving the clinic, lest I leak enough to stain chairs with KY’s finest all afternoon.

Never mind the whispered ‘You’ve got this STAIN on your bum’ comments that would inevitably occur.

I’d really quite enjoy happily pronouncing ‘Oh, that? It’s just lube. I believe it washes out quite well’. But in the spirit of civic duty, I don’t enjoy leaving goopy marks on chairs that other bums would occupy. It just seems unsanitary.

• The sterile drapes used to help render the external hoo-haa area a little less germy have a rather neat round hole cut out in the middle. Right where the business end of the instrument of your choice is to be inserted (penis, speculum, the rather too curious staring eyeballs from a nosy embryologist, you know, whatever. Feel free to check out the vagina of the woman in stirrups, ladies and gents, I won’t mind in the least).

I really have no idea why I did not notice the, for want of a better description, G.lory Hole during the first transfer. How on earth did I think they transported embryo(s) to my cervix through a damn sheet?

This observation above also prompted some rather inappropriate internal dialogue about IVF and the role of the G.lory Hole (please don’t Google that term at work) within it. It would have been external dialogue but for the fact that I didn’t want to teach the children (I’m trying to be positive) smut before they were even in-utero and I think my RE may have found the observation rather, well, coarse.

True to form, I have no idea what the embryos even looked like because I was busy thinking about porno-IVF when they went up on the monitor.

Deary me. Google THAT users-of-dirty-search-terms, I dare you.

I do recall that they were pronounced ‘thawed’ and ‘continuing to divide’ and that there was TWO, leaving eight in the deep-freeze. I think one had a few more cells than the other, but whatever. I don’t care about high achievers, I’d be quite happy for the slacker to succeed if I actually get a honest-to-goodness BABY out of the experience.

All of this TWO/SURVIVED/DIVIDE talk sounded basically like it was heading in general direction of ?baby? and therefore absolutely fine with me. It’s not like I can do much about whether they’re actually ‘X’ cells or ‘Y’ cells or dividing ‘fast’ or ‘slow’ other than Google myself into a frenzy, so perhaps ignorance is bliss after all.

On the way home, it occurred to me that if this works (are you listening, universe?) my husband will have successfully knocked me up without having even been in the room. Talented, huh?

Finally the train broke down and a crazy man retaliated by barking at me, whilst simultaneously dribbling snot and saliva down his face. I snapped out of it and paid more serious attention to getting home in one piece from that point.

Geohde, scheduling mastermind.

Click on the Bee…you know that you want to…..

Did I mention the Bee? Ahem, moving right along…

Like most proto-doctor types, I gained entry into medicine not by virtue of all-encompassing brilliance (I wish), but because of my powers of completely anal obsessiveness about studying hard and covering a topic until it was fully bashed into my reluctant cerebrum.

I plan, oh how I plan things, to ensure that this happens.

You may not believe me, but the secret to completing a medical degree successfully is not brains. It is actually the ability to make really thorough lists, coupled with the pleasure of being able to cross of successfully completed tasks. It also helps to have your empathy and sense of shame surgically removed upon entry to the course, but, well, I missed that part.

Anyhow, suffice it to say that I am an organised soul.

With this in mind, one would think that scheduling a small matter like a pap smear would be easy. All it takes is to find a gap in my roster, match it to an appointment to see my Dr and voila, before you can say ‘fixative spray’ three times my legs should be spread, the speculum in and my cervix sampled.

But, here’s the thing.

Twice now, I have used my organisational capacity to make said appointment, only to be inconveniently menstruating.

The first time was simply bad luck, after all I wasn’t meant to bleed on the pill during downregulation. That was an added bonus.

So I tried again.

The second time, I assumed that 14 days post retrieval (the only appointment time I could get) would be okay on the grounds that progesterone would stop me hemorrhaging until the big blood beta. Well, history would say no.

Now I have absolutely no idea what to do. Organisation has failed me. It turns out that I cannot plan for everything, after all.

This leaves me feeling somewhat lost.

I think that I’ll just make a tohellwithit random appointment and hope for the best.

Given I’ve been making up lame excuses for the appointments I keep making, so I don’t have to explain the whole ‘oops, period’ thing, I hope that it works.

My Dr is going to think that I’m totally neurotic at this rate otherwise.

On topic.

I’ll be emailing your cross-pollinator blogger in a few short days. I’ve already emailed most of you to let you know that I’ve not forgotten you. Now onto business…..

For a change of pace, I’ll actually post something about that whole tiresome ‘I want a baby and I’ll take public genital exposure if it helps me reach my goal’ business.

Yesterday was my lining scan.

You will be pleased to note that I am now so very desensitised to the whole ‘Naked from the waist down thing’ that I keep my shoes on. What kind were they, I hear you ask?

High heels.

It looked kinda kinky on the gynaecology couch, upon reflection, and I don’t think I’ll be sans undies in heels in public again too soon.

You can leave your hat on, indeed.

I am also so desensitised to public nudity that I keep rabbiting on about the topic of my current enthusiasm (house hunting) whilst the probe goes in. I don’t stop. It is probably a good thing that I don’t do that to my dear spouse during more intimate probings, because well, I think it might be a little off putting. Although I’m sure that it wouldn’t be a sin to think about house hunting as long as I keep it to myself, surely?

Contributing to the otherwise rather one sided conversation, my RE pronounced some words of wisdom on the whole house hunting dilemma. In doing so she has, again, reinforced just how much I absolutely heart having such a human medical practitioner to deal with the sans baby business. She said to me ‘Remember that you’ll have a toddler soon’. Those are the best damn words I’ve heard in, well, simply ages.

Anyroad. The result of my lining check?

My internal lady garden was rated thoroughly lush and ready for a FET on Wednesday.

Kotex and I are now officially reacquainted courtesy of those rather oozy progesterone pessaries. I’d describe how I (only this morning) discovered what it’s like to assume the vertical position without a pantyliner after inserting two the night before, but I get more than enough porn hits as it is.

Without describing r.u.n.n.y w.h.i.t.e g.l.o.b.b.y g.o.o. sliding down my thighs.

In the spirit of fairness to Google, I can see how the above sentence (minus the dots) could possibly be seen as sexual.

Agony Aunt, edition 5.

When dear Google continues to provide me with varied and unusual queries with such boundless enthusiasm what else is there to do but roll up my sleeves, find my best this-is-serious facial expression and answer them?

Today, for your appraisal, I submit the following items:

1. On my period
2. Infertility defeated
3. Can you do a thrombophilia screen?
4. Stirrpus Dr english me.
5. 1234556, oh you no way!

In numerical order I shall do my best. I leave it to you, dear reader, to improve where I find inspiration lacking.

Item #1 (On my period):

Um, congratulations?

Are congratulations in order?

I mean, a functioning uterus is something that many women great pride in, although (personally speaking) I wish that I was ‘on my period’ a little less often given that I’m infertile and all.

Anyway, you are woman and I acknowledge your bloody roar. Have a tampax, on the house.

Item #2 (Infertility defeated):

Honey, does this look like a temple of vanquished infertility?

Google is having fun at both of our expenses, sadly.

Please let me know if you do find the Magic Solution, I’m more than a little interested myself.

Item #3 (Can you do a thrombophilia screen?):

Well, yes, actually. Since you ask so nicely, I can.

How about we start with a Antithrombin III, protein C, protein S, and activated protein C resistance assay?

I’ll throw in a bonus Factor V leiden and prothrombin gene mutation since you asked so nicely and I’m not used to that.

Heck, I’m feeling so generous that for a short time only I’ll go the whole hog and give you a homocysteine level and antiphospholipid and anticardiolipin antibody assay free of charge.

The only minor problem, dear google-r is that you won’t get an answer without actual blood being drawn.

Never mind.

Item #4 (Stirrups Dr english me):

Err, right away sir.

*Now* baby, harder, harder….

Ahem, Pardon me.

What was it exactly you were looking for?

Item #5 (1234556, oh you no way!):

Yes, I often affect people like that. Sorry, but there doesn’t seem to be all that much I can do about it.

Poor Judgement.

Sorry, I just HAD to get the bee involved. It’s clicky, you know. Moving right along….

This post comes with an acknowledgement of inspiration derived from the one-and-only Mrs Spock, and I quote:

“This is Nurse Spock from Big Hospital, I am trying to reach the family of Poor Judgment. He is a patient in the ICU here”

Poor Judgement is, unfortunately, absolutely bang on as an pseudonym for many trauma patients. It neatly sums up just how they manage to get into the physically damaging situations that they do.

I hope that nobody will be horribly offended if I divert my focus from infertility briefly. If you’d like an update about that, well, still infertile. Sigh. I’m amazed that I’ve managed to generate nearly a whole year’s worth of writing devoted to my empty womb, but there you have it. I have.

May I offer up some alternate names for some of the unfortunate people that seemed to score rather pricey state-funded beds in my Trauma Hotel? I still work there occasionally, so I get a fair sampling of the more common types:

• Mr Lacks Insight.
• Mr Drink N Drive.
• Mr Always Right.
• Mr Fight More.
• Mr Picks A Fight.
• Ms Drinks A Lot.
• Mr Poor Balance.
• Ms Loves Heights.
• Mr Trusts A Drunkdriver.
• Mr Go Faster.
• Mr What Seatbelt.
• Mr Small N Angry.
• Ms Drunk Pedestrian.
• Mr Adolescent Showoff.
• Mr Helmets R ForDorks.
• Mr Rude Tattoos.
• Mr No Teef.

For the (sadly quite common) repeat customers that we patch up, only to have them appreciate our help so much they return I offer the following pseudonyms:

• Mr Just Doesn’t Learn.
• Mr Frontal Lobe Damage.

In the interests of the sad reality that some of them truly are horribly unlucky, and could probably blame one of the above people for the fact that they now have external fixators on smashed bones (making them look like rather unfortunate Trauma Puppets) and a decompressive craniectomy hole in their head, I offer the following final names:

• Mr Wrong Place.
• Ms Wrong Time.

Sigh. Trauma work makes me sad.

Just what the world needs.

 

 Before you read…..click on the bee and Cross-Pollinate!

……………………………………….

Another whine from myself.

Hold your hats, ladies and gentleman.

Dear Universe,

May I raise a few points?

Whilst I do, truly, appreciate all the damn character building that my empty uterus brings me, I think it’s more than time for things to change.

I understand that throwing money at infertility hard enough and for long enough does NOT a  viable pregnancy entitle me, but quit it. I get that lesson, truly. I’ve had enough.

I’ve spent thousands of dollars in the last month for the pleasure of continued menstruation and it just doesn’t have the thrill that it used to. In fact if I were being completely honest with you, Universe, I’ve never particularly enjoyed leaking blood out of my whatsit at all. I’d be more than happy to save myself, say, the cost of 40 weeks of Kotex’s finest in exchange for the rather more significant cost of obstetric care. For a healthy baby this time, Universe.

Please do pay attention to my last point, and quit the sniggering. I thought I just saw you pass a note to Fate, and if it happens again, I’m going to make you come up to the front of the class and read it so’s that we all can have a giggle. I could do with a laugh.

Could you at least throw me a bone and give me a chemical pregnancy, if nothing else, whilst I wait for the Real Deal?

Hell, you could throw me the Real Deal, but lets be frank, I think we both know that’s not happening anytime soon.

I know that we’re not on the best of terms right now, so I’ll rephrase my request in terms that might render it more attractive to you. I need something new to cry about and a flutter of HCG would really fill the void right now.

Plain old infertility and dead baby thoughts are getting old,

cc. my empty uterus.

Yours,

Geohde.

P.S. Since we’re talking, I don’t suppose you could throw in a lining between, say, 9 and 14 mm on Monday? You can choose the number, but anything in that range would be just swell. Then I can start re-acquainting my vayjayjay with the progeste.groan in anticipation of a honest-to-goodness transfer.

I have this idea…

I’ll be keeping this post at the top for a few days, feel free to look below for regular MII business. There’s a shiny new post, I promise! Click on the link, and save yourself the scrolldown. Or scrolldown, if you’d rather, it’s suit yourself day here every day.

 

I blame Mel’s (of Stirrup Queens fame) phenomenal organisation of so many damn fun bloggity events for giving me ideas.

Well, actually only ONE idea, I lack imagination.

Admittedly, a slightly grandiose idea, quite possibly above my station in the blogosphere as a persistently jacked off, disgruntled, whining infertile. I hope I can get away with it on the grounds that I, let’s be honest, desperately need a very distracting task to keep my mind from devolving to the stubborn barrenness of my womb.

You see, it’s all about my needs at Chez MI, as per usual.

Inspiration (or possibly procrastination, given that small matter of upcoming final exams) has hit and I’ve begun to entertain the crazy thought that maybe I could get off my lazy butt and organise a little something myself. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

Don’t answer that.

Hoping desperately that I’m not about to bite of more than I can comfortably chew and offend you all with my devastating inefficiency, let me share my Cunning Plan.

Drum-roll, please…..

The Great Blog Cross-Pollination.

See, isn’t it just fantastic?

I bet you’re all inspired, yes?

No?

Oh.

Then let me explain my Cunning Plan.

This all comes from the observation that, out of the zillions of fantastic blogs you all write, I only know and regularly visit a subset.

I’d like to get to know more of you, after all a girl can never have too many fellow infertiles to bitch to about recalcitrant reproductive systems.

I am aware that clicking though blogrolls would achieve the same end, but the way I propose would be more fun.

The executive summary?

Essentially, the net effect for those who participate would be that on a nominated date (Friday the 9th of November), instead of your own usual post, you swap posts with another blogger.

This would all be clearly signposted in the title that the post is ‘guest’ , of course, and with a hyperlink to your own post, existing as a ‘guest’ post on the swapped-blog site. 

The goal is cross-pollination of bloggity goodness.

Visitors to your site get to visit another (hopefully fresh and new) blog without even the bother of all that clicking their mouse, let alone typing a URL. Nifty, huh?

As an added bonus, they can have the fun of guessing the identity of the mystery guest blogger is in the comments section.

I wonder how many of us will pick a familiar writing style in a new home?

If you’re frowning in confusion, let me break it down as to how it will work:

• Firstly, those who’d like to join in post a reply to this post with their name, blog URL and email address. Also add if your blog is avec or sans Rugrats (children/pregnancy) so I can match up kid-kid and non-kid-non-kid blogs. I don’t want to offend any sensibilities.
• Secondly, I will compile the list of participants and email you (in about a week) with the name, email address and url of your matched blog cross-pollinator.
• You then both compose your usual post for the date (Friday the 9th of November) in question and email each other the post text, or, ideally the code for the post text.

You can access the code for your post in most blog programs by clicking on the ‘view html’ or ‘code’ tab (to give Blogger and WordPress examples, respectively). Copy that and email it if you can.

I’ve tested emailing code between Blogger and WordPress and it seems to work. If finding the code is too tricky for you, simply compose your post in your usual blog program and copy it into your email and send it. That should also work okay, if my experiments are to be trusted.

Just please, please, please don’t use MS word to type your post as it seems to create an ungodly amount of irrelevant tags that will have your cross-poster cursing your name if one breaks.

• On the Cross pollination date (Friday the 9th of November, if you’re not keeping track), post the swapped post you received via email with the following additions:
• The title ‘A guest blog entry, bought to you by the Great Blog Cross-Pollination’.
• A request at the bottom of the post to guess the identity of the cross-pollinated blogger in the comments field and a link to their blog URL to find your post for the day. That way your regular readers can find you, even if it’s not your usual location.

That’s it. I hope I just made sense.

Voila, Blog cross pollination.

If you’re feeling all snazzy, also feel free to lift/upload the file for the bumblebee logo to stick on your site (the one below should open the file in a new window for you when you click on it to make things as easy as possible), and link this post to it. I, unfortunately, lack the technical know-how to confidantly post the code for the linked bumblebee at the top but if any of you have clever ideas on the latter, let me know.

Here (with a grain of salt) is what I think to be the code for the linked bumblebee. It works to generate a linked Bee for me if I insert it in the ‘edit code/html’ window of the editor (not the regular visual/compose window), but I’m not sure about other platforms. Just replace the [ and ] with < and > , of course:

[a rel="attachment wp-att-365" href="http://missionimpossibleinfertile.wordpress.com/2007/10/19/i-have-this-idea/" mce_href="http://missionimpossibleinfertile.wordpress.com/2007/10/19/i-have-this-idea/"][img width="299" src="http://missionimpossibleinfertile.files.wordpress.com/2007/10/blogxpol1.jpg" mce_src="http://missionimpossibleinfertile.files.wordpress.com/2007/10/blogxpol1.jpg" alt="blogxpol1.jpg" height="276" style="width: 291px; height: 234px" /][/a]

I realise that this post may simply prove, for once and for all, that I am not one of the cool kids and fizzle out to the chirping of uninterested crickets, but tohellwithit, I thought it was worth a shot.

Are you in?

I’m sure there’s a very good reason for this.

In fact, I know (pharmacologically speaking) that there is, but…..

It doesn’t stop me from observing that for my upcoming artificial FET the o.estrogen is oral and the Progeste.groan is vaginal. Both ends covered, so to speak.

How very thorough.

I guess I should be eternally grateful that they in no way resemble one another lest I put the o.estrogen in my clacker and snack on a tasty progeste.groan pessary. Otherwise my perpetual running-impossibly-late dashes to work in the morning would become even more fraught with danger than they currently are.

Good thing that I don’t need to place a third tablet in any other orifice, because I consider this to be the limit of my acceptable options.

As a complete aside, in no way connected to the above observations, my husband noted that (according to the product insert) the progesterone is packaged in “HARD fat”.

Snort.

He reckons that it makes sense, after all it’s pretty hard to get a “SOFT fat” right up there. The old adage about the difficulty of getting a marshmallow in a coin-slot is a good one, I suppose.

I’d complain about his crudeness, but to be honest, I’m slightly miffed that I didn’t make the joke first.

Less than one week until the 1,034,115th public exposure of my genitalia in the bid for an actual child, but who’s counting after so many lining scans?

From the mouth of the BBC.

This gem: 

Acupuncture appears to cut the chances of successful IVF, research suggests.

It had been thought that acupuncture may impact on the nervous system to help make the lining of the uterus more receptive to receiving an embryo.

Previous research appeared to support this idea, with the pregnancy rate doubled when IVF was combined with the ancient therapy.

But the latest University of Oklahoma study found the twin approach led to a drop in pregnancy rates.

The results of our study suggest women having fertility treatment should not be advised to have acupuncture Dr LaTasha Craig University of Oklahoma

The researchers found women given acupuncture were 37% less likely to get pregnant than those who were not treated.

A total of 97 patients took part in the study. One group was given acupuncture for 25 minutes before and after the embyro was transferred from the test tube to the womb.

The pregnancy rate in the group who did not receive acupuncture was 69.9%, compared with just 43.8% among those who were given the therapy.

Researcher Dr LaTasha Craig, said: “The results of our study suggest women having fertility treatment should not be advised to have acupuncture.”

But she added: “This contradicts the findings of previous studies. I think more research needs to be done.”

Dr Craig said it was possible that the benefits of acupuncture might be counteracted by the stress of undergoing therapy directly before IVF.

Mark Bovey, from the British Acupuncture Council, said: “This seems to fly in the face of all the published research.

“Up to now all the published research has indicated an increase in pregnancy rates and take-home baby rates.

“Some practitioners treat hundreds of women having IVF each year and largely have good results with it.”

And this gem:

Women undergoing fertility treatment could have their chances of success boosted by acupuncture.German researchers said they have increased success rates by almost 50% in women having in vitro fertilisation (IVF).

The theory is that acupuncture can affect the autonomic nervous system, which is involved in the control of muscles and glands, and could therefore make the lining of the uterus more receptive to receiving an embryo.

But the scientists admit they do not know for certain why the complementary therapy helped, and plan to carry out more studies in a bid to find out.

If these findings are confirmed, they may help us improve the odds for our IVF patients achieving pregnancy

Dr. Sandra Carson, American Society of Reproductive Medicine

Fertility techniques are used to help couples who cannot conceive naturally. The theory of acupuncture is based on pathways called meridians. Research has shown it can help relieve nausea caused by anaesthetics during surgery or chemotherapy and to relieve dental pain.It may also help relieve other conditions including headaches and menstrual cramps.‘A useful tool’

A report published in the journal Fertility and Sterility found the pregnancy rate in the group receiving acupuncture group was 42.5%, compared to the group which did not receive the therapy, where the rate was 26.3%.

The German researchers worked with doctors at the Department of Traditional Chinese Medicine at Tongji Hospital in Wuhan, China.

Of 160 women undergoing IVF, half received standard in vitro fertilisation, while half were given acupuncture treatments before and after.

The researchers chose acupuncture points which traditional Chinese medicine says relax the uterus.

They also used needles to stimulate meridians involving the spleen, stomach and colon, to improve blood flow and create “more energy in the uterus.”

Key relaxation points were also stimulated.

The research team, led by Dr. Wolfgang Paulus and colleagues at the Christian-Lauritzen-Institut in Ulm, Germany, wrote in the journal: “Acupuncture seems to be a useful tool for improving pregnancy rate after assisted reproductive techniques.

They add: “To rule out the possibility that acupuncture produces only psychological or psychosomatic effects, we plan to use a placebo needle set as a control in a future study.”

Such a study would involve people having needles inserted in the same way as in acupuncture, but not at the acupuncture points.

Dr. Sandra Carson, president-elect of the American Society of Reproductive Medicine, which publishes the journal, said: “If these findings are confirmed, they may help us improve the odds for our (in vitro fertilisation) patients’ achieving pregnancy.

My 0.02c?

Cut out the middle man and stick sewing needles on one side only. Blindfolded and in your best pin the tail on the donkey fashion.

The evidence would support you, it would seem.

Extracting the urine

People, Ladies, Gentleman, Nuns and Horses, I have a big announcement to make. May I have your attention, please?

Ahem. 

In case you were wondering, yes, I am officially back to taking the piss.

I’ve been waiting simply ages to make that pun.

My last urinary-extracted hormone encounter was with the Pregnyl some time ago, when I was still desperately trying to make the Clomid+ trigger shot + sex = babies thing work.

I’m glad that that all worked out so fabulously well for me.

Despite being a veritable hormonal soup for six weeks, I didn’t get the pleasure of pee-derived hormone administration in my more recent IVF/ICSI #1.

They spoiled my fun with the whole recombinant jag.  It’s hard to make jokes about hormones grown in vats of rather cleverly genetically engineered bacteria. They make me look dangerously underskilled for the job.

I mean, I’m onto my third tertiary degree and I haven’t the foggiest idea how to grow large amounts of pure FSH, just ask my pituitary gland. If you can get hold of it in between rather prolonged siestas, do take note of the spectacularly blank look it gives in return to that particular request. Tell it I said ‘hello’ while you’re at it since it doesn’t seem to take the blindest bit of notice of me any more.

Where was I?

That’s right, pee jokes are easier. But it gets even better, because now I can quip about number ones in horses.

Take that, menopausal nuns. You may flush away, uninterrupted.

The o.estrogen I am currently consuming is conjugated-equine estrogen.

I’ve moved up in the world from the nun-pee, vertically at least, if not species-wise (depending on the view you hold as to the position horses occupy in society, of course).

Given just how much steaming urine the average horse seems to be capable of producing, I can see the logic of this choice of o.estrogen ‘farming’.

I just have no idea how they catch it all.

If I ignore them, do they go away?

Sometimes I really disappoint myself.

After spending literally half the morning desperately trying to ratchet up enough care factor to turn up to my clinical placement and only barely succeeding, I left after a grand total of one hour’s attendance.

It’s particularly poor of me given the following facts:

• My unit is ‘recieving’ today, i.e. all new inhabitants of our Temple Of Ill Health come under our care. It’s the busiest day of the week and there is plenty of work to do.
• I should be practising admitting patients where-and-whenever the opportunity is given to me. Like today, for example.
• A rather useful session on the minor matter of CPR/arrest management had been scheduled for the afternoon.
• Hell, even if all of the above carried no weight, turning up would be a good distraction from sitting around at home being persistently infertile. I could do it in a hospital, instead.

Even though the above list constitutes more than adequate cause for a thorough bollocking of self-recrimination, those aren’t the reasons that I’m currently rather jacked off at myself.

The real reason lies in what happened immediately before I left. Let me share.

Half an hour after arriving, my pager went off and it was the secretary responsible for our water-tight timetabling. It turns out that the main reason that I did eventually drag my sorry ass in had been cancelled due to unwellness on the part of the session facilitator. Unfortunate, as it would have been rather useful, but I guess I’ll just have to get by without the benefit of my advanced life support/CPR training. Shame really.

In light of this deficiency, I post a small note to all with dicky tickers: it would probably be a good idea to plan around having your cardiac arrest somewhere other than right in front of me. Thank you in advance.

But this is not the end of the story.

As I was leaving to give my fellow students the devastating news that they now had a sunny afternoon off, the secretary added an explanation, ‘ Your facilitator’s just so pregnant right now I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to come in when she was sick’.

Talk about an unexpected punch in the gut. Broadsided by proxy by a pregnant woman . I’m quite sure that I stood with an open mouth gape for about twenty seconds before I got myself under control. I nearly cried right there in the corridor. Rather uncharitably, all I could think was ‘Bitch’ about this (sick, pregnant) woman for cancelling and having the temerity to gestate when I couldn’t.

Why on earth is every other woman in the world pregnant right now, and why, oh why do I always have to hear about it?

I went home upset, full of self recrimination about being such a self centered, thoroughly self-indulgent, infertile loser.

I really have to get over it, it’s not like I can expect people to avoid breeding just to spare my feelings.

If I knew the answer to THAT question.

Recently, in the act of collecting my precious drugs for the FET I recieved a rude shock.

They’re not covered like the ones for the fresh cycle were. I actually have to pay for them myself, horror of horrors.

The pharmacist (who, to make this quite clear before I go further, works exclusively in a pharmacy that almost exclusively only does IVF stuff. They know IVF better than the clinic staff do, I’d be willing to bet.) informed me that the progeste.groan would be 60 dollars for each three days supply.

She the proceeded to ask me, in the middle of the store and in clear earshot of every damn cycling woman around, just how long I’d need it for.

Did I mention that I hate this pharmacist? The first time we met she was yelling out my full name at top volume, alternating with ’Temazepam’ (also at the top of her lungs) when I was foolhardy enough to fill a prescription for sleeping pills there. That should have been a warning, in hindsight. Discreet, she is not.

Needless to say, lots of ears (attached to owners taking a sudden suspicious interest in the shampoo aisle) pricked up, presumably ready to mentally shoot knives into my back if I’d smugly said I was pregnant and it would be ongoing.

My reply?

‘I’m hoping for twelve weeks but the best I can offer you is that it’s 80% likely that two weeks worth will be fine and 20% likely that I’ll be spending rather a lot of money here for a trimester’.

So she asked if three days worth would be fine to begin with.

Um, no.

Is it just me or is this IVF CLINIC pharmacist not quite the full quid?

Ergh.

I knew this would come in handy.

Ladies and Gentleman, may I re-present to you my trusty IVF algorithm? I’m awfully glad that I have something concrete to guide my behaviour in times like these.

Having completed an (unsuccessful) cycle, let me update you with my current status:

You will be pleased to note that I followed it to the letter.

After reaching item ‘N’ I did indeed say ‘fuck’ to excess, and then drank half a bottle of wine.

Consequently, the laws of physics about action and equal and opposite reaction holding true for boozing, this morning I woke up feeling like some incontinent creature of the night had widdled in my mouth whilst I was asleep.

Monday I start the drugs for the next loop of my algorithm. I wonder which way the little red arrow will go this time?

An open missive to my womb.

Dear Uterus,

Upon recieving my incredibly negative blood beta yesterday, I think we need to clear the air.

First with the positive feedback. 

I would like to publicly thank your efforts in so damn thoroughly cleaning house after all that business with the drugs and the IVF messing with your furniture arrangement.

I just love to menstruate, so I applaud your consideration in giving me yet another opportunity to see just how absorbent jumbo tampons really are. 

Who wouldn’t want a lovely change of plan from healthy gestation to crippling cramps and the unleashing of 60 days storage worth of accumulated endometrium?

Now with the constructive criticism.

I do not mean to make you feel all defensive, but I have to pick at a few (really quite minor, I promise) points in your recent performance.

I will acknowledge that you may have been provoked somewhat, oh womb of mine. I agree that the footprints of tradesmen making their way through, you know, to casually drop off an embryo were a little annoying. I thank you for at least signing for the package.

Just a teeny quibble with your storage technique, but embryos (for future reference) need nutrition and TLC. They don’t thrive when shoved in your time out corner until quite sure they pose no further danger to your current shape by virtue of being DEAD. I know that means that you’ll just have to sacrifice your current svelte proportions, but, that’s what taking one for the team means, you selfish git, reproductive organ.

On the theme of ‘reproductive’ since I seemed to have oh-so casually segued into this area, may I gently remind you that this is your true calling in life?

Don’t look at me like that, really it is.

It actually isn’t to spite me by waking me up at 3am with crippling cramps, oddly enough, although I know how much you enjoy doing that.

In conclusion, oh determinedly empty generative organ of mine, how about we start afresh and work together on the next transfer?

Yours,

G

Agony aunt edition 4

As I anxiously while away the interval between bloody IVF failure and upcoming thaw cycle, or trying to think positively, viable pregnancy in thaw cycle, I need distraction.

Fortunately, the good searchers of Google continue to provide it in spades. Who am I to ignore their pleas for information?

The following constitutes a hand-picked selection of my favourite queries from the last week. Some of them, admittedly, may in fact be searches for porn by those with rather specialised interests, but I’m all about giving benefit of the doubt.

To hell with it, I freely admit that I derive puerile amusement from poking fun at the strange, especially the very strange.

1. “positive opk” “on the pill” failure.
2. Agony aunt required/ Agony aunt questions.
3. Oldies spreadeagled.
4. Head in vagina.
5. Bottle in ass.
6. Mission impossible and geohde/ Mission impossible fat woman.

Addressing item #1 (“positive opk” “on the pill” failure):

Apart from stating the obvious that a positive OPK (used appropriately) indicates impending ovulation and therefore logically potential pill failure should one shag, I’m a little lost.

Several questions spring to mind in succession, namely:

• First and most obviously, why on the great green earth are you testing for ovulation if you’re on the pill? I must admit that I was too busy blowing up condoms into greasy pointy balloons in sex-ed to pay serious attention, but despite this I’m fairly sure that the pill prevents ovulation. Okay, so it was really rolling the condoms down phallic shaped vegetables that distracted me, but my point remains.
• If, dear searcher, you’re worried the pill may fail enough to use an OPK why-oh-why not just use a condom? At least until you’re not on antibiotics, puking your guts up, spewing diarrhoea or forgetting to take it every day. Please remember that it lacks contraceptive effect if it stays in the packet and you need s.e.v.e.n active pills down the gullet to be safe. For individualised help, cross out the options that don’t apply in your case.
• Finally, are you aware that if the naughty shag was more than 10-14 days ago, you may in fact be picking up a pregnancy with your ovulation  pee stick? HCG looks like LH to the average OPK. Yeah, I thought that might worry you.

I’m out.

Item #2 (Agony aunt required/ Agony aunt questions):

That noise you heard is the sound of one woman stroking her own ego, based on a flattering Google search. Oh Google, is it love after all? You like me, you really like me.

Item #3 (Oldies spreadeagled):

……..Or perhaps not.

Fair-weathered you are, dear Google. I can see that we’re back to our usual unhealthy relationship status.

I am racking my brains for a non-gerontological pornographic interpretation of “Oldies spreadeagled”, truly. Perhaps it is my dirty mind at fault, but I’m drawing a blank.

Good luck, searcher. Don’t get arrested peeking though curtains at the local nursing home, will you?

Item #4 (Head in vagina):

Um.

Oh, my.

If the mental image of elderly genital display wasn’t burned in my brain already, the thought of a head in a vagina would be. Lucky, really.

Answering the search:

Unless you mean childbirth, curious one, heads do not belong in vaginas. As the owner of a vagina of assumingly average proportions, I’m quite sure about that point.

Item # 5 (Bottle in ass):

Google, now you’re just playing with me.

Quit with the orifice-penetrating searches forthwith and I shall retain my sense of humour.

Item # 6 (Mission impossible and geohde/ Mission impossible fat woman):

Oddly enough, rather specificsearches like “Mission Impossible Geohde” actually make me feel the most uncomfortable. Yes, more uncomfortable than aged genitals and objects in unnatural locations.

To address the searcher directly, it’s kinda stalker-ish, oh Bookmark-Deficient One.

As for “Mission Impossible fat woman”, now that’s just rude. Give me twenty years, a few kids (Ha!) and a lot of potato chips and I will do my best to deliver.

In the meantime, you can kiss my petite ass for that one.

Lots of love to all,

Mz G.

Serum Rhubarb.

I’ve started my final term in general medicine (a.k.a the revolving seasonal-chest-infection-suffering-geriatric and de-boozing-boozer lounge). 

Self preservation is kicking in, and I’ve been in at all sorts of ridiculous hours all week.

Whilst general medicine holds no especial charm for me, I do hold a burning desire not to look too daft next year when I start working as a Real Doctor. Hence the new-found virtuous attendance, although being paid to feel stupid will remove the sting somewhat. Currently I do it for free. 

I’m turning up to ward rounds like they’re going out of fashion, multitasking away with blood slips and radiology forms and doing my best to keep neat little lists of patients and tasks.

You know, actual practise.

It had to happen eventually, even if I prefer hiding in the hospital library like most other medical students, emerging only to scuttle across the hospital for tutorials, and avoiding the wards at all costs. I mean you might see a honest-to-goodness patient that way and then where would the great tradition of medical education be?

I will briefly share a few things that I have learned about the average general medical ward patient:

• They’re all at least 85, completely doolally (severely demented), deaf, doubly incontinent and non-verbal. 
• They come from nursing homes that appear to specialise in thrush infections and pressure areas. AND don’t supply transfer paperwork, so if there’s no old hospital files to refer to, it’s a crap-shoot guess as to what problems they have. The relatives almost never know.
• Every single one of them has diabetes, hypertension and heart failure. Those that don’t will have them diagnosed before they leave.
• Because they all smoked for most of the last century, every patient has a hacking cough that sounds like oysters of sputum may be launched fresh and forcefully into the shirt of the unwary staff member at any moment. If they don’t when they arrive, they do by the time they leave, thanks to hospital acquired infections.
• Despite the fact that they never actually visit their geriatric matriarch (and don’t have a clue about their medical history) the relatives will inevitably insist on full resuscitation and ICU management. For someone who, if everyone involved had more sense, would have been allowed to die with dignity when they had their first massive stroke that left them bed-bound and dribbling. Ten years ago.

Enough of that. Back to the ward round. I can’t speak highly enough of the five hours a day I spend running around a veritable comet trail of doctors learning the important things about medicine like where the pathology chute lives and the fax number for radiology. Clinical medicine? You must be kidding.

I just do the paperwork.

There is an old adage in medicine that one cannot always order a ‘Serum Rhubarb’ to magically divine the cause of a mystery ailment. There are blood tests for many, many things, but not everything.

I’m familiar with most of the common tests and it makes me feel more like a Real Doctor to authoritatively fill out request slips as we view the patient, so I do it.

For every patient we see, I hover, listening to the works of wisdom imparted by the registrar and infer which tests needed.

Some are dead easy and I can do them before I’ve even entered the room. I mean, it doesn’t take a medical degree to work out that a woman who’s been puking blood for three days probably needs her haemoglobin level checked.

Let’s not discuss the relatives that refuse to let anyone tell their matriarch that she has a zonking dirty fungating adenocarcinoma in her stomach causing said blood puke in case she (quite reasonably) refused further transfusion and actually died at the ripe old age of 95. Rather than at 95.6, in agonising pain from metastatic disease, and unable to eat due to the stomach obstruction caused by the tumor.

I just write the request slips and leave advanced thinking like that for my seniors.

But, not infrequently, I’m stumped and find myself whispering to the nearest Real Doctor…’A serum ya-what-a-what? How do I write that?’.

Given that I’ve also noticed that nobody seems to actually check the result of all those blood tests a significant portion of time, I have a plan. The next time it happens, I will simply knod knowledgably,  smile beatifically and write serum rhubarb on the slip. It will make me feel better.

I fully expect that it will pass completely unnoticed.

One thousand reasons.

For ME to thank YOU.

I never thought that I’d be here, now, still infertile despite my rather concerted efforts to at least be pregnant and infertile.

However if this process is going to take as long as it seems to play out, I am thrilled to know that I have company along the way. One thousand comments worth, as of yesterday.

So thank you, again.

You have no idea how much it helps to not be alone.

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Password:

Blue, baby, blue.

I’m really a miserable sod at the best of times, but lately I’ve been excelling myself.

Being all mature and therefore taking full responsibility for my actions, I’m going to blame first and foremost the progesterone and throw in a side-serving of due date for PBWCLEW, one presumably failed IVF, and the fact that I really couldn’t give a toss about work right now.

My wonderful, always wonderful, and incredibly patient husband did his best to communicate.

‘Darling, why so blue this time?’ he asked.

‘THIS time?’ I shrieked, in my best fish-wife tones.

He attempted a tactful correction.

‘Why do I have a blue baby?’

I replied ‘It’s usually an absence of respiration, dear heart. Babies should be pink, ideally speaking. But we don’t have one, remember?’

I’m normally less, well, bitter than this.

3-0….

I don’t think that little four-cell bundle of joy ever planned to stick around.

That poor little sucker either thought ‘stuff this for a uterus’ and slid right out after transfer, got fried by my super immune system with the fevers, or was hiding some serious genetic eff-uppedness despite all it’s grade 1 glory. Not even a flutter of HCG, the misbehaved little miscreant.

I’m calling to plead with my RE for a back-to-back transfer.

Not to be all pessimistic about my chances or anything, but I don’twant to be trying to get the red-tape in motion on CD1. Whilst cramping, eating copious amounts of chocolate, getting pissed, and running Kleenex out of business. Sobbing down the phone isn’t really my style.

This will sound rather perverse, but now I have to hope like hell the BPT is a clear negative, otherwise I’m out for a ‘cycle’.

2-0

To the HPT I pissed on this morning,

Dear determined, persistent, recalcitrant stubborn sod of a lily-white HPT that in no way looks like THIS:

Sorry about waking you with such a rude splash, but a girl’s gotta know, right? 

I am so sorely tempted to take a pink-ish marker to you just to get the satisfaction of seeing THIS:

But I realise that, disobedient problem child that you are, I’ll simply get THIS in retaliation tomorrow:

 

Or perhaps THIS:

But I can take a hint, really. THIS would be totally unnecessary:

Love (with reservations),

Geohde.