Welcome to Suckville.

Population, moi.

Or am I actually in Shit City? I’ve been to so many bad destinations in the last two years that they’re all beginning to look awfully similar.

In the interests of my newly self-appointed Tour Guide duties, I state the following before you leave the bus from Somewhere Else to explore:

Please feel free to take a brochure detailing the limited facilities.

Grab a tour map.

Heck, be my guest and piss in the fountain if you need to go. The toilets are broken, it’s dry anyway and could probably do with the water.

Finally, fercrissakes, when you get the chance RUN. Far away. Anywhere but HERE.

In case the above title was not warning enough, I do apologise for the abundant negative tone. Complaints can be made out in writing, marked c/o my (rooted) reproductive system.

What follows is some scheduled self-flagellation…

This morning the Ultrasound Probe of Truth smoked out my ovaries for total failures they are. Complete lazy, useless, backasswards glands. Does Clomid mean nothing to them now they’ve had the Good Stuff (FSH)?

A reasonable person would have thought that the last six days since crap scan number one (for this cycle anyway) should have been devoted to, say, happy ongoing folliculogenesis and estradiol production, but no. Not my gonads. I think they’re out the back, smoking, and totally forgot that follicles should get bigger with time. Clearly it slipped their tiny minds.

Those hopeful three follicles at the last scan, you ask? I’ve been rather careless with them it would seem, or victim to a rather cruel now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t disappearing act. I fail to find this new ovarian coyness cute or amusing in the least, especially since my endometrium staunchly remains a determinedly hypo-oestrogenic wafer thin. Heck, even if I do by some miracle get it together hormonally enough to ovulate it’s not a picture that in any way spells Paint Thy Nursery.

Sigh.

Having just had another vein blown with an inexpert blood draw, I await a truly delicious phone call with the likely options of:

1. Cancellation.
2. Conversion to a HRT cycle delayed cancellation.

In conclusion, if the total shiteness of a cycle is inversely related to the probability of gestation (see cycle # Really Bad SA and Surprise Pregnancy back in December ’06 an example of this principle) I’m having Quin-flippin-tuplets.

Edited to add: Phone call says keep going another week in Suckville (sounds like option two will be the winner). Fun times strictly optional, worried angst mandatory.

If you’ll just excuse me for a moment.

I have an exam tomorrow, and I think I may vomit from sheer terror.

But I don’t show it. Promise. Nerves of steel here, just look at how steady my six-coffees-today-already hands are. Would you let me take your blood or mess around near your spine performing a lumbar puncture?

Don’t answer that. Please. I think I may find a ‘no’, albeit reasonable, rather demoralising.

In regards to my scan, well, not much going on in ovarian-city, or uteropolis.

Interestingly it wasn’t my usual RE today, so I had the privilege of showing a complete stranger my goods within twenty seconds of meeting him. With my husband in the room. It always strikes me as slightly surreal to have my dear spouse calmly stand by and watch another man insert anything into my genitals. Shouldn’t he be viciously defending my honour, rather than eating a museli bar?

I’d quip that my RE was sick of me (and my perineum), but she has a cast iron alibi in the form of allegedly being overseas. If she’s not, and she’s that sick of me, I think that we’re both in trouble.

This RE was rather underwhelmed with matters, whereas my RE would have been downright chirpy. Mind you, the only time I’ve seen her not put a disturbingly positive spin on things was when we had PBWCLEW. Hard to be chirpy about that.

In case specifics matter, or more accurately because I’m obsessed with numbers, let me give details.

I have three follicles at 12 mm, and my lining is 6mm which, compared with past performances (i.e. nothing over 10mm, that time was a total picnic) on such a tiny dose of Clomid, is pretty good. I can’t really expect much else, since upping the Clomid to get things to grow any faster will probably lead to an impressive ovarian explosion of follicles.

I think I’ll split the difference between the two RE-approaches and be guardedly optimistic that I may eventually ovulate one of those suckers. Eventually.

In the meantime, I now have another scan Monday to look forward to.

Now if you’ll kindly excuse me, I have some serious panicking to do. It is the sharp end of the needle that goes into the patient, right?

Go on, guess.

Before I launch enthusiastically into my Whinge Du Jour, thank you all so much for cross-pollinating so damn well. I literally couldn’t have done it without you, and I had a great time reading/discovering new blogs in the process.

Returning to the regularly scheduled programme….

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I bet you’ll NEVER guess what my uppity reproductive system has decided to unleash on me this time.

I’ll give you a teaser with the phrase ‘Halfway through ovulation induction thaw cycle and a little on the pissed off side. Actually, a lot on the pissed off side. ’

Still no idea?

How about I add the following clues?:

The Mystery Item is something my uterus is apparently Very Good at doing, completely unscheduled.

• The Mystery Item is something Very Bad for acceptably think endometrial linings.
• The Mystery Item is something that is going to Render Me Anaemic at this rate since it’s been happening three weeks out of four lately.
• The Mystery Item is really putting a crimp on my sex life.

Surely you’ve got it by now? Some more help, although I doubt you need it:

• The Mystery Item may result in cancellation of my last transfer for some time (damn upcoming work commitments), but
• At least this time I won’t have wasted two (only so-so, sadly) embryos due to the Mystery Item’s impeccably timed unwanted input output.

All of you who voted for:

• Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, piss, fu@k, bollocks and shite, she’s bleeding again, isn’t she? How is that even humanly possible?

You get the prize for putting one of the more obvious two + two = Geohde screwed (again) calculations together.  Congratulations on your sleuth-like powers of deduction, although they weren’t precisely required.

Why yes, now that you mention it, there is a teeny-tiny minor matter that I seem to have re-entered the world of artfully engineered rod shaped, compressed, side channeled (with string) cotton wool up the whatsit again.

Now can you figure out how to make it stop, please?

I’d be more than happy to take names of those brave enough to fess up to the nurses at my clinic. I’m not, I freely admit since I think they might either:

• A: Hang up, after all this many calls about bleeding start to sound like suspiciously like I’m pulling their collective chains. I mean, that would be just a hilarious joke to pull, right?
• B: Sigh, fetch a picture of my completely-rooted-ovaries-and-womb out of the file marked ‘Not Her Again’ (from one of my many scans), pin it on a dartboard, and do what comes naturally with sharp aerodynamic objects to relieve stress. Bonus points for labelling it ‘The annoying b!tch with the FUBAR-ed innards’.
• C: Sigh, and gleefully cancel my cycle.

I figure that I may as well wait to get to my scan for option ‘C’. After all, if I’m going to be stuck with a cancellation fee, I may as well milk a damn ultrasound out of it, no?

Anybody who guessed:

• Oh my g-d, she’s going to have a baaayyyyyyyyhhhhhbbbbbeeee.

Um, sorry about that. Not yet, it would seem.

Expert opinions needed. Apply within.

I’m throwing this one out to the peanut gallery. My Chart. Please examine. There will be questions.

Below, I demonstrate the hilly wonder that is my thermal signature, as of today. The link above should get you the up-to-this-second version, and my last chart.

I’d appreciate (greatly) any of you who stumble upon this Muzak-infested waiting room in the infertility corner of the Internet to offer up an opinion. I’ll even say ‘please’, but don’t make me beg. I cry, and it gets uncomfortable for the both of us to try and pretend that I didn’t afterwards.

I know that a chart is not an oracle, only a mere guide. I *know* that individual temperatures don’t mean squat, and it’s a pattern that I’m looking for. Specifically a rise of , say, .2 to .3 degrees C after ovulation.

Removing my ‘I’m all scientific and not in any way susceptible to fits of angst’ hat, and neatly replacing it with my ‘WTF is this chart, oh-my-god-it-hasn’t-worked-why-the-hell-not-PANIC‘ hat, I have but one question.

WTF?

Ok, so I’ll be more specific.

WTF, with my chart?

My temperatures are up and down like a stripper’s knickers.

Did I even ovulate? And why the hell are my temperatures nothing like any other cycle I’ve ever had (ie all over the shop and so c-c-c-cold pre-?ovulation).

Intermission

I’m still here, I promise.

Please listen to the delightful Muzak in the intermission between Clomid and scan.

Feel free to water the plastic pot-plant.

Take an uncomfortably modern chair.

If the yelling and thumping from the back office as I threaten my ovaries on pain of not-follicle is troublesome, be my guest and close the door.

Thank you.

Begin-again Fin-again.

And so another week begins.

• The last Clomid for the cycle dutifully consumed……tick.
• The urge to take even more in the hope that it will work better…..overcome (just).
• The feeling that there’s probably something else I should be doing to help things along…..puzzlingly strong.

I just want to know what my hypothalamus and pituitary are deigning to do about it all this cycle. The Clomid should (allegedly) fool them into thinking that my ovaries have gone to hormonal lunch and scare them into doing something useful, for a change. I know the instruction leaflet in the packet doesn’t put it quite that way, but that’s what is meant to happen. It should mean that these wonder glands of mine roll up their secretory sleeves and pump out some good ole FSH, but I’m not convinced.

My track record the last few cycles would suggest they’ve stumbled on to the ruse, and are happily siesta’ing away under a rather large hat somewhere sunny. Probably with an alcoholic drink near to hand, the bastards.

It’s not feasible in the least, but I’m so tempted to ‘borrow’ an ultrasound machine in clinic and scan myself. Although, the mental image that springs to mind of my hypothetical attempt involves rather a high degree of contortionist-like skill. Which I do not possess.

Besides, the doors in clinic don’t lock, and honestly I’d rather be caught on the can doing my business than with a probe up the orifice anterior to the one the sun doesn’t shine from. I mean, they might get entirely the wrong idea.

Guess I’ll have to wait until Friday to find out.

Wanted: some fizz.

I’m feeling a little flat today.

I’ve ovulated ridiculously early for me (CD 17 or so), thanks to my trusty old friend, Clomid.

But I smelt a rat.

You see, the last two cycles, my OPK’s haven’t technically turned positive. There was the appearance of a second line, sure, but it’s never been as dark as the control. And it’s taken well over the advised reading time of 10 minutes to show up. That isn’t what used to happen, folks. It also means I take far too long in the bathroom since I don’t like to run around the house with an item covered with my wee. Unsanitary.

So, anyway, something else is a bit a bit wonky reproductively.

At this point I think that I need to digress and resort to vehicular analogy to explain the full depth of ‘wonky’.

Were I a car, pre-PBWCLEW I was the beat up old thing that had mismatched paint and one door taped on that thought twice about starting, but always came through in the end and got you to your destination (albeit somewhat late). Now I’m the heap sitting in the wreckers yard in which it is often possible to get one component or another working, but never the whole thing at once.

Dear reader, to take the analogy too far, I think my drive train has packed it in and it sounds expensive. The mechanic is making that noise.

Not my best work….

I have a cold. I thought alcohol would make me feel better, but no.

I feel feverish, tired and (to be honest) also slightly tipsy.

Optimist that I am, I’ve purchased my Clomid for my next cycle.

Roll on menstruation…..

Hmmm…

I hope nobody was holding their breath on my behalf about my scan (yes, the probe was well lubricated).

If so, I thank you, but your asphyxia was in vain.

The best I could come up with this cycle was a 13mm follicle.

Maybe it will be the little follicle that could, but I’m not going to start painting the nursery just yet.

It’s also looking like I’m heading into the land of luteal-support.

Does you luteal feel tired? Does it ache at the end of the day? Has it lost it’s shiny sparkle? It’s tone? It’s youthful vigour? Well, never fear! Try Luteal Support(tm)today…..

Hmmm…..

My first

I was reflecting on something today.

I’ll never get my first positive pregnancy test again.

There will never be that buzz of incredulous happiness, the shaking, the forgetting to even put my undies on after getting off the loo in the mad rush to tell my husband, the elated ‘we did it’.

That has been taken away from me and muddled down into a mire of ambivalence, reluctance, will this one even be viable, or will it be another baby that can’t live?

I hate that I’ve lost that kind of innocence about the whole process.

At the same time, damn it would be nice if this cycle was The One.

My ultrasound is in the morning, fingers crossed for some egg-action.

And just like that, she was gone…..

This is a lament for my RE’s secretary, who from my point of view, is AWOL.

I hope you are well, but I missed your “hello” of recognition(?resignation) whenever I called.

I missed not having to re-give my name to a “sorry, who are you again”.

I missed your kind laughter at my inept jokes about the frequency of my calling, and my persistent lack of fertility.

I missed not having to reel out my numbers to a stranger.

In short, although I am sure Claire and I will recognise one another soon enough if needs be, I hope you are well and in fruitful employment.

I called about the Clomid….its a Green for GO!

With an added bonus of trans vaginal ultrasound to see what happens (BYO popcorn).

Thank sod for that (the Clomid, not the U/S).

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On: Constipated, zitty, bloated and waiting for the inevitable

….In case anybody actually wanted to know about any of the above items. I check all those damn boxes like you wouldn’t believe.

Apart from the usual delicious array of side effects Clomid gives at the start of a cycle, it also gives me the feeling that I’m oozing progesterone from every pore at the end of a cycle. In this weather (hot), I can pass it off as sweat, at least, if it becomes necessary.

I’m not going to even mention the breast tenderness that has me leaping into hunched defence whenever anything might possibly touch one. My poor husband has learnt (very quickly) to look but not touch.

I wonder how geologic-timescalely-overprolonged my luteal phase will be THIS time. Several new species will, in all probability, be discovered (and wiped out) before this one’s over. AND I’m going be the Hunchchest of Notre Dame at this rate.

Sod it. I need some sushi, booze and soft cheese. Immediately, if not sooner damnit!

On: Escalators and Closets, in or out?

I’ve decided that infertility can be rather naff’ly described in vaguely architectural terms. Which I will come to. In due course….

Maybe I have an ‘open and honest’ sort of face, since I’ve fielded a rather large amount of distressingly personal reproductive questions from strangers of late. Or, maybe I look perimenopausal with all the meds I’m on. Either that, or my sex life inspires much speculation. Could be any of the above.

So… about these dreaded dinner party enquiries. I know that the centre of most people’s universe is set to rotate neatly around the middle of their heads, so they’re probably not aware they’re taking to a woman in a landmine. But either way….tread the wrong way, ask the wrong thing and BOOM! Except that the explosion is internal, and I have to hide the collateral damage while talking to the (probably quite nice, really) git that thought it was their duty to remind me that I ‘better get on with it, you know, you’re not getting any younger’. Do I need to point out further why this is probably never a good thing to say?

My standard answer until recently, was to make reference to my (rather lacklustre) career. Which I doubt anybody believes, or if they do probably gets me labelled as a hard-nosed career women more interested in fancy stuff and holidays. Which is not only unfair to career women, but I don’t have any fancy stuff or holidays. So I lose out both ways.

To come to the crux of the post, infertility is BOTH like an escalator and a closet, without invoking any sort of quantum hocus-pocus, or radical architectural activity.

The escalator represents the self-propelled, forever-ascending, getting terrifyingly-more-complex, and less-personal escalation of treatment that happens when you’re infertile. It starts with sex, and ends up completely removed from anything that by logic leads to babies. Until you succeed, or you leap off. It starts, seductively, subtlety with the odd use of OPK’s and timed horizontal folk-dancing, not so bad right? THEN you’re up for the ever-romantic IUI, having probably passed Clomiphene some time ago. The persistent then generally get the pleasure of injectibles, before heading to the Grand Poo-Bah of infertility treatment, IVF.

IVF gives me the cold horrors, not because of the process itself, but because if it doesn’t work, that’s it. Really. It’s like the speed of light was when I did high school physics many years ago, absolute and you can’t pass it. God knows what the rule is today, since I admit Physics and I haven’t talked in some time (Bitch that I am with keeping in touch).

The closet is the tell or don’t tell dilemma. Whilst it’s hard to keep schtum about something SO bloody major, it seems to make people go…’ err’ uncomfortably and walk off when I answer their (rather rude) reproductive question honestly. To be fair, I AM rather blunt about it, but THEY asked.

I appear to be OUT of the infertility closet, but I think we won’t be getting any more dinner invitations for a while.

On: woo-hoo!

FINALLY….something is happening, well my left ovary is up to something anyway if the positive OPK I got yesterday is anything to go by. About bloody time. I hope it isn’t faking it.

On: sex and infertility

Reflecting back on the name of this blog, well at least I’ve got a semi snappy title to cheer me up. If the movies with Mr Cruise are anything to go by, success is now an inevitability, complete with dynamic soundtrack.

The RE think that there is a chance of spontaneous pregnancy. I guess that means more Clomid for moi and lots of sex for my sweet boy.

Can you believe he has been medically advised to have *frequent* ejaculations to avoid ‘stasis’ contributing to his bad morph. I’d swear it was a con, but he didn’t get any time alone with the doctor to cook that one up. AND he gets to take multivitamins, which feels like hocus -pocus to be honest, but if daily shagging and zinc’ll help we’ll do it, by golly.

…….and just because I ain’t the cheerful fairy I’m going to have to mutter under my breath the next part…..THEN, literally shagged out and vitamin-ed to the gills to within an inch of our collective lives we’ll move on to bigger things. Goody.

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