Place

Okay, so I’m rather late to the healing salon party and in a way I don’t think it matters.

Knowing me, I’m probably not writing about quite the right thing, anyway, because gad knows I’ve spent the better part of seven years blogging about the wrong thing in as much detail as humanly possible. Some of the things I’ve gone and written about speculums are dead dodgy, for a start, and there was this time I turned them into a personal art project with mixed results and so on. I’ll leave somebody else to pull my back archives for speculum art because unfortunately I never did create the tag ‘speculum rabbit’ to celebrate the occasion and to be brutally honest the sheer weight of crap I’ve written over the years makes finding the post in question a bit to terrifying at this time of night.

In other words, life has phases, even virtual ones, and for those of you who found my coffee-fuelled ramblings at the frazzled Mama stage, this is my story.

I am a real person.

For those of you who prefer it straight,  these are my kids and this is my life. I have public blogs for both and am happy to share. I try not to get comment linkback here for obvious fanny-related posts aplenty along the IVF brick road way, but a friend acquired here is a friend. Period.

So, once upon a time I wrote about infertility. About dead babies. About my period. About cycle after cycle. About IVF. About miscarriages. About loss.

At the end of the day what I write about is my life so over the years what I write about has changed. My life has changed. I write about my ridiculously funny, wonderful, terrifying, rewarding, life-hogging job, my children, the family I finally have. I even write about my blasted home renovations or at least I plan to when I can get around it because goodness knows if I haven’t already bored the socks off of the last reader, then writing about paint colours should do the job for me.

I write about my life and that’s all I can do. I’m not good at other stuff. I like to write about my feelings, my day, the things I probably shouldn’t put on social media. I’ve done it for seven years and I guess this blog is seven years of me, in a slightly neurotic nutshell.

I don’t have the time I used to. I  adore working in obgyn, but it’s pretty much a lifestyle option. Accordingly, I have to pony up and pass some real ass big girly part doctor exams one of these days.  I also have three children.

Something has to give. I don’t write as often as the post come into my head. I simply can’t anymore.

But I write, anyway. Half the time i should really be doing something else, like folding the neverending pile of washing, but instead I write to you all.

Because I want to and it’s as simple as that.

I write about my infertility, about my losses, about my children, about my work and about ME. I can’t change it. I can’t sex it up any.  My place may not be squarely in the infertility blogosphere any more, but I am here nonetheless. I can’t say I fancy chasing fresh readers in Mamablogland because what I write isn’t conditional on how many people read. I just write. From both sides of the stirrups.

I plan to keep writing. I aim to be funny as piss if I can do so, because personally that’s about  the best coping strategy I have and goodness knows I’m going to be stressed enough over the next half a dozen years to need a little light relief. A vent. I don’t think there’ll be any new stuff about IVF. I could be wrong, but for so very many reasons I think that part of my life is done. But if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be on the other side of the stirrups, then I guess I’m your lass. The one with the bad reproductive past history.

I can’t control my audience, who and how many. It doesn’t matter.

I write because I want to do so and I thank you all, whatever brings you here and however many of you there may or may not be.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Bhaji is being a right bugger and has just escaped from her baby straightjacket for the third time in an hour and is duly flailing looking for the boobie. Yes, I am cussing myself for that particular sleep association right now.

g

By Inches.

Sometimes it’s kind of hard to know how to break the silence.

After all, the drama of the whole ‘will I ever have a happy ending?’ is about two years and counting gone.

By all standards of infertility blogs, I did get my happy ever after. I do have two rudely healthy children. I’m even kind of attached the the little buggers although I do wish Naan would cease widdling on my carpets with such unnerving accuracy and that Saag would not ringlead BOTH of the silly creatures into what has become a Traditional Evening (fortunately temperate climate) Pre-Bath Nudey Streak right down the side of the house  to show the entire street what twin girls are REALLY made of.

Hint, it sure as hell isn’t sugar and spice. Also, I probably shouldn’t have taught Naan to slap her own arse.

Yes, they do wave at passing traffic completely starkers and by jeebers I hope nobody starts asking for evening tickets to the show because short of superglue I don’t think I can stop the immodesty parade.

But, here’s the thing.

I can make jokes about the nudity of two two year olds but I’m still kind of dying a slow death here and for the life of me don’t know how to break the dull.

I mean it’s a hamster wheel of infertility and I can’t say that I’ve figured out how the heck to get off. There’s only so many ways to describe what it feels like to give yourself injections in the gut at work. Or relate the tale of retrieval. Or announce yet another not-pregnant moment (and I have many of not-pregnant moments up my sleeve). Change the egg count, the number of embryos and rinse, lather and repeat for, um, however many years it is I’ve been writing.

Anyway, despite the fact that I am generally less sexy than a plate of cold sick when it comes to my writings these days, I thank you.

I’ve never been one of the cool kids. I don’t get fifty bazillion comments to every word I write but I do have the honour of knowing many of YOU (or at least about your ovaries extremely well), and without you, well, I wouldn’t be me.

Still, if I could stop with the dying by inches of IVF, that would be nice. I’ve had more holes poked in my privates than a colander and, well, if I never feel a 6am freezing a KY coated condo.m of ultrasound again, I can’t say I’d be all that sad.

It’s amazing what can make you think if ice-cream headaches sometimes.

I’m kind of looking forward to reproductive retirement.

G

PS. Yeah, I also suck at corny but I have a lot of virtual hand holding to acknowledge. Ok, and ass into gear shoving, too.

PSS. Also, am thinking of becoming less anonymous here because, really, you all know who I am and well, who cares if somebody I work with finds out I did IVF? On that note am happy to share babies blog and flickr album as an interim step. Am very proud of the buggers. Also, adore my camera.

Things I hadn’t considered

Oh denizens of the Internet,

I did not mean to leave you hanging so (well those of you who remembered that teeny-tiny RE appt I have been hiding in my back pocket), really I did not.

It was just that I have been kind of busy stitching knife wounds in tricky crevices of rather inconveniently uncooperative six year olds and dealing with the  simply never-ending procession of privately insured elderly-with-new-confusion-who-need-fibbing-enthusiastic-selling-to-private-physician types in the days since my appointment. I haven’t really had time to write.

Also, could all the daft sods with mild headaches PLEASE at least try a panadol before coming to the emergency department? I’m kind of sick of keeping a polite expression when I find the answer to ‘and so what have you tried for this terrible headache?’ is ‘Oh NOTHING, Doctor, I didn’t think it was that bad’.

Go Home, then.

Please tell me that you wouldn’t all do that to me, clever readers?

I am relying on you all to reassure me that there is some common sense left in the world because my cynic-lenses are set to Jaundice at the moment….and no, I’m not talking about the bemused bright yellow 80 year old who probably had cancer when I say that, either.

I’m taking about the people who need a big flashing sign that says ‘Fishing for sick certificate’ so I can stop wasting both of our times.

If you will permit a small on-topic digression, after much priming with the sounds ‘B’, ‘BUHHHH’, ‘BAYYYYHHHHH’ and so on, Saag and Naan now chant ‘BAYYYYYHHHBEEE’ at LS whenever they see him. I think he is getting the shape of his inevitable future.

I guess it would carry rather more weight if they did not also shout ‘NAKKKKKKEEEEDDD!’ with such abandon and insist on widdling all over my bloody bed in a NO PJ’S NO NAPPY NO MAMA! post-shower nudey run fiesta, but almost-two year olds are not really noted for trustworthy verbal output.

I had to dress them backwards and that will work right up until they figure out how to unzip each other. Tomorrow.

Regardless, The Appointment.

My RE insisted on referring to ‘premature menopause’ and ‘DOR’ rather more than I would have liked. She also folded on a day 5 transfer of whatever makes it from the half a dozen frosties I have with a view to earlier rather than later stim cycle, even before I leave half a gallon of repeat FSH-it’s-been-a-while bloods with the phlebotomist. That didn’t freak me out a ALL, I promise you, and the only thing less freaky was finding that my RE and I can now quite comfortably share breastfeeding war stories and the like.

I could have compared suckage at boob suckage notes for HOURS.

Also, it is not every day you can tell your children they are going to meet their maker and MEAN it without the slightest sense of irony.

Anyway, I am now going to spend about the next six weeks jumping through newly created legal hoops to prove I have not become and axe murderer since I created those aforementioned embryos and then I aim to transfer asap. In case my own ovaries are heading into snooze mode because I really hadn’t thought of that possibility.

In the meantime I shall keep the new patient appointment on behalf of my certain nearanddear and insist she see somebody at my clinic for a second opinion. I remain resolute on that point and I know that acting in the best interest of somebody you care about does not always mean that they will be happy with you NOW.

Also, I am a brittle responder and I would rather the FSH doser didn’t have me explode. My clinic know about my gonads, their habits, and the fact that for ME a LH of 25 is kind of boring.

I still have to tell my sib all of that, though.

G

It’s really quite simple, world.

To the lovely five people who persist in reading this blog in spite of ongoing paucity about, you know, actual infertility related stuff mostly on accounts that it is impossible to get pregnant if one is doing a hell-week run of six night shifts in a row anyway, THANK YOU.

Actually, coming back to my sentence above, I have not been this bone-weary since, ooh, about August 2009 when I had newborn twins. At least THAT time, all I had to do was feed, clean spew, change and cry about my lot in life. In retrospect that’s not so bad. NOW I’m expected to make sense to the notoriously pissy cardiology registrar about my patient who has just had a heart attack at 4am.

It’s always 4 bloody am, goodness knows why.

Also, while I am mentally rambling, I guess it isn’t technically impossible to get in a family way while working nightshift, but heck, it’d have to be a damn sight quieter at work than it has been or alternatively a microsecond-long shag. We had two big strokes and three heart attacks come in overnight, keeping the Clever Senior People very busy indeed while I dealt with all the banged knees and funny tummy pains.

Oh, and of course the chap I saw who thought he’d strained his shoulder turned out to have had a coronary too. Perhaps he thought he was missing out on all the excitement.

Anyway, the cardiology registrar yelled at me, I spent the time from 6 to 6.30 am getting in my daily exercise by jumping up and down on the chest of a very purple and dead-looking chap who was clearly not going to get any better, and the senior person on in the morning was a bit of a prick as well, to be completely honest.

As for the twins, I still want another ONE baby, please, but as outlined above I’m not quite sure when I’ll find the time for a date with an embryo-laden transfer catheter.

It’s quite the conundrum because Saag and Naan are positively Thurderbird Puppett dancing delights these days (they haven’t figured out that you should lift your feet when boogy-ing on down and look like they’re string operated) and I really would like another one before I’m menopausal.

Regardless, tonight is my sixth and final night and in a few days I will write something entirely more sensible for you all.

Goodnight!

Just fat.

Alternatively entitled ‘How LS came THIS close to having to brush his teeth per-rectum for the rest of his natural’.

I was planning to crack out a much-overdue paragraph of snark (or twenty) about the fact that Goo.gle still in the face of all the non-kinky evidence believes me to be the font of all knowledge when it comes to certain hijinks involving certain orifices. For the sake of politeness, I shall hereby term them reverse traffic on the usually one-way Yellow-Pee Road and Hershey Highway.

Urgh.

Perhaps next time. I hope you can wait, dear reader, because Goo.gle has been bumped by a particularly tactless Act Of Man.

To set the scene, last night LS and I were lying in bed, but don’t worry, it’s not that kind of tale:

LS: ‘Can I ask you a question?’

Geohde: ‘I guess you just did, so yes?’

LS: ‘Smartarse. No another question, but it might sound strange.’

Geohde: ‘Yeeeesssss?’

LS: I hope he was thinking that the following was tantamount to leaving a suicide note, tidying up the will and topping oneself  ‘Um, well. Could you be pregnant?’

Geohde: in the Special Female Thin Ice Skating Voice ‘Why do you ask, my love?’

LS: Risking the continued attachment of his left arm to his shoulder by patting a certain abdomen lovingly ’It’s just that your belly seems to be sticking out, and I wondered….’

Geohde: Heavy sigh. Nice. ‘Okay. Let’s settle this easily. I want you to concentrate for me. Leaving aside the matter that shagging has a spectacularly poor personal track record when it comes to my uterus acquiring tenants, can you recall when we last actually had sex?’

LS: ‘……..’

Geohde:‘Ker-ching! Thank you.I’m probably just fat, darling. Although, more correctly I just have this minor issue with a bleeping great saggy gap in the middle of my abdomen from bearing your children. Sweet dreams.’

In other words, it may be CD100 around here, and if this were a game of cricket I’d be positively thrilled to reach a century, but I am comprehensively not knocked up. Trust me, I’ve wasted five bucks and checked just in case the latest rage in conception is the immaculate kind.

Regardless, I think the sex drought around these parts might last just a  little bit longer after that one. Along with the Washing Male Underwear drought.

BUVM

BUVM?

Or without the abbreviations…. 

Blog You Very Much….

After lovely Tracy so very kindly said so many nice things about this site in her BUVM entry, explaining just how she got her blogging start, I did several things, namely:

1. Blushed beet red, including my ears.
2. Wondered if I could work her entry into my resume somehow.
3. Read it again, and again, and again, because I’m probably horribly vain and susceptible to good press.
4. Considered printing it out and plastering fifty copies around my apartment so I could surround myself in the glow.
5. Shrunk my head back down to normal size and began to focus on thanking the rather clever blogger who motivated me to bitch about fertility treatment so loudly and freely.

The ironic thing is that the blogger who inspired my efforts is so, well, damn funny and witty and clever and plain twisted (in a complimentary way, of course) and honest and blunt that I think we all know who she is, without much of an introduction. Any early guesses?

She’s also one of the original infertility bloggers out there, and the first that I found. I’ve been greedily reading her site for years as she went through the rollercoaster that is:

• IVF,
• Poor response to IVF,
• An ectopic pregnancy and a miscarriage slotted into a few of those cycles, just to really string her along that this Might Work,
• The Big Donor Egg Talk,
• More one-last-go-IVF-with-her-own-eggs (cycle #4),
• Holy-Crap-Viable-Pregnancy, 
• Scary-Placenta-Praevia-then-HELLP-and-Premature-Delivery of her son,
• More sucky cycles in an attempt for #2,
• A donor egg cycle,
• And now her journey into being alittlepregnant again.

Surely you’ve got it by now?

Surely?

Julie, you wouldn’t have the faintest idea who the hell I am (and I doubt you’ll ever even see this post) but believe me when I say a massive thank you for showing that it is possible to go through hell and back, snarky sarcasm intact, and even actually have a real, live honest-to-goodness baby along the way.

I mean, crap, I’ve laughed, cried and done just about everything else I can think of in response to your articulate (and damn funny) posts. So, lost for further words oh-great-one, I say the following:

So, how do I feel?

Given that I resolutely refuse to do anything crazy like speak to my clinic counsellors to discuss the obvious, i.e. just how shite multiple failures in the assisted conception field actually make me feel, I need another outlet.

You, dear patient reader, draw the short straw.

My RE did suggest a break cycle during our post-what-a-mess-that-was discussion over the last (literally bloody) failure. It wouldn’t have been an unreasonable choice.

You see, I’ve literally never had a break cycle in over 2 years now. Every single time I menstruate, a plan gets generated as to how to maximise the odds of the holy-grail-baby next time.

• It started out with DIY cycles using ovulation predictor kits. A little simple operant conditioning quickly had us shagging like rabbits in a kind of Pavlovian sexual response to the appropriate signal. Forget salivation to a damn bell, I could drop trou to a ‘legs eleven’ signal from an inanimate stick like no-body’s business.
• Then given the quick-SHAG-now sticks didn’t exactly reward me with two lines all that often, we hit the next logical step, i.e. ‘Hmm, I’m not exactly too skilled at this egg releasing jag, just maybe we should involve a third party of a Reproductive Endocrinologist disposition in our attempts to get pregnant?’,
• Then the bog-standard first step therapeutic response for infertility, my dear friend Clomid, came along.
• Then there was all that unfortunate business with the discovery of the minor inconvenience that is nasty Male Factor.
• Then, of course, was the how-could-I-ever-forget PBWCLEW saga?
• Then an ’How’s the PCOS?’ post baby cycle or two,
• Closely followed by more pleading for Clomid,
• Then more bombed Clomid, in new and talented ways,
• …..and now IVF (bombed twice and I’m keeping count).

Just writing that makes me tired. But.

Unfortunately for the concept of a ‘break’ cycle, I’ve checked in with my amygdala, limbic system and all those other weird sub-cortical bits from which irrational human emotion emerge. They tell me in no uncertain terms that that strategy is a total no go. I think my naughty cortex keeps feeding them more-or-less accurate information that break cycles don’t lead to pregnancy and, well, my sub-cortex is still kinda keen on ’gestate at all costs’ right now. Heck, so is my cortex. The only bit of me that isn’t appears to be my uterus.

My net position? Continuing treatment doesn’t mean that I feel particularly optimistic or cheery, it just means that I’d feel worse if I didn’t keep going.

So, let me share, oh-so-wonderful Support Group for my Reproductively Challenged Status. With pictures:

1. Below (borrowed unashamedly with the aid of Google Image search, because it makes the point so well) is exactly how it felt to be me bleating to you as things slowly unravelled with the Cycle That Shall Not Be Referred To Again.

 

I’m the one with the smashy bits in the middle.

2. With the aid of a (hopefully legal drinking age, or at least with a good fake ID) teddy bear, I simulate below just how I coped after the inevitable BFN.

 

I was a little less good at the sitting upright business than the bear in (not shown) ‘after’ shot. With a much, much furrier mouth.

3. My emotions approaching the upcoming why-the-hell-not-try-ovulation-induction FET cycle, I present to you below.

 *

Notice the increase in desperation quotient.

*Credit goes to Julie from Alittlepregnantfor the blinkie.

I think I’ll have to learn how to make ‘em because there’s just not enough suitably bitter blinkies out there for a woman like myself.

Those that cheerily flash ‘TWW’, or even worse ‘Baby Dust’ just don’t cut it. I’d rather advertise my ‘IVF Dunce’ or ‘I make Dead Babies’ status.

4. Finally, I shall use my master algorithm to sun up my current location.

Above, the original unblemished version, and below, the red line of my progress two cycles in.

Hopefully the act of drawing a blue line to ‘baby’ will help since I don’t think I’ve got room for many more red spirals through ‘N’ and ‘fuck’, all things considered.

All in all, I think I’m doing alright.

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.

They meant it.

Let me divulge the rather attractive list of side effects that my luteal-propping progesterone has the power to inflict. Fresh from the ‘mouth’ of the information leaflet:

Very common

• Cramps, abdominal pain, perineal pain
• Headache
• Breast pain
• Constipation
• Feelings of severe sadness and unworthiness, feeling emotional, sleepiness.

Common

• Bloating.
• Dizziness.
• Vaginal discharge.
• Diarrhoea, vomiting.
• Painful sex.

I immediately dismissed many of these items as either not especially connected with the known pharmacology of progesterone at the dose provided, or just plain weird. Who the hell gets diarrhoea AND constipation?

In an interesting aside, the most common reported side effects of PLACEBO are headache, dizziness, nausea, and constipation or diarrhoea. Let’s hear it for placebo effect and placebo SIDE-effect.

But the mood item, despite my scoffing? Surprisingly accurate. Just ask my long suffering spouse. In fact, it should be entered more accurately as ’raving madwoman’.

Let me explain.

I’ll start with the dreams. The nightmares I’ve been having are intense enough to make me get out of bed three hours early. I just can’t stand the ritual mental self-flagellation all night. I’m exhausted and yet I cannot rest.

More superficially, yesterday I couldn’t for the life of me find a single, solitary, way to be happy with my appearance before leaving the house. I didn’t leave because I couldn’t bear people to see me. For absolutely no objective reason. Realistically, other than some ovarian-enlargement-and-progesterone-bowel-dilatation induced gut bloating, nothing has changed in the way I look.  I will never be a supermodel, but I’m not completely offensive to the visual system.

This sudden degree of histrionic over-reaction is most odd on my part. My hair usually looks like I’ve gone through a hedge backwards, so why this would cause me such intense psychological distress now, I cannot fathom.

It gets better.

I, totally randomly, cried in the car on the way to work this morning. If you asked me why, well, to my eternal confusion I have absolutely no idea.

Even the very reasonable point that we have plenty of embryos for FET’s before another full cycle gives me no mental relief. I have had visions of all 11 embryos biting uterine dust over the next six months and my RE cheerfully telling me that I would have be better flushing them down the loo since it would so clearly be a better gestator than I.

Yet oddly, I’m not truly all that worried about this cycle. It either works, or it doesn’t. Simple.

In summary, I am a totally insufferable, self-absorbed, pathetic mess and I know it.

Can’t I take a pill, for *once*?

As an aside, the fevers are settling and I sound like Elmer Fudd after a rough night on the tiles. I’m going to use my ‘common’ sense and diagnose the ‘common’ cold.  

As those who have had the pleasurable experience that is the modern day IVF cycle would be aware, there is more to it than sharp things, scans, eggs, embryos and transfer.

Although the transfer is the penultimate event of significance (the ultimate being the dreaded pregnancy test), there is continued ‘homework’ in the form of luteal support post transfer because of the one-in-four-to-one-in-two-and-a-bit-depending-on-age-and-number-and-grade-of-embryos-transferred chance of pregnancy. Yeah, I keep forgetting about the possibility too, if you can count microseconds of distraction as ‘forgetting’.

My clinic are nice enough to say that I may cease, desist and get heavily drunk (my interpretation) should rivers of menstruation occur before the formal pregnancy test. But I digress.

My nominated form of luteal support?

Vaginal progesterone gel, a.k.a progesterone up the clacker (for the less refined).

Despite the fact that my husband normally has a vivid interest in putting at least one object in my whatsit as often as possible, he seems to have come over all shy about the gel, so I do it. He leaves the room, leaving me to my thoughts.

If this pregnancy thing fails to work out, I really will be screwing myself.

If it works out, I could be forgiven for thinking that the world revolves around my vagina.

Nice thoughts, those.

And a partridge in a pear tree…

On the first day of transfer, my RE said to me…..

Actually I don’t think I can make the numbers fit the tune, so you’ll just have to hear it straight.

I believe that I have already shared the details of my 17 egg bounty? I could just leave things at a bald statement of fact that my uterus is (hopefully) now the proud possessor of a single day 2 grade one embryo and end this post, but I won’t.

Here is my much belated fertilization report. Apparently my RE clean forgot that she promised to tell me and also didn’t realise that I’d be freaking the hell out in an information vacuum. All is forgiven in the warm glow of the following data:

• 17 Eggs retrieved.
• 2 still immature enough to talk only monosyllabic grunts, listen to entirely the wrong kind of music, stay up late, paint their rooms black and leave me to take care of their washing. I can be forgiven for imagining the slouching, greasy haired protests as they were unceremoniously binned.
• 15 good citizens who were rewarded with ICSI.
• 12 of these deigned to bump pro-nuclei, although one didn’t get the message that diploid is in this season when it comes to making viable babies.
• 11 total viable embryos. 
• 3 grade one (teacher’s pets),
• 6 grade two (probably passing notes in class)
• 2 grade three (apparently only just not having tried hard enough to score grade 2 status).

All were suitable for freezing, bar the haploid sucker of course.

Given quoted pregnancy odds of 40% with a single grade one fresh transfer and a 50% risk of twins with two, we’ve transferred one. It seemed sensible not to get greedy with my history of effed up babies. Besides the odds in the average natural conception is only 20-25% per cycle. The decision was rendered easier by the information that I should also have enough frosties to go for several double FET’s.

Yours,

The woman basking in the warm glow of one in-utero and 10 in the fridge.

P.S. Call me stupid, but I spent my very gentle walk home praying the little sucker didn’t fall right back out.

I’m thinking lots of ‘stick, you bastard’ thoughts, but we both know that I’m all maternal and caring like that.

P.P.S. Funniest moment of the transfer? When my RE kept asking me to bring my exposed, and hopefully not too fragrant, beaver even closer to her nose on the gynaecology couch. Talk about awkward.

In case you were wondering.

This rather scintillating image is a reasonably accurate representation of what I shall be up to tomorrow.

Obviously in using the term ‘accurate’ I mean apart from the small detail that the woman depicted above appears to have had one leg amputated at the hip and been bloodlessly sliced in two mid-pelvis.

 My only real fear is that  my hoo-ha is going to be rather crowded from all the equipment shoved up there.

Well that and the minor business of whether I’ll have any viable eggs, let’s be honest here. 

I’m not going to even sweat the small stuff, i.e. a theatre full of assorted doctors, nurses, medical students, kitchen staff and curious passers-by all in my business end, intently staring up at what I didn’t have for breakfast (damn you, ‘fast from midnight’).

The only thing lacking in the above diagram is my nemesis, the VNOD*, displayed to full effect. I think they prefer not to freak patients out with truly accurate explanatory diagrams.

Never fear, I have adapted a helpful cartoon:

Yes, you will need to use your imaginations to convert the butt-bearing gentleman to a beaver-flashing woman, but I think the dimensions of the needle are more or less accurate.

The view that I prefer to concentrate on is to the immediate right. I can only hope that my ovaries have as many hopeful looking little black circles. Actual eggs would be even better.

Did I mention that already? Oh.

In concluding my IVF focussed self-distracting abuse of Google-Image search, if the surgeon says this, I’m leaving.

I’ll take my chances with my husband’s long-suffering-erection-on-demand penis, wonky sperm be damned.

  

See you on the flip side.

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I think that it’s time….

This post is in honour of our impending ‘graduation’ away from the whole sex=babies connection (how terribly old fashioned) towards a more realistic alternative for the persistently infertile. By ‘realistic’ I mean the following:

• Mastercard-workout + FSH + HCG + My-vagina-and-pubic-hair-grooming-habits-become-a-matter-of-public-record + Let’s-not-forget-the-VNOD* + Helmetless-sperm-so-why-not-really-thump-those-suckers-in-with-ICSI? + Progesterone + A-big-helping-of-f*ck-this-better-work = babie(s)

(As an aside what’s with the whole ‘Priceless’ jag? I feel the pain of all that ‘Priceless’ spending every time I pay the damn bill on that card.)

Up until this point, my husband and I have, rather whimsically, been referring to our more passionate moments as RRM’s, i.e. Rugrat Manufacturing sessions. I am aware that referring to ‘the deed’ in this fashion is completely puke inspiring, but I bet that we’re not the only ones out there to have a corny TLA** for baby-making shags.

In our defence, we coined the term somewhat naively in those heady pre- ‘You mean I have to pay for really crap SA’s?’ days. Oh, the memories. To think that I once drove back from interstate to shag because I had an ovulation predictor turn positive. How droll in retrospect.

I digress somewhat, but clearly this term will no longer do.

I need to come up with a new name for the old horizontal-folk-dance.

After giving much thought to the matter, I’ve come up with the following euphemisms for our semi-optimistic ‘What-the-hell?’ shags.

1. BCB: Base-covering Bonk.
2. JICS: Just-in-case Shag.
3. STHHR: Stranger-things-have-happened Root.
4. PR: Precautionary Root***.
5. MBB: Maybe-baby Bonk.
6. YMYDTFF?: You Mean You Do This For FUN?

I’m open to further suggestions since my best efforts thus far all lack a little je ne sais quoi.

*Vaginal Needle of Doom. Yes, it *does* go up there, it *is*sharp, and yes it *has* to happen. Those lazy eggs of mine aren’t going to conveniently leap into a petri dish of their own accord when mature. I think it’s for the best that I don’t dwell on it too much. Thanks again Cece for the handy abbreviation.

**TLA = three letter abbreviation. Yes, an abbreviation to describe the act of abbreviating. I *am* a nerd.

***Although, upon reflection, I do not think that our ‘activities’ should be bequeathed the same abbreviation used to describe the medical act of shoving a well-gloved finger up a defenceless bottom. We prefer to use the *vagina* and he certainly isn’t gloved. That would defeat the intention of the exercise, after all.

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).

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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…..

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It’s about that time

It’s about that time in the ‘cycle’.

You know, the point where I (despite all known facts to the contrary) start to wonder if I could indeed be knocked up.

This persistent hope, in the face of rather a lot of evidence is, depending on your view, either:

1. One of the more endearing aspects of the human condition, or
2. The only thing stopping me from slitting my wrists.

I personally am concluding that it is inappropriate hope that keeps many of us as relatively functional taxpayers, leaving our whole retirement free to be bitter and twisted. Everybody needs a hobby. Even the seniors.

Anyway.

I’ve been pummelling my chest to see if it’s the least bit sore, and, sadly, the answer is no. Not unless I push really hard.

Sigh.

The end is nigh….

It’s happened.

I picked up the phone and dialled my RE this morning, without having to check the number.

There should be a caveat to the operating definition of infertile about this.

The fat lady is warming up….

I know that it isn’t over until the fat lady sings, but my temperature has taken an ominous dive this morning. Fat lady, your cue….

Sigh.

I had been hiding, deep down, dreams of being able to tell people that I was pregnant. Again. Already. In my fantasy world, it was going to be the most wonderful cure all for PBWCLEW. Of course it was going to go perfectly smoothly for 40 weeks, followed by the easiest delivery and most lovable baby that ever did scream all night.

I knew that Hope* was seductive, but come on. As the saying goes, it takes two to tango, so the fault is at least partially mine for the optimistic indiscretion I made.

God I’m daft. And not pregnant. AND unlikely to be any time soon.

Now I’d just like to get the hemorrhaging over with so I can delude myself for another six to eight weeks that it could be “the” cycle.

* I’d like to clarify that by “Hope” I mean the emotion, and most emphatically NOT the big-lipped, amazingly-pneumatically-racked soapie character. She freaks me right out.

On: I’m a BAAAAAD infertile

Really, I think I am.

Most women attempting a pregnancy start out (like good little incubators) real careful about alcohol, cheese, sushi, exercise levels etc etc.

I never really did, and as cycle after cycle (not synonymous with ‘month’ in my case) drifts past (with no result) I am getting, quite frankly, disturbingly slack. This is odd really, since I was never a bad child, or a rebellious teen, and am otherwise quite responsible and of the obsessively rule following type. Clearly I’ve decidied to save all that bottled up ‘don’t wanna clean my room, AND I’m staying out late and you can’t stop me’ till now, a decade late.

Feel free to judge in advance of me fessing up to bad behaviour, it’ll probably save us both time….

Yesterday I had, not one, but two pints of beer. And they were nice.

Oh, don’t look so shocked…..

It was a lovely sunny day, I was with friends, we were at the pub and I didn’t even think about the fact that I am currently 17 days post ovulation until that evening.

I strongly suspect no harm done, since there’s probably nothing in utero. I will however attempt to pinky-promise not to do it again. At least until next time.

You will be pleased to note (ha!) I punished myself with a long, hard, gut-wrenching run today. Yeeees, I know that is meant to be bad too, I have tapped myself on the wrist and will now attempt to return to the bland lifestyle box of the woman attempting gestation. Do you think I could have some sushi for dinner??

Excuse me while I go paint my room black and stay up past midnight…..

On:my father is an ass. Confirmation.

I title this entry ‘an ode to my not-so-tactful father OR what not to say to an infertile woman ‘

The dear man just got all top four on my list in our 5 minute ago phone conversation. Tact clearly runs in the family. Not only did he insert his foot, but followed it with the contents of the room.

1. what? why have children anyway?

I dunno, I was bored with my life and thought the welfare cheques were what I was missing?

Because I love my husband *damnit* and he will be an excellent f*cking father. And I hope to hell I’ll not be too bad at the parenthood thing myself.

2. why would you want to go do a thing like that (IVF)

erm…because we’re infertile. And we’d like to have children. Not in a ‘in passing, if it happens’ kinda way either.

3. What about your degree?

I will be finished before an IVF child, even if we got lucky FIRST f*cking time. (well, ok, NOT f*cking, but involving a pot, petri dish and incubator) And we don’t NEED two wages, so who cares if I’m late graduating?

4. Life’s much better without ‘em anyway, you can do so much more.

All I can say is ‘way to go, Dad’. It’s lucky we’re related or I wouldn’t be speaking to your insensitive ass for a loooooong time. Geez

Tech Tags: family foot+in+mouth infertility tact

On: why am I waiting for ovulation when it’s only half the problem?

Why is a cynical pessimist like me, with a spouse with (let’s be frank) less than ideal sperm in the knocking-up department still taking note of her menstrual cycle?

Frustratingly, it’s a medicated CD 15 and ovulation appears to be conspicuously absent. Excellent.

>>>whispers<<< not that I’ve EVER ovulated this early anyway, clearly I was heading into the insane territory of the cock-eyed optimist by thinking that I would.

So.  I’m petulantly (and somewhat childishly) stamping my foot in frustration that it will take me approximately 8 months to fail the bog standard stage on the infertility escalator of 6 Clomid cycles at this rate. Super.

The hot flushes (courtesy of said Clomid) aren’t adding to my agreeableness, but since I can’t TYPE what an overwhelming rush of premature menopause feels like in all it’s red-faced, sweat dripping detail, you’ll just have to try it for yourself sometime. Really, it’s fun.

On a totally separate note, a woman who I do not know from the proverbial bar of soap (but rather admire), who types (rather eloquently) on a website that goes by the name ‘a little pregnant’ (www.alittlepregnant.com), has just had a cancellation of her last ever IVF cycle. My heart goes out for her, especially since she also happens to be wickedly funny in her descriptions of the ‘infertility experience’ so to speak.

Mission Impossible???

Ok, so here I am. Still infertile. Apparently starting a weblog isn’t the surefire solution it’s cracked up to be.