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

P4? Mere piffle, my dear.

After being on the receiving end of so damn many blood draws in the last month (fortunately mostly competent) I think I almost qualify to claim status as a semi-professional pin cushion.

My darling spouse, ever un-tactful, observed that my arms had begun to take on the appearance of someone who, to put it delicately, had developed a vested interest in repeatedly accessing their own venous system for nefarious purposes. To put it rather less delicately he said that I was starting to look like a junkie what with all the bruises and half-healed needle holes.

I shall certainly not easily forget the lesson learned:

• A: Having so many tests and therefore numbers potentially available to obsess over, plus
• B: Demanding said numbers at every daily fraught wait by the phone, calculates to
• A + B = C: Rabid anxiety.

I have surprised myself by discovering that it is actually true that living in an information vacuum, whilst worrying in itself, is less worrying than hanging and hanging and hanging on result after result after result. Especially when they’re bad.

I’m beginning to get why my clinic plumps for the limited monitoring approach where possible, because it gives less opportunities to freak the hell out. I’m never a woman to miss a golden opportunity to panic.

But for the fact that my talented biology renders predictor kits unreliable I could have just peed on a stick daily, waiting for two lines and happily stuck to familiar territory obsessing over the relative darkness. Granted, the prolonged delay to ovulation would have resulted in no small amount of angst, but it still would have been preferable to the roller-coaster ride from hell that this cycle became pre-transfer.

My, ever lovely although probably sick to the back teeth of me, RE has been thinking along the same lines.

She’s not ordering a mid-luteal P4 and she told me this in the context of a bang-on observation that to do so would add to my worry.

I’d say that she’s a mind reading genius but I suspect the twitching eyelid and wringing of hands during transfer gave it away, clued in by my insane quoting of every single test result (out of a field of lots) in chronological order complete with panicked interpretation.

As for the transfer itself, she used less lube on the speculum this time (for which the cleanliness of my underwear is eternally grateful), but she did crank it open eye-wateringly-suppressed-gasp wide.

I mean, ouch, my vag.ina is nulliparous (along with the rest of me) and it resents being stretched to such painful dimensions. How painful, you ask? You probably could have driven a small truck into my pelvis via the opening created after first having built a full sized petrol station and rest stop in there for the damn thing to refuel. As long as you had applied for the appropriate council planning and zoning permits first, of course.

Heck, to put it another way, I’m sure the yodellers amongst you would have got a ripper of an echo in there.

Needless to say I was very relieved that she ‘took the pressure off’ before the embryologist (who again felt the need to stare slightly too intensely at my business end) confirmed that catheter was clear. I just hope that things down there return to the dimensions I know, and my husband loves, is all.

So, returning to my earlier point, my arms shall be unmolested for another twelve days and I’m just going to have to go for nebulous terror over focused, goal directed panicking about my P4.

Wish me luck.

My scan result, in diagram.

 

Neither my RE nor myself trust my wonky physiology one teeny-tiny bit, so I have more bloods Sunday just in case the trigger fails. But, I do have a honest-to-goodness transfer booked for Tuesday which is a distinct improvement on the last four weeks.

I’ve lost count, but suspect I’m probably something in the neighbourhood of six or seven scans and a similar number of venepunctures this cycle, complete with bonus drawn out tension of:

No response  → no response  → no response  → by the way that’s an impressive LH you have in your pocket (or are you just happy to see me?) → no response (cancellation talk begins)  → some response  → lead-flipping-follicle → weird bloods  → you might have ovulated kind of sort of but not well enough  → Um, you REALLY might have ovulated kind of sort of but not well enough → recall for scan and 25 mm monster follicle panting away on left ovary  → Thanks be to the g-d of your choice FINALLY a trigger shot (I have to say I told you so).

Heck, my file card for this attempt is halfway down it’s second page. 

Just as an aside, you know that you’ve had too many scans when your RE asks, pre-probe insertion, which side the lead follicle is and without a beat you say ‘Left’, correctly.

Now all I can do is hope that my P4 is (please, please, please) over 5 on Sunday.

I do have a ‘cancellation’ post prepared, just in case.

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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.

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.

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.

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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.

Protected: Scan 1.4

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Protected: Scan 1.3

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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.

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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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Protected: Progeste-what?

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Eight is enough…..

Amusingly enough (If you’re short on humour), over six weeks after the baby died the lab is still labelling me “pregnant”. Ha! Little do they know.

Fortunately my beta is down to a measly eight, so I think it’s a mere small technicality of time until I’m (officially) NOT pregnant.

On the added bonus front, I would have been 20 weeks tomorrow. My bill for the maternal serum screening that I never even got the pleasure of the results for (because the ultrasound was such a show stopper) is due.

This time, I have the pleasure of only parting with $100. Small mercies.

Protected: My Re is superwoman…..

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Two sleeps

It’s only two sleeps (Ha! More like 1.2 total sleeps) until the RE appointment.

I just hope I get some good news and an Aggressive Plan.

Call me selfish, but I really want to be pregnant again. Apart from the bad stuff that happened, it was kinda cool. I liked the bump, even if none of my clothes fit.

Plus, to be honest, it was pretty fun having a blanket excuse for endless Fish’n'Chips…

Oh my…..

Um, I have a confession to make….

Houston, we *do* have ovulation.

In fact, its an un-medicated personal best, coming in under 30 days. I just about managed to ovulate before a woman with a better behaved reproductive tract would have menstruated. Shocking, I know.

Now what am I going to gripe to my RE about?

It’s hit me this morning that this means that I am officially in my 8th two week wait, and the first since PLBWCLEW died. Never mind that it’s taken 16 months to have eight, I’m young *cough*, I’ve got time. Or so well the meaning like to tell me.

Am I going to obsess over possibly being pregnant? Nah, I mean, what would the odds of THAT be?

A small celebration is in order, however, I can start treatment in two-ish weeks.

I missed that ultrasound probe…..

In the beginning there was a RE

I choose to officially start my story 12 months from the beginning (aka the point at which anyone medical will start to take you seriously that MAYBE there’s something going on in the babymaking bits, the clue being f*cking your brains out just ain’t doin’ it) . All that stuff prior is just pointless sex, and there’s plenty of stuff elsewhere on the internet describing how THAT’s done. Really. You can go see, I don’t mind.

Ahem…

I just need somewhere to sort out my thoughts.

As the title would suggest, this is an infertility blog. Ergo I, and my sweet spouse are infertile (which is somewhat of an inconvenience when you want to have babies).

We’ve been industriously shagging away at all the ‘right’ and many of the ‘wrong’ times for about a year. Initially we thought that it should be easy, right? Two organised people should be able to manage to brew a human in their recreational time, surely?

And yet…I knew I probably wasn’t ovulating, which tends to put a crimp in the whole process.

Anyway a while ago now I was formally diagnosed with PCOS, which didn’t surprise me at all. Having a period a few times a year, along with owning shares in a concealer company due to general zittiness was a bit of a clue..

Ok, so smooth sailing, now, right?

Not quite.

It turns out as we also have male factor. Lucky us. F*ckit (or not, since it makes no difference).