There is a stack of books sitting on one of the tallboys in our bedroom.
There’s Kaz Cooke’s Up The Duff and that classic, What To Expect When You’re Expecting.
They have stayed there untouched and unnoticed since the awfulness of last September.
This week I have longed to creep up, take one in my hands and tenderly wipe the fuzzy film of dust from its cover.
I have really wanted to flick through the pages once again; I yearn to have been given cause to do so.
I almost did that last night, but then I checked myself, and told myself to be patient. To wait.
We are just over half-way through our two-week wait and I am longing for so much.
Of course, longing to be pregnant this time and longing for caffeine and red wine on these cold winter nights; but also longing for some feeling in my belly, screw how early it is.
The first four days after the transfer I felt sick, and then this Monday afternoon,
I went back to normal. I have felt fine and completely normal ever since.
And I don’t like it.
I wish to be nauseous, vomity and bone-weary tired, thank you very much. Stat!
I can’t remember if I felt anything during the last two-week wait. I don’t think I did, just worry and vulnerability.
They are certainly back again, but I wish I felt more. Alright I don’t expect baby kicks per se, but something would be nice.
Plus I am also still taking progesterone, so even though I might get abdominal tiny twinges, every time I pass them off as some weird effect of that stuff.
I am due for my period in the middle of next week, and we can do a test on the Thursday. I also wonder what effect the progesterone will have on my period, if it will delay it...so I am cautious not to think about getting to excited if my period doesn’t come.
During some moments in the day, I will temporarily forget the limbo we are in, and then it will flick back into the forefront of my mind.
When that happens, a little part of me is disappointed because I wish I was back in that blissfully-ignorant state from a few seconds before.
The problem is that we know the precise minute the embryo is implanted.
The problem is that we have been counting the hours and the days since...a practice that only makes them hitch a ride with the Torture Tortoise.
No alternative but to wait.
Showing posts with label IVF. Show all posts
Showing posts with label IVF. Show all posts
Friday, June 10, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Rule of three
I could be pregnant right now, as I sit here typing these words.
But I won’t know for sure until 13 more days have passed.
We went to Brisbane yesterday for a frozen embryo transfer (FET). It happened just before 12.30pm.
They thawed three embryos.
Earlier, we happened to randomly choose locker three to secure our stuff while we changed into hospital theatre garb, and we were in hospital theatre three.
Later that night when we went out for dinner, our table number was 133 and our son is 3. He often notices it on street signs or on TV and will proclaim it is “his” number.
Just sayin’.
And you know the other completely freaky thing? The transfer that resulted in our son happened on June 2 also. The very same date. We had no idea until T looked in her phone calendar last night.
One of the embryos didn’t survive the thaw, the other two did.
One performed ok, but the clear “leading embryo” had divided into eight cells and was a Grade 4, which the scientist told us was above average.
Five minutes later when he came in with the long white syringey thing containing the embryo, he said it had divided into another cell just that morning...so it is very strong.
As for the remaining embryo, I will ring on Monday to see if it will survive another freeze, as they like to wait until about day five before making that call.
The mood was quite jovial in the theatre, with many a joke about the speculum, Noosa, car parks and idiot former patients our doctor had had.
And if you can’t laugh about a speculum, what can you laugh at?
In a few minutes it was done, and the scientist’s voice through the theatre intercom signalled the end of the procedure: “Catheter is clear”.
Well I suppose you wouldn’t want to hop down and leave without some check that the minuscule embryo had in fact been ejected from the syringe to its womby home.
My head is certainly spinning to be back in this position again, shouldering the burden of losing our baby last year.
I wish I had a camera inside me so I could monitor it and see what it’s doing. That is reality TV I would gladly watch! 24 hours. A day.
But I am excited. I noticed yesterday that I often absent-mindedly started speeding while on the highway to our appointment.
I am taking progesterone pessaries, one at night, and will most likely go straight for a blood test in a fortnight, as the progesterone can confuse the home pregnancy test kits and I really don’t want to have my hopes unfairly raised!
In the meantime, it’s no coffee, alcohol, sushi, soft cheese, barbecued chicken and all that other good stuff.
It’s suddenly remembering the whole baby phase that toddler-hood evaporates from memory...the nappies, sterilising bottles, smashed food, lack of sleep, injections, crawling and tiny humans that cannot talk to you. Holy shit!
While we wait.
God I hope this one sticks.
But I won’t know for sure until 13 more days have passed.
We went to Brisbane yesterday for a frozen embryo transfer (FET). It happened just before 12.30pm.
They thawed three embryos.
Earlier, we happened to randomly choose locker three to secure our stuff while we changed into hospital theatre garb, and we were in hospital theatre three.
Later that night when we went out for dinner, our table number was 133 and our son is 3. He often notices it on street signs or on TV and will proclaim it is “his” number.
Just sayin’.
And you know the other completely freaky thing? The transfer that resulted in our son happened on June 2 also. The very same date. We had no idea until T looked in her phone calendar last night.
One of the embryos didn’t survive the thaw, the other two did.
One performed ok, but the clear “leading embryo” had divided into eight cells and was a Grade 4, which the scientist told us was above average.
Five minutes later when he came in with the long white syringey thing containing the embryo, he said it had divided into another cell just that morning...so it is very strong.
As for the remaining embryo, I will ring on Monday to see if it will survive another freeze, as they like to wait until about day five before making that call.
The mood was quite jovial in the theatre, with many a joke about the speculum, Noosa, car parks and idiot former patients our doctor had had.
And if you can’t laugh about a speculum, what can you laugh at?
In a few minutes it was done, and the scientist’s voice through the theatre intercom signalled the end of the procedure: “Catheter is clear”.
Well I suppose you wouldn’t want to hop down and leave without some check that the minuscule embryo had in fact been ejected from the syringe to its womby home.
My head is certainly spinning to be back in this position again, shouldering the burden of losing our baby last year.
I wish I had a camera inside me so I could monitor it and see what it’s doing. That is reality TV I would gladly watch! 24 hours. A day.
But I am excited. I noticed yesterday that I often absent-mindedly started speeding while on the highway to our appointment.
I am taking progesterone pessaries, one at night, and will most likely go straight for a blood test in a fortnight, as the progesterone can confuse the home pregnancy test kits and I really don’t want to have my hopes unfairly raised!
In the meantime, it’s no coffee, alcohol, sushi, soft cheese, barbecued chicken and all that other good stuff.
It’s suddenly remembering the whole baby phase that toddler-hood evaporates from memory...the nappies, sterilising bottles, smashed food, lack of sleep, injections, crawling and tiny humans that cannot talk to you. Holy shit!
While we wait.
God I hope this one sticks.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Doctor's note
For months I have had a small white piece of paper sitting snugly in my purse.
It has been there since we met our interesting new IVF doctor Dr Hynes to discuss the what-next details.
This is what it says:
Phone Hynes secretary (Barbara) about day 5 or 6. “See JH day 11 or 12 for scan/blood”
I particularly like his use of inverted commas to signify speech, as in my speech, when talking to Barbara on the phone.
I am seriously considering actually saying those words verbatim when Barbara takes my call.
And then I will hang up.
I guess given his previous efforts, I should be glad the small note is expletive-free. His speech is certainly not.
And I have decided that I will say something about that next time. If our boy is in the room, and he most likely will be, that sort of language is unacceptable.
Yes, that note has sat all-but undisturbed in my purse for months. I rarely have cause to trouble the note-holding compartments of my purse for I am someone not to be trusted with money in denominations greater than the rattling, gold or silver kind.
I have been reduced to shekels and may as well sport a Robin Hood-style pouch affixed to my belt (or indeed pop it on the end of a long stick I could jauntily carry on my shoulder) for the purpose of holding my jangling coinage, such is the rarity of my possession of any currency in note form.
Anyway.
I had cause to take that doctor’s note out over the weekend.
This is the month...the month I was waiting for my period to signal the date of day one. The cycle when we try again.
Well, it is day three right now and we are GO for launch Houston!
So I will call Wednesday and probably see the doctor just after Easter for an embryo transfer.
Holy shitting Easter eggs, Batman.
I am scared, but ready.
I think.
I feel an almost paralysing apprehension about this, but I know I have to get through it.
I try not to think about it too much, or indeed place too much weight on this first embryo transfer.
Of course, it would be wonderful if that one took, but I need to be mindful that it won’t. And I need to be prepared for that, because the disappointment this time, after everything that happened before, could cripple me.
Most days, I am not thinking about it, and just getting on with things.
But sometimes, it fills every fold of my brain.
I resolve to be ZEN about this. That’s Zero Encroachment of the Negative.
I figure if I write it down, I might just start believing it.
Eeek.
It has been there since we met our interesting new IVF doctor Dr Hynes to discuss the what-next details.
This is what it says:
Phone Hynes secretary (Barbara) about day 5 or 6. “See JH day 11 or 12 for scan/blood”
I particularly like his use of inverted commas to signify speech, as in my speech, when talking to Barbara on the phone.
I am seriously considering actually saying those words verbatim when Barbara takes my call.
And then I will hang up.
I guess given his previous efforts, I should be glad the small note is expletive-free. His speech is certainly not.
And I have decided that I will say something about that next time. If our boy is in the room, and he most likely will be, that sort of language is unacceptable.
Yes, that note has sat all-but undisturbed in my purse for months. I rarely have cause to trouble the note-holding compartments of my purse for I am someone not to be trusted with money in denominations greater than the rattling, gold or silver kind.
I have been reduced to shekels and may as well sport a Robin Hood-style pouch affixed to my belt (or indeed pop it on the end of a long stick I could jauntily carry on my shoulder) for the purpose of holding my jangling coinage, such is the rarity of my possession of any currency in note form.
Anyway.
I had cause to take that doctor’s note out over the weekend.
This is the month...the month I was waiting for my period to signal the date of day one. The cycle when we try again.
Well, it is day three right now and we are GO for launch Houston!
So I will call Wednesday and probably see the doctor just after Easter for an embryo transfer.
Holy shitting Easter eggs, Batman.
I am scared, but ready.
I think.
I feel an almost paralysing apprehension about this, but I know I have to get through it.
I try not to think about it too much, or indeed place too much weight on this first embryo transfer.
Of course, it would be wonderful if that one took, but I need to be mindful that it won’t. And I need to be prepared for that, because the disappointment this time, after everything that happened before, could cripple me.
Most days, I am not thinking about it, and just getting on with things.
But sometimes, it fills every fold of my brain.
I resolve to be ZEN about this. That’s Zero Encroachment of the Negative.
I figure if I write it down, I might just start believing it.
Eeek.
Monday, January 24, 2011
A new year
Well, I did it.
I made the call.
I did it today.
And I am not sure if I should be blogging about it either.
Not sure if I should try to be more private, more gun shy, about it all this time around.
Should I take my very public blog and kick it old school by transforming it instead into an old-fashioned journal, like some of us had in primary school?
You know the ones, they came in hardback floral covers with a dinky little brass lock and tiny key.
You would scrawl ‘PRIVATE’ in angry red ballpoint, indelibly imprinting the hardback for all eternity, with intent as hard a tattooist’s scrunching your face into a petulant, adolescent frown.
I feel weird. Firstly it’s been more than a month since I wrote an entry on this blog (hi, atus, how are you? Been a while)...and secondly, am I mad to think I can take the same steps and expect a different result?
I blogged about getting pregnant last time. And then we lost the baby.
Should I, then, not blog about it this time? And therefore guarantee us a joyfully different result next time?
Not sure it works that way, but I think you can forgive a little fear and superstition.
Honestly, I don’t think not writing is possible. For, despite my shameful use of a double negative in the previous sentence (it was for emphasis, alright?) I do love to write. I have to write.
In fact, I think blogging is probably more important this time, as I suspect my need for some form of catharsis, venting and support may be greater than before.
Anyway, now that I’ve come to that decision after three minutes of typing, I will continue with my story.
I rang the fertility clinic today to see what our first next steps should be.
Turns out those steps will take us on a decidedly different path – and one that is unexpected.
Our doctor has upped and retired.
Thanks a lot.
I thought something was up when I rang his number – the one that persists in sitting alongside his photo on the clinic website – and the receptionist said “Dr Smith’s rooms?”
I don’t know what was more insulting: that our much-loved doc had gone, or that he had been replaced with someone with such a nondescript name. He may as well have been John Citizen. Although someone with that many credit cards would surely have no time for obstetrics.
So I have been referred to another doc in the same clinic, thankfully – they have about a gazillion there. There was some toing and froing from the receptionist while she decided who would be best.
First there was the lady doc in Toowong, but that wouldn’t work as we were not in Brisbane, and then another guy with an Aussie comedian’s surname was mentioned.
I casually asked if he was ok with helping same sex couples and was greeted with a second’s silence, a “hmmm” and then a “Actually, yes, it might be better if we sent you to John Hynes”.
“Heinz as in baked beans,” I asked.
“No, H. Y. N. E. S. Here is his number.”
And with that, an extremely emotional connection and four-year bond with a doctor who was so important in our lives came to an abrupt end.
I worried for a moment that a new specialist was being chosen for me, all within a matter of seconds, and that it all seemed so last minute.
It seemed our doc had done a very swift retirement runner, without establishing much of a handover for his existing patients.
These might be clinical, administrative and very business-y type decisions for people in that building to make, but I felt I needed a bit more...care.
Anyway, I rang Dr not-baked-beans and we have made an appointment. I won’t say when just yet.
I asked his receptionist if they were ok seeing same sex couples. “Oh yes, we have a practice full of them.”
Huh, what are we? Termites?
Haha.
Watch this space.
I made the call.
I did it today.
And I am not sure if I should be blogging about it either.
Not sure if I should try to be more private, more gun shy, about it all this time around.
Should I take my very public blog and kick it old school by transforming it instead into an old-fashioned journal, like some of us had in primary school?
You know the ones, they came in hardback floral covers with a dinky little brass lock and tiny key.
You would scrawl ‘PRIVATE’ in angry red ballpoint, indelibly imprinting the hardback for all eternity, with intent as hard a tattooist’s scrunching your face into a petulant, adolescent frown.
I feel weird. Firstly it’s been more than a month since I wrote an entry on this blog (hi, atus, how are you? Been a while)...and secondly, am I mad to think I can take the same steps and expect a different result?
I blogged about getting pregnant last time. And then we lost the baby.
Should I, then, not blog about it this time? And therefore guarantee us a joyfully different result next time?
Not sure it works that way, but I think you can forgive a little fear and superstition.
Honestly, I don’t think not writing is possible. For, despite my shameful use of a double negative in the previous sentence (it was for emphasis, alright?) I do love to write. I have to write.
In fact, I think blogging is probably more important this time, as I suspect my need for some form of catharsis, venting and support may be greater than before.
Anyway, now that I’ve come to that decision after three minutes of typing, I will continue with my story.
I rang the fertility clinic today to see what our first next steps should be.
Turns out those steps will take us on a decidedly different path – and one that is unexpected.
Our doctor has upped and retired.
Thanks a lot.
I thought something was up when I rang his number – the one that persists in sitting alongside his photo on the clinic website – and the receptionist said “Dr Smith’s rooms?”
I don’t know what was more insulting: that our much-loved doc had gone, or that he had been replaced with someone with such a nondescript name. He may as well have been John Citizen. Although someone with that many credit cards would surely have no time for obstetrics.
So I have been referred to another doc in the same clinic, thankfully – they have about a gazillion there. There was some toing and froing from the receptionist while she decided who would be best.
First there was the lady doc in Toowong, but that wouldn’t work as we were not in Brisbane, and then another guy with an Aussie comedian’s surname was mentioned.
I casually asked if he was ok with helping same sex couples and was greeted with a second’s silence, a “hmmm” and then a “Actually, yes, it might be better if we sent you to John Hynes”.
“Heinz as in baked beans,” I asked.
“No, H. Y. N. E. S. Here is his number.”
And with that, an extremely emotional connection and four-year bond with a doctor who was so important in our lives came to an abrupt end.
I worried for a moment that a new specialist was being chosen for me, all within a matter of seconds, and that it all seemed so last minute.
It seemed our doc had done a very swift retirement runner, without establishing much of a handover for his existing patients.
These might be clinical, administrative and very business-y type decisions for people in that building to make, but I felt I needed a bit more...care.
Anyway, I rang Dr not-baked-beans and we have made an appointment. I won’t say when just yet.
I asked his receptionist if they were ok seeing same sex couples. “Oh yes, we have a practice full of them.”
Huh, what are we? Termites?
Haha.
Watch this space.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
A test in patience
In three more days we will have the amnio. We have only been counting down for 23 long, excruciating days already...so what's another three?
In fact, I sometimes completely forget all about it. Yeah right.
The week away in the Whitsundays was an excellent distraction. But it only soaked up five days of the anxiety that had spilled on the floor, flooding our hearts...we came home, and I felt like we ran out of paper towel some days. (We really did run out of paper towel last week, it was a mini domestic crisis. Weird.)
Actually, it's been the nights, they have been the worst. See, all of a sudden, my bladder is not the vessel of almighty impenetrableness that it used to be. I have trained it up well over many years sitting in offices swigging from a two-litre bottle of water; trained it to fill, and to the brim, before I go to the loo.
Now, half a sip of liquid and I am busting.
So, the bladder kicks my conscience into life at 2 or 3am, and then the worry brings it to its knees.
I imagine receiving both phone calls from the doctor once the results are in: the good phone call and the bad one. It's purely self-preservation, as I have to role-play it in my mind as some form of perverse preparation.
During the day, I succeed better at putting it out of my mind. There are phone calls, work, emails, life stuff, Jay stuff and home stuff to fill every space in my conscious mind.
At night, the only distractions are darkness and silence, and they are useless ones at that.
"Just put it out of your mind, shut up and go to sleep," I tell myself. "You will be cactus tomorrow.
"And besides, how stupid will you feel if you get the results and everything is fine and you find out you were worrying over nothing. What a waste of energy."
Other times I try and imagine what a long needle will feel like penetrating my belly: the fat layer, the muscle layer (if it is there) and then into the uterus. How on earth will it pierce the amniotic sac and not cause the fluid to flood out? How does that little spot heal? Will it hurt, will they have to yank it out suddenly if the baby moves right near it - and it does move around like some Thunderbird on acid, I have seen it! Will everything be alright in those two weeks afterwards? Are the two days that I am having off work enough? Will everything be alright?
It really has been a battle to avoid making it all-consuming, but 70% of the time I get it right. Whenever I think about the worst outcome, I often physically feel a pain...in my stomach or my chest or somewhere. And I tell myself that is not good for the baby. I imagine the little foetus frowning and jerking to try and shake off such negativity.
Sometimes that imagery works, sometimes it doesn't and the panic wins.
And the other thing about this awful limbo is that part of me feels I need to suspend any bonding until the test results are in.
I am not sure when you are meant to first feel the baby kicking, but I almost don't want to feel it. I don't want that other layer of emotion complicating my attachment with a being I may never know.
Roll on Wednesday.
In fact, I sometimes completely forget all about it. Yeah right.
The week away in the Whitsundays was an excellent distraction. But it only soaked up five days of the anxiety that had spilled on the floor, flooding our hearts...we came home, and I felt like we ran out of paper towel some days. (We really did run out of paper towel last week, it was a mini domestic crisis. Weird.)
Actually, it's been the nights, they have been the worst. See, all of a sudden, my bladder is not the vessel of almighty impenetrableness that it used to be. I have trained it up well over many years sitting in offices swigging from a two-litre bottle of water; trained it to fill, and to the brim, before I go to the loo.
Now, half a sip of liquid and I am busting.
So, the bladder kicks my conscience into life at 2 or 3am, and then the worry brings it to its knees.
I imagine receiving both phone calls from the doctor once the results are in: the good phone call and the bad one. It's purely self-preservation, as I have to role-play it in my mind as some form of perverse preparation.
During the day, I succeed better at putting it out of my mind. There are phone calls, work, emails, life stuff, Jay stuff and home stuff to fill every space in my conscious mind.
At night, the only distractions are darkness and silence, and they are useless ones at that.
"Just put it out of your mind, shut up and go to sleep," I tell myself. "You will be cactus tomorrow.
"And besides, how stupid will you feel if you get the results and everything is fine and you find out you were worrying over nothing. What a waste of energy."
Other times I try and imagine what a long needle will feel like penetrating my belly: the fat layer, the muscle layer (if it is there) and then into the uterus. How on earth will it pierce the amniotic sac and not cause the fluid to flood out? How does that little spot heal? Will it hurt, will they have to yank it out suddenly if the baby moves right near it - and it does move around like some Thunderbird on acid, I have seen it! Will everything be alright in those two weeks afterwards? Are the two days that I am having off work enough? Will everything be alright?
It really has been a battle to avoid making it all-consuming, but 70% of the time I get it right. Whenever I think about the worst outcome, I often physically feel a pain...in my stomach or my chest or somewhere. And I tell myself that is not good for the baby. I imagine the little foetus frowning and jerking to try and shake off such negativity.
Sometimes that imagery works, sometimes it doesn't and the panic wins.
And the other thing about this awful limbo is that part of me feels I need to suspend any bonding until the test results are in.
I am not sure when you are meant to first feel the baby kicking, but I almost don't want to feel it. I don't want that other layer of emotion complicating my attachment with a being I may never know.
Roll on Wednesday.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Hmmmwelllgoodevening
Yes, that's a perfectly respectable title I think.
It has been a little while, hasn't it?
Why?
Shit, are we going to start that weird-ass Greek chorus thing again?
I don't know, are we?
Why are you answering a question with another question? That's a sign of...
Why are you persisting in asking questions?
Who is speaking here?
Who are you?
What?
It's in the freezer, isn't it?
Yes, yes, 17.
Am I going mad?
Too late.
No need for a question mark on that one. Yes, it is too late. My sanity went the way of Elvis loooong ago.
Well, bbrrrrr, now that I have blocked that scene and succcessfully arrived in character of Blog Poster Number 4...let's begin.
It has been a few days since my last post because I had an instant worry as soon as I fell pregnant that the very raison d'etre for this particular blog had all but disappeared.
Here I was thinking TTC sequels, book deals, a telemovie script and a three-part special investigation on Oprah and it turns out the best I could manage was a 30-minute pilot.
Gash! Failure! I can hear you yelling it right now. Please stop. Haha.
You step on that cliched IVF rollercoaster and because you are so in the moment, and so focused on one cycle at a time, you never really think about the end. Of course that's what you are working towards, that's what you are doing it for...but for very complicated reasons of self-preservation, you don't allow yourself to think too much about the "prize" at the end. Because you may just not get it.
Today, I am three weeks' pregnant. What do I do now? It's too early for an OBGYN appointment. Too early for a scan.
The clinic nurse rang me this morning to see how I was going (lovely) and I shared the good news. "Oh, well done you," she said, surprised, and sounding disarmingly like a Jennifer Saunders character, perhaps an uppity politician's wife.
"What happens now?" I asked, anxious.
She explained that the doctor would want to do a six-week scan to see if there is a pregnancy still, looking for a "sac" (what?) and a heartbeat. And apart from that, it's just a case of keeping healthy and calm.
I think I have healthy down pat: I have been consumed with an intense obsession with full cream milk. And I have never been a milk fan. I slather it all over my cereal in the morning and lap it up like a cat who's got the cream. Ooh! Cream! Must put that on the list.
Everything becomes about the pregnancy. I went for a walk the other night along a busy-ish road. Lots of cars flew past, many of them spewing exhaust smoke into the air and up my nostrils. I suddenly felt the urge to hold my breath to keep the toxins away from my teeny blasty (it is a blastocyst at this stage...I prefer to disregard the "cyst" part of that word, thanks very much Mr Medicine). Because I am sure restricting oxygen to little blasty by holding my breath is going to be a whole lot better than breathing in a few carbo-mono-whatevers.
A lady at work was using a glu-stick and I remarked that I hadn't seen one since primary school, before immediately rushing up to take in a big whiff of the gluey end to gauge whether it still smelled the same as my memory. Red flag unfurled and raised itself too late. "Stop that! Think about the baby. The baby, Jerry."
Alcohol is off the menu, along with all those other potentially dodgy things: soft cheese, seafood, leftovers, BBQ chickens, pre-prepared salads, alfafa and a whole lot of herbal teas that I thought were safe, but come with lots of scary stories online. Google, are you here to help or hinder? I wonder sometimes.
I am also trying desperately to reduce my caffeine intake. Coffee has followed Elvis and my sanity out of the building, but I cannot - cannot - give up my English Breakfast. I won't. And I think I will be ok.
I am actually eating a lot more than I used to...but smaller amounts more often during the day. In fact, I feel like I am always eating there at my desk. Goodness, people will talk!
While the clinic nurse was on the phone, I took the chance to ask her about our six little embryos sitting in their cryo-home.
"Don't even think about that until your baby is at least one year old," she said.
Call me a cynic, but that then prompted me to enquire as to the cost to store those embryos. $225 every six months.
Hmmm. Was she targeting my deepest core emotions to perform a simple up-sell? I am a cynic. Fifteen years in journalism will do that to you, I'm afraid.
I'd like to think she wasn't chanting Tom Cruise's famous Jerry Maguire line in her head as we talked. Whatever her motivation for picking "one year old" as a good time to consider whether to donate or, I guess terminate is the word, those embryos...it is something we will have to deal with.
Eventually.
Apart from that, I feel alright. Not as tired as last week and kind of bloated (d'uh!). I am in a constant state of "fuzzy in the brain" and will often forget what I am doing/saying even though I am in the middle of it. Quite disconcerting, really. But I am not sick and I am doing ok.
Hope it stays that way!
It has been a little while, hasn't it?
Why?
Shit, are we going to start that weird-ass Greek chorus thing again?
I don't know, are we?
Why are you answering a question with another question? That's a sign of...
Why are you persisting in asking questions?
Who is speaking here?
Who are you?
What?
It's in the freezer, isn't it?
Yes, yes, 17.
Am I going mad?
Too late.
No need for a question mark on that one. Yes, it is too late. My sanity went the way of Elvis loooong ago.
Well, bbrrrrr, now that I have blocked that scene and succcessfully arrived in character of Blog Poster Number 4...let's begin.
It has been a few days since my last post because I had an instant worry as soon as I fell pregnant that the very raison d'etre for this particular blog had all but disappeared.
Here I was thinking TTC sequels, book deals, a telemovie script and a three-part special investigation on Oprah and it turns out the best I could manage was a 30-minute pilot.
Gash! Failure! I can hear you yelling it right now. Please stop. Haha.
You step on that cliched IVF rollercoaster and because you are so in the moment, and so focused on one cycle at a time, you never really think about the end. Of course that's what you are working towards, that's what you are doing it for...but for very complicated reasons of self-preservation, you don't allow yourself to think too much about the "prize" at the end. Because you may just not get it.
Today, I am three weeks' pregnant. What do I do now? It's too early for an OBGYN appointment. Too early for a scan.
The clinic nurse rang me this morning to see how I was going (lovely) and I shared the good news. "Oh, well done you," she said, surprised, and sounding disarmingly like a Jennifer Saunders character, perhaps an uppity politician's wife.
"What happens now?" I asked, anxious.
She explained that the doctor would want to do a six-week scan to see if there is a pregnancy still, looking for a "sac" (what?) and a heartbeat. And apart from that, it's just a case of keeping healthy and calm.
I think I have healthy down pat: I have been consumed with an intense obsession with full cream milk. And I have never been a milk fan. I slather it all over my cereal in the morning and lap it up like a cat who's got the cream. Ooh! Cream! Must put that on the list.
Everything becomes about the pregnancy. I went for a walk the other night along a busy-ish road. Lots of cars flew past, many of them spewing exhaust smoke into the air and up my nostrils. I suddenly felt the urge to hold my breath to keep the toxins away from my teeny blasty (it is a blastocyst at this stage...I prefer to disregard the "cyst" part of that word, thanks very much Mr Medicine). Because I am sure restricting oxygen to little blasty by holding my breath is going to be a whole lot better than breathing in a few carbo-mono-whatevers.
A lady at work was using a glu-stick and I remarked that I hadn't seen one since primary school, before immediately rushing up to take in a big whiff of the gluey end to gauge whether it still smelled the same as my memory. Red flag unfurled and raised itself too late. "Stop that! Think about the baby. The baby, Jerry."
Alcohol is off the menu, along with all those other potentially dodgy things: soft cheese, seafood, leftovers, BBQ chickens, pre-prepared salads, alfafa and a whole lot of herbal teas that I thought were safe, but come with lots of scary stories online. Google, are you here to help or hinder? I wonder sometimes.
I am also trying desperately to reduce my caffeine intake. Coffee has followed Elvis and my sanity out of the building, but I cannot - cannot - give up my English Breakfast. I won't. And I think I will be ok.
I am actually eating a lot more than I used to...but smaller amounts more often during the day. In fact, I feel like I am always eating there at my desk. Goodness, people will talk!
While the clinic nurse was on the phone, I took the chance to ask her about our six little embryos sitting in their cryo-home.
"Don't even think about that until your baby is at least one year old," she said.
Call me a cynic, but that then prompted me to enquire as to the cost to store those embryos. $225 every six months.
Hmmm. Was she targeting my deepest core emotions to perform a simple up-sell? I am a cynic. Fifteen years in journalism will do that to you, I'm afraid.
I'd like to think she wasn't chanting Tom Cruise's famous Jerry Maguire line in her head as we talked. Whatever her motivation for picking "one year old" as a good time to consider whether to donate or, I guess terminate is the word, those embryos...it is something we will have to deal with.
Eventually.
Apart from that, I feel alright. Not as tired as last week and kind of bloated (d'uh!). I am in a constant state of "fuzzy in the brain" and will often forget what I am doing/saying even though I am in the middle of it. Quite disconcerting, really. But I am not sick and I am doing ok.
Hope it stays that way!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
A new acronym
We are all agreed on my love of acronyms, yes?
FYI, they're OTT and I refuse to keep that on the DL or the QT.
Oh, please, I am not going there again. I don't have the energy. I have never been this tired in my entire life...and that includes the time I stayed up with my best friend in Year 8 for THE ENTIRE NIGHT to witness the exact moment when the street lights were switched off.
CRASH-BANG-KABOOM-KERPLUNK-SMASH-POW-SHAZAM!
Wow, did you feel that? Get me Bruce Willis and Liv Tyler into emergency sequel talks, stat, Armageddon is back. And she's angry.
That's right: that was the very last pregnant woman complaining of tiredness the world could take. Apparently, the earth's core is pre-programmed to crack and erupt if a certain pre-determined quota of whingeing pregnant women is reached. Me back there, just then talking about being (whisper...tired) pushed the planet past its tipping point. So, go home to your loved ones, people...this is your last day on Earth.
Anyway, I am not going to go there with the moaning about the dead weights on my eyelids. Not tonight, I am buggered. Oh shit! I went there, didn't I?
Look, I am vainly trying to get back to the point of this post. What's it called again? Right...a new acronym.
FG.
Any ideas? Let me shed some of that dawn street light on the subject for you.
Fertility Guilt.
Akin to survivor's guilt, but not the initials of that dimwit played by Tom Hanks in that atrocious movie. (Sorry Robin Wright, I love you despite your choice of husband, but that really was a bad flick.)
So, I am pregnant. I am elated and a thousand other things right now. I also feel some guilt. Guilt when telling my new little e-community peeps who are still clinging white-knuckled to the TTC rollercoaster, one many have been on for longer than my two-year-old has been alive. Guilt when posting an "I'm pregnant" comment on a TTC support group over at Aussie Mummy Bloggers. Part of me felt heartless doing that. I am sorry if I caused anyone any pain. Or jealousy. Of course, that was never my intention.
Look, I was raised Catholic - we got guilt covered. But I know that I am someone who would feel twinges of jealousy while starting to hum absent-mindedly "What About Me?" had I received similar news.
Isn't that atrocious. But it's the truth. Let me tell you, my over-arching emotion would be genuine joy for anyone who gets good baby-growing news. No doubt. But there would be twinges of some negative stuff too, I won't lie.
But it's like the way I feel about comparing development milestones in your kids. There is no point twisting yourself in knots if your toddler has not mastered toilet training, say, as quickly as "everyone else" you know: they all get there in the end. So too, will many of you reading this. I cannot know it will happen for all of you, no one knows that. But I do know that I have never laughed as much as I have these past few weeks, I have never jumped on Jay for random cuddles as often I have in recent times and I have never felt as loved as I have by all those physically and electronically around me...and I know that helped.
The good stuff. Focus on it. Use it, trust and try to let go. Alright, somebody stop me before I use the phrase "at the end of the day..."
May I please leave you with today's random observation from me.
Those backwards signs on the front of cars that belong to a business. You know the ones. Stickers that spell out words, but they are stuck on in reverse.
"Jokes" like this may seem harmless, but a 2009 NSBP* study found they are actually responsible for extending dyslexics' admission times to psychiatric wards by an average of 13.9months.
Why do you only ever see them the wrong way around? When do you ever see them in your rear view mirror, at which point, you are stunned and amazed at their twisty-reversy genius? Answer? Never. You only ever see them on the front of a car on the other side of the road coming towards you. Then you almost have an accident staring at the ridiculous letter formations trying to activate a deep, dark recess of your brain to actually decipher what the hell it says. It's the same dark recess that was particularly active during your tweens when such astounding items as invisible ink (imagination/perception), magic sand (spatial engineering) and elastics (physics/fractions/geometry) were commonplace in daily life. I saw one this morning, it was "CINAHCEM ELIBOM". I was like "whaaaaa?" as I craned my neck to catch it as it went past. Stupid thing was, I looked in my rear view mirror to get a better look - at the BACK of the car. I actually did that. Of course, there was nothing there. Haha, isn't that ridiculous? Alanis should so have written about that instead of freaking fly-streaked chardonnay.
eyB.
*National Society for Bullshit Prevention
FYI, they're OTT and I refuse to keep that on the DL or the QT.
Oh, please, I am not going there again. I don't have the energy. I have never been this tired in my entire life...and that includes the time I stayed up with my best friend in Year 8 for THE ENTIRE NIGHT to witness the exact moment when the street lights were switched off.
CRASH-BANG-KABOOM-KERPLUNK-SMASH-POW-SHAZAM!
Wow, did you feel that? Get me Bruce Willis and Liv Tyler into emergency sequel talks, stat, Armageddon is back. And she's angry.
That's right: that was the very last pregnant woman complaining of tiredness the world could take. Apparently, the earth's core is pre-programmed to crack and erupt if a certain pre-determined quota of whingeing pregnant women is reached. Me back there, just then talking about being (whisper...tired) pushed the planet past its tipping point. So, go home to your loved ones, people...this is your last day on Earth.
Anyway, I am not going to go there with the moaning about the dead weights on my eyelids. Not tonight, I am buggered. Oh shit! I went there, didn't I?
Look, I am vainly trying to get back to the point of this post. What's it called again? Right...a new acronym.
FG.
Any ideas? Let me shed some of that dawn street light on the subject for you.
Fertility Guilt.
Akin to survivor's guilt, but not the initials of that dimwit played by Tom Hanks in that atrocious movie. (Sorry Robin Wright, I love you despite your choice of husband, but that really was a bad flick.)
So, I am pregnant. I am elated and a thousand other things right now. I also feel some guilt. Guilt when telling my new little e-community peeps who are still clinging white-knuckled to the TTC rollercoaster, one many have been on for longer than my two-year-old has been alive. Guilt when posting an "I'm pregnant" comment on a TTC support group over at Aussie Mummy Bloggers. Part of me felt heartless doing that. I am sorry if I caused anyone any pain. Or jealousy. Of course, that was never my intention.
Look, I was raised Catholic - we got guilt covered. But I know that I am someone who would feel twinges of jealousy while starting to hum absent-mindedly "What About Me?" had I received similar news.
Isn't that atrocious. But it's the truth. Let me tell you, my over-arching emotion would be genuine joy for anyone who gets good baby-growing news. No doubt. But there would be twinges of some negative stuff too, I won't lie.
But it's like the way I feel about comparing development milestones in your kids. There is no point twisting yourself in knots if your toddler has not mastered toilet training, say, as quickly as "everyone else" you know: they all get there in the end. So too, will many of you reading this. I cannot know it will happen for all of you, no one knows that. But I do know that I have never laughed as much as I have these past few weeks, I have never jumped on Jay for random cuddles as often I have in recent times and I have never felt as loved as I have by all those physically and electronically around me...and I know that helped.
The good stuff. Focus on it. Use it, trust and try to let go. Alright, somebody stop me before I use the phrase "at the end of the day..."
May I please leave you with today's random observation from me.
Those backwards signs on the front of cars that belong to a business. You know the ones. Stickers that spell out words, but they are stuck on in reverse.
"Jokes" like this may seem harmless, but a 2009 NSBP* study found they are actually responsible for extending dyslexics' admission times to psychiatric wards by an average of 13.9months.
Why do you only ever see them the wrong way around? When do you ever see them in your rear view mirror, at which point, you are stunned and amazed at their twisty-reversy genius? Answer? Never. You only ever see them on the front of a car on the other side of the road coming towards you. Then you almost have an accident staring at the ridiculous letter formations trying to activate a deep, dark recess of your brain to actually decipher what the hell it says. It's the same dark recess that was particularly active during your tweens when such astounding items as invisible ink (imagination/perception), magic sand (spatial engineering) and elastics (physics/fractions/geometry) were commonplace in daily life. I saw one this morning, it was "CINAHCEM ELIBOM". I was like "whaaaaa?" as I craned my neck to catch it as it went past. Stupid thing was, I looked in my rear view mirror to get a better look - at the BACK of the car. I actually did that. Of course, there was nothing there. Haha, isn't that ridiculous? Alanis should so have written about that instead of freaking fly-streaked chardonnay.
eyB.
*National Society for Bullshit Prevention
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
This is it
No, this blog post has nothing to do with Michael Jackson, even though, alright, I might have stolen the title.
But I hear MJ is making more billions dead than he is alive, so I don't think his people would even worry about suing my people. Hell, I don't even have people. Well I have people, just not people.
ANYWAY.
We are not here to talk about Michael Jackson.
Here is how my day went...
Pitch black.
Dark.
Awake. Cold nose.
"What time is it," I think to myself.
"Can I be bothered actually lifting my head from the pillow to check the clock?"
Yes. Yes, of course I can be bothered.
I need to do my pregnancy test.
ZING. SNAP.
Triple awake. Ready.
A glance at the red, glowing numbers.
4:48.
Damn. Too early. Too early?
I do need to go to the toilet. Should I get up?
No.
Jay's stirring. I can hear him moaning, talking to himself. Is he cold? It's 4:48, I don't want to get up and risk waking him at this hour by turning a light on.
No. Stay in bed and try to go back to sleep. Yeah, right.
I am now busting to go to the loo by this stage. If I get up, I cannot just get up and go to the loo. If I get up, I will be doing the test.
Um. Ah. Um.
Should I. Shouldn't I.
I do. I can't wait any longer. I wee into the cup and praise the Lord for the outstanding pelvic floor muscles that enable me to not spill a drop, even at this groggy hour.
I dip the stick in and count to 14. The instructions in the box said 10 seconds, but I make a four-second adjustment to account for my impatience. 14 of my breathless, anxious seconds is roughly the equivalent of 10 normal, 1-1000, 2-1000 seconds.
I am freezing as I rest the stick across the cup, so I go back to bed knowing that the test needs five minutes.
I glance at those red numbers once more.
5:28.
By 5:33 I will know.
The time actually flew. T and I shared nervous glances a few times as the twilight cast the day's first blue light on our faces.
I sat propped up on an elbow so I could see the clock clearly - no obstructions. I saw every number flick over.
5:29.
5:30.
5:31.
By the time 5:32 came around I got out of bed and went to get a pessary from the fridge. Even if the test was negative, I was still going to pop those final four pessaries.
By the time I was back nearing the bathroom door, it was 5:33.
I peered around the door and took cautious steps inside, where the light better illuminated that little stick resting on a little plastic cup.
Two lines.
There they were.
Two lines.
Good god. Two lines. It is positive.
I whipped my hand to my mouth and my body around in T's direction.
She flew out of bed and later told me she did a classic Flinstones cartoon run between the bed and bathroom - her feet did not touch the ground, even though her legs were moving a million miles a minute.
We started crying and hugging each other.
"I knew it," I said as I gripped my arms around her back and snuggled in, so grateful to be able to share this unforgettable, tender moment with her.
"Me too," she said. "I was going to say something last night, that I had a feeling, but then I thought twice about it."
"And Jay knew all along," I said. All month, at odd intervals, Jay has pointed at my tummy and said "baby in there". Sometimes we would initiate it by asking him playfully, wishingly, if there was a baby in there. Other times he would just say it out of the blue.
Pregnant.
I am pregnant. And so bloody lucky.
Thank you - every one of you reading. I know your prayers and thoughts helped make this happen. You contributed to the energy that made this happen. You were so important in keeping me positive when the darkness threatened victory. I don't have the words to describe the feeling I had when reading your comments of encouragement...but then, the kindness of strangers will always be confronting in a thousand magical ways. It has such a delicious power that has truly floored me. Suffice to say, you are wonderful.
Today I feel exhilarated, exhausted, overwhelmed, relieved, powerful, back in semi-control, healthy, vital, excited, worried and incredibly blessed.
Fortunate. Special. I feel special. What an awesome, special gift.
How precious.
How precious.
Thank you.
But I hear MJ is making more billions dead than he is alive, so I don't think his people would even worry about suing my people. Hell, I don't even have people. Well I have people, just not people.
ANYWAY.
We are not here to talk about Michael Jackson.
Here is how my day went...
Pitch black.
Dark.
Awake. Cold nose.
"What time is it," I think to myself.
"Can I be bothered actually lifting my head from the pillow to check the clock?"
Yes. Yes, of course I can be bothered.
I need to do my pregnancy test.
ZING. SNAP.
Triple awake. Ready.
A glance at the red, glowing numbers.
4:48.
Damn. Too early. Too early?
I do need to go to the toilet. Should I get up?
No.
Jay's stirring. I can hear him moaning, talking to himself. Is he cold? It's 4:48, I don't want to get up and risk waking him at this hour by turning a light on.
No. Stay in bed and try to go back to sleep. Yeah, right.
I am now busting to go to the loo by this stage. If I get up, I cannot just get up and go to the loo. If I get up, I will be doing the test.
Um. Ah. Um.
Should I. Shouldn't I.
I do. I can't wait any longer. I wee into the cup and praise the Lord for the outstanding pelvic floor muscles that enable me to not spill a drop, even at this groggy hour.
I dip the stick in and count to 14. The instructions in the box said 10 seconds, but I make a four-second adjustment to account for my impatience. 14 of my breathless, anxious seconds is roughly the equivalent of 10 normal, 1-1000, 2-1000 seconds.
I am freezing as I rest the stick across the cup, so I go back to bed knowing that the test needs five minutes.
I glance at those red numbers once more.
5:28.
By 5:33 I will know.
The time actually flew. T and I shared nervous glances a few times as the twilight cast the day's first blue light on our faces.
I sat propped up on an elbow so I could see the clock clearly - no obstructions. I saw every number flick over.
5:29.
5:30.
5:31.
By the time 5:32 came around I got out of bed and went to get a pessary from the fridge. Even if the test was negative, I was still going to pop those final four pessaries.
By the time I was back nearing the bathroom door, it was 5:33.
I peered around the door and took cautious steps inside, where the light better illuminated that little stick resting on a little plastic cup.
Two lines.
There they were.
Two lines.
Good god. Two lines. It is positive.
I whipped my hand to my mouth and my body around in T's direction.
She flew out of bed and later told me she did a classic Flinstones cartoon run between the bed and bathroom - her feet did not touch the ground, even though her legs were moving a million miles a minute.
We started crying and hugging each other.
"I knew it," I said as I gripped my arms around her back and snuggled in, so grateful to be able to share this unforgettable, tender moment with her.
"Me too," she said. "I was going to say something last night, that I had a feeling, but then I thought twice about it."
"And Jay knew all along," I said. All month, at odd intervals, Jay has pointed at my tummy and said "baby in there". Sometimes we would initiate it by asking him playfully, wishingly, if there was a baby in there. Other times he would just say it out of the blue.
Pregnant.
I am pregnant. And so bloody lucky.
Thank you - every one of you reading. I know your prayers and thoughts helped make this happen. You contributed to the energy that made this happen. You were so important in keeping me positive when the darkness threatened victory. I don't have the words to describe the feeling I had when reading your comments of encouragement...but then, the kindness of strangers will always be confronting in a thousand magical ways. It has such a delicious power that has truly floored me. Suffice to say, you are wonderful.
Today I feel exhilarated, exhausted, overwhelmed, relieved, powerful, back in semi-control, healthy, vital, excited, worried and incredibly blessed.
Fortunate. Special. I feel special. What an awesome, special gift.
How precious.
How precious.
Thank you.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Roll up, roll up
Good evening ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the GFAM Theatre. Tonight, the part of the Greek chorus will be played by Italics, fresh from her barnstorming run in the off-Broadway, Boy George hit Comma Chameleon. Now, please turn off your mobile phones and enjoy the show.
CURTAIN
Hi everyone, my name is Bec.
Hi Bec.
It’s been three long days since my last blog post.
Yes?
(Pause)
Galileo.
Galileo.
Galileo, Figaro.
Magnificent. I just wanted to try that, given I have a whole conversation going on with my very own chorus...my conscience, if you like.
This is like having a chat with my inner psyche.
Weird.
I know!
Anyway, as I was saying, it’s been three long days since my last blog post.
Why is that?
I was getting to that, if you’d just give me a minute.
The reason for that quite marked delay between much-dreamt-about drinks is because this blog forces me to focus on a very specific part of my life at a very specific moment in time that is happening right now.
The dreaded two-week wait, so fearful it has earnt its own acronym.
This FET I have tried to shield myself from thinking about it too much – and already I think I am doing better at that, this second time around. Thoughts and imaginings of what in god’s name is going on inside my womb right now do consume my every waking and sleeping moment...but they are much less frenetic and lurch less toward extremes than last time.
And?
And I guess I didn’t want to have to focus so harshly on how I was doing at the moment, by writing about it as honestly as I can, in this format. I wanted to let as much of it go as I can. Blogging kind of does not allow that to happen (although it has other advantages).
How are you doing?
It honestly depends on the hour. I can be either desperately searching for symptoms, longing to feel sore breasts (please, punch me if you like), a twinge in my lower abdomen (fancy a kick?), nausea (got any tripe?) or overwhelming tiredness (um, I already have that - have had since 1987). Or I can be preparing myself for another negative test next Tuesday morning. I go through those motions, alright not as often as I think about the thrill that will ripple through my body when the test is positive, but I imagine myself searching for those two lines.
And then I imagine myself not seeing them – even after shaking the stick, blowing on it, squinting my eyes really tight and praying to every higher power I can think of. I feel sick when I think about that moment...
I imagine myself getting into the shower that will surely follow whatever test result appears and crying tears hotter than the hot water spewing at me from above. If it is negative.
Hence the reason you don’t allow yourself to go there as often.
Right. I was just going to say that. I was even going to use the word 'hence', which is not so common in common parlance. Neither is the word 'parlance', if you think about it. I mean, it sounds French, why should it pop up in English? Exactly. Does that make the term 'common parlance' an oxymoron then? But 'hence', I was totally going to use that word too. Wow, are you psychic?
Think of a number between 1 and 10. I will think of one too. Now, what is that number?
Seven.
My god, that’s right! How did you do that?
Do you really need me to answer that?
Alright no. Look! A shiny kitten.
You know what thought I cling to each time my flights of fancy take particularly doom-worthy turns? That most women in the world do not realise they are pregnant until they miss a period. Or they miss two.
Most? What does most mean?
It is a non-specific term to denote a shitload, ok? Certainly most women I speak to, most of the stuff I’ve read and most of the anecdotal accounts I have heard point towards a general unknowingness in the first two weeks of a pregnancy. Plus when the nurse coordinator from the clinic rang to check on me this afternoon, I asked her if I should be feeling anything. She said there were no definitive signs - which is both a good thing and a bad thing. Thanks Margy, I think I love you.
We are in the mixed blessing boat – the one filled with people who know the exact moment of “conception”, with that term actually defined in this case as the transfer of an embryo into the uterus. Not the implantation, but the transfer.
How do you ensure that embryo goes from transfer to implantation?
Honey, if I knew that, I would be sainted, knighted, BRW Rich Listed and Nobel Peace Prized out the window.
(Thanks for reading my 50th blog post. Woo hoo. Wait, does that mean menopause? Nooooooooo!)
CURTAIN
Hi everyone, my name is Bec.
Hi Bec.
It’s been three long days since my last blog post.
Yes?
(Pause)
Galileo.
Galileo.
Galileo, Figaro.
Magnificent. I just wanted to try that, given I have a whole conversation going on with my very own chorus...my conscience, if you like.
This is like having a chat with my inner psyche.
Weird.
I know!
Anyway, as I was saying, it’s been three long days since my last blog post.
Why is that?
I was getting to that, if you’d just give me a minute.
The reason for that quite marked delay between much-dreamt-about drinks is because this blog forces me to focus on a very specific part of my life at a very specific moment in time that is happening right now.
The dreaded two-week wait, so fearful it has earnt its own acronym.
This FET I have tried to shield myself from thinking about it too much – and already I think I am doing better at that, this second time around. Thoughts and imaginings of what in god’s name is going on inside my womb right now do consume my every waking and sleeping moment...but they are much less frenetic and lurch less toward extremes than last time.
And?
And I guess I didn’t want to have to focus so harshly on how I was doing at the moment, by writing about it as honestly as I can, in this format. I wanted to let as much of it go as I can. Blogging kind of does not allow that to happen (although it has other advantages).
How are you doing?
It honestly depends on the hour. I can be either desperately searching for symptoms, longing to feel sore breasts (please, punch me if you like), a twinge in my lower abdomen (fancy a kick?), nausea (got any tripe?) or overwhelming tiredness (um, I already have that - have had since 1987). Or I can be preparing myself for another negative test next Tuesday morning. I go through those motions, alright not as often as I think about the thrill that will ripple through my body when the test is positive, but I imagine myself searching for those two lines.
And then I imagine myself not seeing them – even after shaking the stick, blowing on it, squinting my eyes really tight and praying to every higher power I can think of. I feel sick when I think about that moment...
I imagine myself getting into the shower that will surely follow whatever test result appears and crying tears hotter than the hot water spewing at me from above. If it is negative.
Hence the reason you don’t allow yourself to go there as often.
Right. I was just going to say that. I was even going to use the word 'hence', which is not so common in common parlance. Neither is the word 'parlance', if you think about it. I mean, it sounds French, why should it pop up in English? Exactly. Does that make the term 'common parlance' an oxymoron then? But 'hence', I was totally going to use that word too. Wow, are you psychic?
Think of a number between 1 and 10. I will think of one too. Now, what is that number?
Seven.
My god, that’s right! How did you do that?
Do you really need me to answer that?
Alright no. Look! A shiny kitten.
You know what thought I cling to each time my flights of fancy take particularly doom-worthy turns? That most women in the world do not realise they are pregnant until they miss a period. Or they miss two.
Most? What does most mean?
It is a non-specific term to denote a shitload, ok? Certainly most women I speak to, most of the stuff I’ve read and most of the anecdotal accounts I have heard point towards a general unknowingness in the first two weeks of a pregnancy. Plus when the nurse coordinator from the clinic rang to check on me this afternoon, I asked her if I should be feeling anything. She said there were no definitive signs - which is both a good thing and a bad thing. Thanks Margy, I think I love you.
We are in the mixed blessing boat – the one filled with people who know the exact moment of “conception”, with that term actually defined in this case as the transfer of an embryo into the uterus. Not the implantation, but the transfer.
How do you ensure that embryo goes from transfer to implantation?
Honey, if I knew that, I would be sainted, knighted, BRW Rich Listed and Nobel Peace Prized out the window.
(Thanks for reading my 50th blog post. Woo hoo. Wait, does that mean menopause? Nooooooooo!)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
A bullet-shaped pessary. Delightful.
I suppose I better get used to random things in my vagina. That's a big statement for a gay woman, even one who dabbled on the other team for a while there...
I'm not saying nothing goes ever in there for non-medical reasons, but sometimes...ok, I'll stop talking now. Read on.
Obstetrician's hands, lights, speculums (speculi?), nurse's fingers, bendy syringes, squeegee hormone sticks and even my own fingers as I face the fact that perineal massage could be a distressing reality waiting for me just around the corner.
So, what's a bullet-shaped pessary between friends?
Isn't that hilarious? A bullet-shaped pessary.
So, it's progesterone and I have to, ahem, insert one twice a day for the next 14 days.
According to the fact sheet, it is designed to "enhance the receptivity of the uterine lining".
For you details people out there, apparently progesterone is the hormone released in the second half (luteal phase) of the menstrual cycle by the corpus luteum (which develops in the ruptured follicle). It secretes progesterone when an egg is fertilised...and that, fine people, is exactly what has happened in this case.
Only my body, and especially my corpus luteum don't know it. So we have to make like a magician and trick it, by introducing a 14-day, 28-dose sleight of hand.
Progesterone? Pfft, of course there's progesterone. Rabbit out of a hat? Of course...!
So, yeah, twice a day I pop these strange little hard "bullets" out of their plastic casing and, ahem, insert them. They look like Cusson's Imperial Leather soap, only whiter. Oh! And not that big! Are you on crack? Jesus Christ, I am not shoving something the size of a bar of soap, or a pack of cards, in there. Bullets. I said bullets. So if you look at your little finger and measure from the tip of the nail to the middle knuckle. Like that. Small. Like bullets.
Only thing is the fact sheet reckons I need to lie down for 30 minutes after insertion. The bullet does break up, break down, break dance, hell I don't know, once it's inside...and well let's just say the resultant mass is not as solid as it started out. So yeah, I guess gravity is not going to help keep that gooey mess up and where it's meant to be.
That's no problem for the night time one, I do it right before I go to bed. But the morning? I set my phone alarm last night but the damn thing woke me up every 10 minutes as it suddenly dropped out of service and decided to beep, light up and announce to me like some paranoid Raymond Babbitt that "Hello! No service, check the signal in your area. Hello!! I'm a good driver, I AM!!" So, a plan B on the whole morning bullet shall have to be devised.
What's that? You'd like to see a photo of these dastardly pessaries? Hm, yeah, would be nice wouldn't it? I had that idea myself four pieces of chocolate, one cup of tea and 30 minutes ago. Now, well the enthusiasm has worn off.
Oh look, Google images wins again.
I'm not saying nothing goes ever in there for non-medical reasons, but sometimes...ok, I'll stop talking now. Read on.
Obstetrician's hands, lights, speculums (speculi?), nurse's fingers, bendy syringes, squeegee hormone sticks and even my own fingers as I face the fact that perineal massage could be a distressing reality waiting for me just around the corner.
So, what's a bullet-shaped pessary between friends?
Isn't that hilarious? A bullet-shaped pessary.
So, it's progesterone and I have to, ahem, insert one twice a day for the next 14 days.
According to the fact sheet, it is designed to "enhance the receptivity of the uterine lining".
For you details people out there, apparently progesterone is the hormone released in the second half (luteal phase) of the menstrual cycle by the corpus luteum (which develops in the ruptured follicle). It secretes progesterone when an egg is fertilised...and that, fine people, is exactly what has happened in this case.
Only my body, and especially my corpus luteum don't know it. So we have to make like a magician and trick it, by introducing a 14-day, 28-dose sleight of hand.
Progesterone? Pfft, of course there's progesterone. Rabbit out of a hat? Of course...!
So, yeah, twice a day I pop these strange little hard "bullets" out of their plastic casing and, ahem, insert them. They look like Cusson's Imperial Leather soap, only whiter. Oh! And not that big! Are you on crack? Jesus Christ, I am not shoving something the size of a bar of soap, or a pack of cards, in there. Bullets. I said bullets. So if you look at your little finger and measure from the tip of the nail to the middle knuckle. Like that. Small. Like bullets.
Only thing is the fact sheet reckons I need to lie down for 30 minutes after insertion. The bullet does break up, break down, break dance, hell I don't know, once it's inside...and well let's just say the resultant mass is not as solid as it started out. So yeah, I guess gravity is not going to help keep that gooey mess up and where it's meant to be.
That's no problem for the night time one, I do it right before I go to bed. But the morning? I set my phone alarm last night but the damn thing woke me up every 10 minutes as it suddenly dropped out of service and decided to beep, light up and announce to me like some paranoid Raymond Babbitt that "Hello! No service, check the signal in your area. Hello!! I'm a good driver, I AM!!" So, a plan B on the whole morning bullet shall have to be devised.
What's that? You'd like to see a photo of these dastardly pessaries? Hm, yeah, would be nice wouldn't it? I had that idea myself four pieces of chocolate, one cup of tea and 30 minutes ago. Now, well the enthusiasm has worn off.
Oh look, Google images wins again.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Performance anxiety
Ok, keeping it short and sweet people. (MasterChef, get your hooks out of me!)
Right, so these may not be the most helpful thoughts at this particular juncture, given that I shall be having my first frozen embryo transfer in less than 48 hours, but they are nonetheless flying about in the flotsam of my mind right now...and they are honest.
Firstly, and this has always been in the back of my mind: T got pregnant first go with Jay when she went through IVF three years ago.
She is three years older than me and had two embryos put in as a result. One morphed into the mysterious ether of non-existence, the other became Jay.
So, if my memories of Year 9 debating serve me, the negative in the argument That Bec Should Be In A Pregnancy Competition With Her Partner would say that, no, so much more was riding on that initial transfer for T. Um, there was no fall-back, no Plan B. The only "try again" option we had was to start a whole new round of IVF...injections, ovary stimulation, hormones, egg pick-up and all. For that reason, and many others we will never know, that one spectacular embryo stuck. Apart from that, and this would be the sting in the third speaker's summation, competition is stupid unless you are in the Olympics. Get over yourself, Leo.
The affirmative, however, would postulate that, damn straight, it happened first go for her: you are both healthy and committed in a stable, supportive and loving relationship - why the hell should it not happen first go for you? You have every right to be disappointed now that hasn't been the case. You should feel indignant that history has not repeated. Why? No one can answer that, but don't feel bad for asking, or even thinking about the answers to, that question.
And you know one other massive reason to get pregnant ASAP? It pains me to say it, but economics clouds so much of our lives, especially when you feel so stretched each week that you are nearly transparent.
The cost.
According to a forum post T found this morning, the charge for a natural frozen embryo transfer cycle with a clinic in another state is apparently $2350. Estimated out of pocket costs are $941...but there is some potential issue with Medicare over rebate amounts (isn't there always?).
So, that was today's little surprise. Each frozen transfer is going to cost about a grand.
So what? And I understand that - I feel that way too. What is money when you are talking about creating a new life who will walk this Earth and bless our family with his or her laughter, anger, opinions, flair, love and so much more? This is the path we have chosen of our own free will, we knew it would be expensive. I get that alright!
But I can't help the anxiety. Huh, and you can write that one down to hand to the stonemason, cos that one's going on my headstone. That's if I was going to be buried, and I am not. **Stream of consciousness alert: I want to be cremated cos I read a book ages ago about all these graves in olde England...and you know I'm talking a long time ago, cos I put an E on the end of old. But not that old that England gets an E, as in Englande. That would just be stupid. Anyway, they used to tie a piece of string around the fingers of the bodies when they buried them and run that string all the way to the top of the earth, attached to a bell in the headstone. Apparently, in OLDE England (or some such place wherever it was) there was quite a problem with the burying of people alive. Now that right there is one of my worst, WORST, fears. Yes, it's as irrational as my fear of spiders, Tony Abbott's ears and the ability of a man like George Bush to attain the office of president. And you know what they say about tying string around your finger - that's how you remember stuff, you don't forget it. Frankly, I would have thought tying a piece of string around your finger would remind you pretty damn smartly to take the freaking thing off as surely it would cut off some sort of circulation, right? Anyhoo, I will never forget the olde England buried alive reference. Hell, it could have been fiction...could have been some Mary Higgins Clark hoodoo...but it struck a very strange, probably flat, chord in my crazy mind. For a split second, I did question the logistics of such finger-tying of string...how to ensure it remained intact linking body and bell, why you wouldn't completely freak out as soon as you saw someone coming towards you with a ball of string, a pine box and a shovel etc ("Here they come! Those dodgy undertakers who are a little too enthusiastic about their jobs! Run!!"), but the fear removed logic from any talk of logistics. So, with that in mind, there is no way I am going to be buried six feet under. Nope, disco inferno all the way for me, baby. **Meanwhile, back at the ranch.
Look, that anxiety is not huge, it doesn't now taint my every waking moment. But it is there.
Just another speck of dust on my mountain of insecurity/uncertainty.
Right, so these may not be the most helpful thoughts at this particular juncture, given that I shall be having my first frozen embryo transfer in less than 48 hours, but they are nonetheless flying about in the flotsam of my mind right now...and they are honest.
Firstly, and this has always been in the back of my mind: T got pregnant first go with Jay when she went through IVF three years ago.
She is three years older than me and had two embryos put in as a result. One morphed into the mysterious ether of non-existence, the other became Jay.
So, if my memories of Year 9 debating serve me, the negative in the argument That Bec Should Be In A Pregnancy Competition With Her Partner would say that, no, so much more was riding on that initial transfer for T. Um, there was no fall-back, no Plan B. The only "try again" option we had was to start a whole new round of IVF...injections, ovary stimulation, hormones, egg pick-up and all. For that reason, and many others we will never know, that one spectacular embryo stuck. Apart from that, and this would be the sting in the third speaker's summation, competition is stupid unless you are in the Olympics. Get over yourself, Leo.
The affirmative, however, would postulate that, damn straight, it happened first go for her: you are both healthy and committed in a stable, supportive and loving relationship - why the hell should it not happen first go for you? You have every right to be disappointed now that hasn't been the case. You should feel indignant that history has not repeated. Why? No one can answer that, but don't feel bad for asking, or even thinking about the answers to, that question.
And you know one other massive reason to get pregnant ASAP? It pains me to say it, but economics clouds so much of our lives, especially when you feel so stretched each week that you are nearly transparent.
The cost.
According to a forum post T found this morning, the charge for a natural frozen embryo transfer cycle with a clinic in another state is apparently $2350. Estimated out of pocket costs are $941...but there is some potential issue with Medicare over rebate amounts (isn't there always?).
So, that was today's little surprise. Each frozen transfer is going to cost about a grand.
So what? And I understand that - I feel that way too. What is money when you are talking about creating a new life who will walk this Earth and bless our family with his or her laughter, anger, opinions, flair, love and so much more? This is the path we have chosen of our own free will, we knew it would be expensive. I get that alright!
But I can't help the anxiety. Huh, and you can write that one down to hand to the stonemason, cos that one's going on my headstone. That's if I was going to be buried, and I am not. **Stream of consciousness alert: I want to be cremated cos I read a book ages ago about all these graves in olde England...and you know I'm talking a long time ago, cos I put an E on the end of old. But not that old that England gets an E, as in Englande. That would just be stupid. Anyway, they used to tie a piece of string around the fingers of the bodies when they buried them and run that string all the way to the top of the earth, attached to a bell in the headstone. Apparently, in OLDE England (or some such place wherever it was) there was quite a problem with the burying of people alive. Now that right there is one of my worst, WORST, fears. Yes, it's as irrational as my fear of spiders, Tony Abbott's ears and the ability of a man like George Bush to attain the office of president. And you know what they say about tying string around your finger - that's how you remember stuff, you don't forget it. Frankly, I would have thought tying a piece of string around your finger would remind you pretty damn smartly to take the freaking thing off as surely it would cut off some sort of circulation, right? Anyhoo, I will never forget the olde England buried alive reference. Hell, it could have been fiction...could have been some Mary Higgins Clark hoodoo...but it struck a very strange, probably flat, chord in my crazy mind. For a split second, I did question the logistics of such finger-tying of string...how to ensure it remained intact linking body and bell, why you wouldn't completely freak out as soon as you saw someone coming towards you with a ball of string, a pine box and a shovel etc ("Here they come! Those dodgy undertakers who are a little too enthusiastic about their jobs! Run!!"), but the fear removed logic from any talk of logistics. So, with that in mind, there is no way I am going to be buried six feet under. Nope, disco inferno all the way for me, baby. **Meanwhile, back at the ranch.
Look, that anxiety is not huge, it doesn't now taint my every waking moment. But it is there.
Just another speck of dust on my mountain of insecurity/uncertainty.
Friday, June 11, 2010
ET, phone hooray!
Good evening.
Really quick cos I am freezing and desperate to dive under my doona: doc's office rang today...
First words were: "Can you have another blood test?"
Life? Ain't she a funny freaking prankster?
So that was my fourth blood test in eight days - yee haa!
BUT, despite telling me I needed another blood, I AM BOOKED IN FOR AN EMBRYO TRANSFER NEXT TUESDAY.
Hang on ET, hang on in your little bicycle basket with your little white towel over your head - I am coming!
Double yee haa (for the purists: yee yee haa haa).
How cool is that?
And what made for an ultra nice change was the lovely blood test taking lady.
A) There was no attitude over bulk billing issues. And B) she actually beamed a beamy smile at me as I left and wished me luck for Tuesday (I had filled her in on what I was doing briefly. Well I thought I ought to...she would have taken one look at the punctures in my arm and no doubt suspected all manner of heroin junkie things).
So Tuesday people. Toot toot - ALL ABOARD THE EXCITEMENT TRAIN.
!
Really quick cos I am freezing and desperate to dive under my doona: doc's office rang today...
First words were: "Can you have another blood test?"
Life? Ain't she a funny freaking prankster?
So that was my fourth blood test in eight days - yee haa!
BUT, despite telling me I needed another blood, I AM BOOKED IN FOR AN EMBRYO TRANSFER NEXT TUESDAY.
Hang on ET, hang on in your little bicycle basket with your little white towel over your head - I am coming!
Double yee haa (for the purists: yee yee haa haa).
How cool is that?
And what made for an ultra nice change was the lovely blood test taking lady.
A) There was no attitude over bulk billing issues. And B) she actually beamed a beamy smile at me as I left and wished me luck for Tuesday (I had filled her in on what I was doing briefly. Well I thought I ought to...she would have taken one look at the punctures in my arm and no doubt suspected all manner of heroin junkie things).
So Tuesday people. Toot toot - ALL ABOARD THE EXCITEMENT TRAIN.
!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
A bit about our donor
Hey!
So, let's just get today's latest stat out of the way: this morning marked my third blood test in seven days.
Woo hoo. Yep, they have cast a statue of me in bronze out the front of the Human Pincushion Society headquarters in Schenectady, New York.
Where's that? Oh, you take a left turn at Albuquerque and just follow your nose.
But I thought I would take an opportunity while my cous cous is fluffing and plumping and doing its amazing osmosis-y engorging; oh, and while my Gramp's shiraz is settling nicely into my glass...now half-empty. Yeah, I'm a half-empty kind of gal - but only when we are talking about red wine.
Because any glass that is not full of a precious commodity like red wine is cause for much pessimism. Any other time, people, I am glass half-FULL - optimism all the WAY!
So, our donor. The fellow whose sperm has already been introduced to my eggs in an extremely unconventional way.
The fellow who has fertilised my eggs. The very eggs that sit - just chillin - in a petri dish 80 kilometres away.
Capital W Weird.
Anyway, he's a Leo, so he's alright with me. And he was born in 1990. Does that make me a molecular Cougar? Haha.
According to a questionnaire we received about him, he tells us that he is 6foot or 182cms tall, he weighs 76kg or 168 pounds and he had hazel/green eyes and brown hair.
There's a picture of him playing a guitar which I liked immediately.
He describes himself as musical, outgoing and athletic and lists stubborness as a character flaw. Hey, at least he is self-effacing enough to list one, right? And, let me tell you, that is a big thing for a Leo. Haha.
He likes James Bond books, can play a few musical instruments and reckons he is fun, easy to talk to and passionate about the things he loves.
Sounds perfect right? Well, to be honest he was actually our second choice. But it was a close second (we had to go with this guy as our "first" pick was taken. My, don't the ladies love him?)
But then you get to a point where you think to yourself, this is not Australian Idol - or Sperm Donor Idol. Sure you end up with shortlists based on instinct, characteristics you like and others you don't.
But in the end it's all guesswork...kind of like it is in real life, I suppose. We are quite privileged to get such an insight into this person, even though we take it with a huge chunk of salt...as firstly, as I have learned while blogging, when you write about yourself and you have some time to go back, edit, tweak, change and cut...well, the rose-coloured glasses can skew bias in your own favour. Sometimes, anyway...but honesty is always the best policy.
And secondly, it's all dependant on how truthful this guy wanted to be in black and white. But, I like to think that the type of person - 20 year old or no 20 year old - who makes the huge decision to become a donor actually has a decent head on his shoulders and doesn't approach it with the same levity as getting a drunken tattoo at 3am on a Sunday.
Mostly, we chose him and liked him because he felt right. Instinct. The stuff you cannot put into words. And that's exactly how it happens "normally", isn't it? I wouldn't know, being abnormal as I am. Haha.
The donor questionnaires we looked at contained a short essay written by each one.
This guy displayed a humility none of the others did. He said he was proud of his achievements in sport and music...but not in a boastful way like some of the others did. He was just relaying fact. He admits he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, but that if he studied hard and surrounded himself with good things, it would come to him. I like that.
But it was these last lines that really got me: "I definitely value every day that I live... I think the most important attribute to living a good life is surrounding yourself with people that you want to be more like, and always making sure that you are heading in the direction that your heart feels you should go".
Aww.
So, let's just get today's latest stat out of the way: this morning marked my third blood test in seven days.
Woo hoo. Yep, they have cast a statue of me in bronze out the front of the Human Pincushion Society headquarters in Schenectady, New York.
Where's that? Oh, you take a left turn at Albuquerque and just follow your nose.
But I thought I would take an opportunity while my cous cous is fluffing and plumping and doing its amazing osmosis-y engorging; oh, and while my Gramp's shiraz is settling nicely into my glass...now half-empty. Yeah, I'm a half-empty kind of gal - but only when we are talking about red wine.
Because any glass that is not full of a precious commodity like red wine is cause for much pessimism. Any other time, people, I am glass half-FULL - optimism all the WAY!
So, our donor. The fellow whose sperm has already been introduced to my eggs in an extremely unconventional way.
The fellow who has fertilised my eggs. The very eggs that sit - just chillin - in a petri dish 80 kilometres away.
Capital W Weird.
Anyway, he's a Leo, so he's alright with me. And he was born in 1990. Does that make me a molecular Cougar? Haha.
According to a questionnaire we received about him, he tells us that he is 6foot or 182cms tall, he weighs 76kg or 168 pounds and he had hazel/green eyes and brown hair.
There's a picture of him playing a guitar which I liked immediately.
He describes himself as musical, outgoing and athletic and lists stubborness as a character flaw. Hey, at least he is self-effacing enough to list one, right? And, let me tell you, that is a big thing for a Leo. Haha.
He likes James Bond books, can play a few musical instruments and reckons he is fun, easy to talk to and passionate about the things he loves.
Sounds perfect right? Well, to be honest he was actually our second choice. But it was a close second (we had to go with this guy as our "first" pick was taken. My, don't the ladies love him?)
But then you get to a point where you think to yourself, this is not Australian Idol - or Sperm Donor Idol. Sure you end up with shortlists based on instinct, characteristics you like and others you don't.
But in the end it's all guesswork...kind of like it is in real life, I suppose. We are quite privileged to get such an insight into this person, even though we take it with a huge chunk of salt...as firstly, as I have learned while blogging, when you write about yourself and you have some time to go back, edit, tweak, change and cut...well, the rose-coloured glasses can skew bias in your own favour. Sometimes, anyway...but honesty is always the best policy.
And secondly, it's all dependant on how truthful this guy wanted to be in black and white. But, I like to think that the type of person - 20 year old or no 20 year old - who makes the huge decision to become a donor actually has a decent head on his shoulders and doesn't approach it with the same levity as getting a drunken tattoo at 3am on a Sunday.
Mostly, we chose him and liked him because he felt right. Instinct. The stuff you cannot put into words. And that's exactly how it happens "normally", isn't it? I wouldn't know, being abnormal as I am. Haha.
The donor questionnaires we looked at contained a short essay written by each one.
This guy displayed a humility none of the others did. He said he was proud of his achievements in sport and music...but not in a boastful way like some of the others did. He was just relaying fact. He admits he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, but that if he studied hard and surrounded himself with good things, it would come to him. I like that.
But it was these last lines that really got me: "I definitely value every day that I live... I think the most important attribute to living a good life is surrounding yourself with people that you want to be more like, and always making sure that you are heading in the direction that your heart feels you should go".
Aww.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Warning: Irrational rant ahead
Shit.
That was my day folks. Literally, figuratively, metamorphically, freaking emotionally, laboriously, monotonously, repetitively, annoyingly, endlessly.
You know those days...we all have them, when it very quickly becomes obvious that the universe has it in for you.
I reckon all the globe's inhabitants take up a spot on a giant roulette wheel.
And there is some sadistic mo-fo somewhere out there who takes great delight in not only spinning that wheel, cos frankly that would be enough fun for me; but wreaking all kinds of shitful havoc on the poor unfortunate who belongs to the face that happens to be blipped up immediately below the flicker thing. Sorry I am not up with the roulette technical terms, alright?
Tick, tick, tick. BOOM.
So, work sucked. Plans didn't pan out. Items on lists were not crossed off. Phone messages were not returned. Emails piled up. Random, completely unnecessary phone calls wasted my time. Lunch happened to be ordinary. My ass felt particularly large and bootylicious, but most certainly NOT in a Beyonce way, in a pair of black pants that normally cut quite a dashing gib. My container of almonds ran out. I put too much milk in my tea. I forgot my notebook. Left it at home. Mightn't sound like a disaster to you, but when you are a journo working for a company that rations its stationery as if it's the Great Paper Strike of 1931, it is a quite large problem.
Was there a paper strike in 1931? I don't freaking know. The Great Depression was on, life was hell pretty much everywhere. Surely paper would have taken a hit? Maybe I am thinking shortage, not strike. But both are possible, that's all I'm saying, and therefore if you needed to get your hands on a notebook and you happened to be alive in the year 1931: it would have been almost impossible.
And to top it all off? I went on a two-hour tour of a sewage treatment plant. Is it sewage or sewerage? I really cannot be assed Googling it, as I am sure there is a correct usage rule there somewhere. So get your freaking shitty lawyers and freaking sue me.
A sewage plant tour. I voluntarily offered myself up to be escorted around an outdoor collection of concrete tanks filled to the brim with...shit.
Yeah.
Oh, and did I mention the IVF doc's office rang to tell me I needed, wait for it, another blood test.
At this rate I will be a shoe-in for Human Pincushion Society president - or at least life member.
So I go in again this Thursday - my cycle is clearly stuck in molasses.
That will be my third blood test in seven days.
And, alright, I hear you: it's not the end of the world. At a wild guess, there would most likely be millions of people on the planet right now who are worse off than me.
I get that. And I get that we all have bad days.
But - you knew a but was coming right? - that was about the worst news I could hear on a day like today.
That was my day folks. Literally, figuratively, metamorphically, freaking emotionally, laboriously, monotonously, repetitively, annoyingly, endlessly.
You know those days...we all have them, when it very quickly becomes obvious that the universe has it in for you.
I reckon all the globe's inhabitants take up a spot on a giant roulette wheel.
And there is some sadistic mo-fo somewhere out there who takes great delight in not only spinning that wheel, cos frankly that would be enough fun for me; but wreaking all kinds of shitful havoc on the poor unfortunate who belongs to the face that happens to be blipped up immediately below the flicker thing. Sorry I am not up with the roulette technical terms, alright?
Tick, tick, tick. BOOM.
So, work sucked. Plans didn't pan out. Items on lists were not crossed off. Phone messages were not returned. Emails piled up. Random, completely unnecessary phone calls wasted my time. Lunch happened to be ordinary. My ass felt particularly large and bootylicious, but most certainly NOT in a Beyonce way, in a pair of black pants that normally cut quite a dashing gib. My container of almonds ran out. I put too much milk in my tea. I forgot my notebook. Left it at home. Mightn't sound like a disaster to you, but when you are a journo working for a company that rations its stationery as if it's the Great Paper Strike of 1931, it is a quite large problem.
Was there a paper strike in 1931? I don't freaking know. The Great Depression was on, life was hell pretty much everywhere. Surely paper would have taken a hit? Maybe I am thinking shortage, not strike. But both are possible, that's all I'm saying, and therefore if you needed to get your hands on a notebook and you happened to be alive in the year 1931: it would have been almost impossible.
And to top it all off? I went on a two-hour tour of a sewage treatment plant. Is it sewage or sewerage? I really cannot be assed Googling it, as I am sure there is a correct usage rule there somewhere. So get your freaking shitty lawyers and freaking sue me.
A sewage plant tour. I voluntarily offered myself up to be escorted around an outdoor collection of concrete tanks filled to the brim with...shit.
Yeah.
Oh, and did I mention the IVF doc's office rang to tell me I needed, wait for it, another blood test.
At this rate I will be a shoe-in for Human Pincushion Society president - or at least life member.
So I go in again this Thursday - my cycle is clearly stuck in molasses.
That will be my third blood test in seven days.
And, alright, I hear you: it's not the end of the world. At a wild guess, there would most likely be millions of people on the planet right now who are worse off than me.
I get that. And I get that we all have bad days.
But - you knew a but was coming right? - that was about the worst news I could hear on a day like today.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Let the blood run free
Hey-ho, here we go, a trip to the bloodsuckers again this mor-ning.
That's how the nursery rhyme goes, right?
I am such a good parent.
Yep, second blood test in five days and my membership to the Human Pincushion Society has now been verified. Woo hoo, YES! I am in! You know me, the more acronyms I can align myself with, the better.
Unfortunately, my cycle seems to be in some kind of hormonal valium haze. Plainly, it's off smoking grass with some hippy Gypsies in a communal tent village in the Byron Bay hinterland. Anytime you're ready, sunshine! We got work to do!!
Yes, it is moving very slowly indeed. My blood test last Thursday did not show enough movement in the ovulation stakes, so another was ordered for today.
I should get a call from the doc tomorrow to hopefully tell me that all is well, firstly, and to then give me a date and a time.
A date and a time. To implant the next embryo, this time a frozen one.
I went off to sleep last night thinking about that; about our little embies in their icy, icy home in the city lab and how it's almost time for another transfer again.
I think my state of mind can be summed up in one simple facial gesture. Make sure your two rows of teeth are pressed against each other, open your lips to form kind of a pretend or fake smile, jut out your jaw, widen your eyes, wrinkle that forehead and breathe in audibly. Your shoulders may rise at the same time. Your palms may involuntarily turn outwards or they may indeed come flying up to your mouth in either a mock or genuine nail-biting movement.
It is a gesture that, altogether, screams: "holy shit, this is pretty freaking scary, isn't it??"
And thank god for Google images, really...when words just aren't enough. Even the enormous amount of words I seem compelled to use. Which you would think would be enough. Sadly, no. Is that Fifi Box in that photo?
Anyway, as I was thinking about the next transfer I got that familiar old feeling of anxiety. For me, it's a physical reaction. First, there's a white hot strap over the back of my skull - the left side, mostly. Does that mean anything? Then it's a queasiness sitting at the top of my stomach, where I imagine the diaphragm to be based on those diagrams we used to study in Year 10 Biology.
Ring any bells? Flashback to Year 10 Biology anyone? Stop playing with that bunsen burner! Turn the gas off! You cannot drink the hydrocholoric acid! Please note the general diaphragmal area, where my anxiety butterflies are primarily contained.
But then I really made a point to put any abnormally huge fears out and away from my mind. I think a small amount of anxiety is completely reasonable, rational and normal.
But I really have to let most of it go. Relinquish. Give it up. Disregard. Abandon.
The large doses of anxiety that threaten in my case, being as highly-strung and frankly mental as I am, are really not healthy. They are not constructive. It is that simple.
So - chill! Perspective, sanity, calm.
Perspective, sanity, calm.
I figure if I write this stuff down often enough, it will actually translate into a reality in my mind!
That's how the nursery rhyme goes, right?
I am such a good parent.
Yep, second blood test in five days and my membership to the Human Pincushion Society has now been verified. Woo hoo, YES! I am in! You know me, the more acronyms I can align myself with, the better.
Unfortunately, my cycle seems to be in some kind of hormonal valium haze. Plainly, it's off smoking grass with some hippy Gypsies in a communal tent village in the Byron Bay hinterland. Anytime you're ready, sunshine! We got work to do!!
Yes, it is moving very slowly indeed. My blood test last Thursday did not show enough movement in the ovulation stakes, so another was ordered for today.
I should get a call from the doc tomorrow to hopefully tell me that all is well, firstly, and to then give me a date and a time.
A date and a time. To implant the next embryo, this time a frozen one.
I went off to sleep last night thinking about that; about our little embies in their icy, icy home in the city lab and how it's almost time for another transfer again.
I think my state of mind can be summed up in one simple facial gesture. Make sure your two rows of teeth are pressed against each other, open your lips to form kind of a pretend or fake smile, jut out your jaw, widen your eyes, wrinkle that forehead and breathe in audibly. Your shoulders may rise at the same time. Your palms may involuntarily turn outwards or they may indeed come flying up to your mouth in either a mock or genuine nail-biting movement.
It is a gesture that, altogether, screams: "holy shit, this is pretty freaking scary, isn't it??"And thank god for Google images, really...when words just aren't enough. Even the enormous amount of words I seem compelled to use. Which you would think would be enough. Sadly, no. Is that Fifi Box in that photo?
Anyway, as I was thinking about the next transfer I got that familiar old feeling of anxiety. For me, it's a physical reaction. First, there's a white hot strap over the back of my skull - the left side, mostly. Does that mean anything? Then it's a queasiness sitting at the top of my stomach, where I imagine the diaphragm to be based on those diagrams we used to study in Year 10 Biology.
Ring any bells? Flashback to Year 10 Biology anyone? Stop playing with that bunsen burner! Turn the gas off! You cannot drink the hydrocholoric acid! Please note the general diaphragmal area, where my anxiety butterflies are primarily contained.
But then I really made a point to put any abnormally huge fears out and away from my mind. I think a small amount of anxiety is completely reasonable, rational and normal.
But I really have to let most of it go. Relinquish. Give it up. Disregard. Abandon.
The large doses of anxiety that threaten in my case, being as highly-strung and frankly mental as I am, are really not healthy. They are not constructive. It is that simple.
So - chill! Perspective, sanity, calm.
Perspective, sanity, calm.
I figure if I write this stuff down often enough, it will actually translate into a reality in my mind!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Counting down? Yeah it's getting old
Hello friend.
Two more days and I will voluntarily take myself into an office about 2 minutes' drive from where I work and smile cheerfully while making small talk with a lady who will stick a big-ass shiny needle in my arm and suck out a vial of blood.
Yes, that's right, I am still on that IVF rollercoaster. Remember that one? Haha.
I must admit that the rollercoaster has certainly hit the languid phase these past few weeks. I'm sure I saw a documentary once about the thought that goes into the design of rollercoasters and how it was crucial that they had ups and downs, both in a physical and figurative sense: kind of like a metaphor for life, man. So there should be so many metres of track that were thrilling, so many metres that were frightening and so many metres that were...languid, subdued, the storm's calm canary.
Right now I am filled to the brim with excitement and the thought of...possiblity. I can once again feel the beginnings of a slow build to what I hope will be a thrill.
I keep imagining myself pregnant, a few months from now, looking back on these posts, reading through them and remembering how uncertain I was.
It feels different this time. First of all I honestly feel a lot calmer - well, today, at this moment, I do. I guess my head is not all stuffed to overflowing with scientists reports, embryo gradings, appointment times, cycle times, medication, instructions etc etc etc!
I mean, some of that is there, sure...but it's not new and freaky this time.
Secondly, this marks about the fifth straight day of dedicated exercise. Now, I like to be active every day. But that normally means a 25 minute walk and not a lot else, well, not outdoors anyway...
But lately I have been consumed with a bizarre urge to run, to get my heart pumping, to sweat and to push further than I normally would on a bike ride.
It's crazy. I am someone who hates hills - both as a pedestrian and a cyclist. I do not like doing the huffy puffy while wearing sneakers and trackies and, frankly, I don't like to run unless someone is chasing me.
But there I was the other night, yes, in the dark (such was my weird commitment) running up the street. Truthfully, I do walk-run-walk-run-walk-run, but I do run.
Anyway, I remember a moment during that run when a voice popped into my head.
"Stop," it said. "You should stop now and just walk the rest of the way home. Your breathing is getting quite laboured, is that a stitch starting to form in your chest? You might twist your ankle on a rogue bit of branch that has fallen on the path, just stop."
But then, some other random voice I don't believe I have heard before said: "Do not stop. Eyes up, look ahead and focus on the end of the road. Now go."
Well I was so shit-scared at the obvious indication that I had the Commando Army trainer from Biggest Loser in my head, that I sprinted the whole way home.
It does feel like I am suddenly training for some Olympic event...well some regional masters amateur athletics carnival...where I am the only one entered in my own category. I feel like I am in training. I feel driven to get my body prepared.
Will it work? Will it help this time?
I was going to write, will it make a difference. But I don't think that's a good way of looking at it.
I know from being a parent for more than two years that you can and will give yourself a one-way ticket to Crazy Town (with a stopover in Mental Hills) if: you take the word of every "well-meaning" advice offerer as gospel and if you think that various questionable sources of so-called reliable information (random forum postings anyone?) are, well, reliable.
Do what feels right at the time, I say. Do what matches your values and what you are 98% sure will have a positive impact on the situation/child/your body/whatever.
Life is nothing but guesswork. Inform those guesses with as much good quality information you can and you'll be fine.
Two more days and I will voluntarily take myself into an office about 2 minutes' drive from where I work and smile cheerfully while making small talk with a lady who will stick a big-ass shiny needle in my arm and suck out a vial of blood.
Yes, that's right, I am still on that IVF rollercoaster. Remember that one? Haha.
I must admit that the rollercoaster has certainly hit the languid phase these past few weeks. I'm sure I saw a documentary once about the thought that goes into the design of rollercoasters and how it was crucial that they had ups and downs, both in a physical and figurative sense: kind of like a metaphor for life, man. So there should be so many metres of track that were thrilling, so many metres that were frightening and so many metres that were...languid, subdued, the storm's calm canary.
Right now I am filled to the brim with excitement and the thought of...possiblity. I can once again feel the beginnings of a slow build to what I hope will be a thrill.
I keep imagining myself pregnant, a few months from now, looking back on these posts, reading through them and remembering how uncertain I was.
It feels different this time. First of all I honestly feel a lot calmer - well, today, at this moment, I do. I guess my head is not all stuffed to overflowing with scientists reports, embryo gradings, appointment times, cycle times, medication, instructions etc etc etc!
I mean, some of that is there, sure...but it's not new and freaky this time.
Secondly, this marks about the fifth straight day of dedicated exercise. Now, I like to be active every day. But that normally means a 25 minute walk and not a lot else, well, not outdoors anyway...
But lately I have been consumed with a bizarre urge to run, to get my heart pumping, to sweat and to push further than I normally would on a bike ride.
It's crazy. I am someone who hates hills - both as a pedestrian and a cyclist. I do not like doing the huffy puffy while wearing sneakers and trackies and, frankly, I don't like to run unless someone is chasing me.
But there I was the other night, yes, in the dark (such was my weird commitment) running up the street. Truthfully, I do walk-run-walk-run-walk-run, but I do run.
Anyway, I remember a moment during that run when a voice popped into my head.
"Stop," it said. "You should stop now and just walk the rest of the way home. Your breathing is getting quite laboured, is that a stitch starting to form in your chest? You might twist your ankle on a rogue bit of branch that has fallen on the path, just stop."
But then, some other random voice I don't believe I have heard before said: "Do not stop. Eyes up, look ahead and focus on the end of the road. Now go."
Well I was so shit-scared at the obvious indication that I had the Commando Army trainer from Biggest Loser in my head, that I sprinted the whole way home.
It does feel like I am suddenly training for some Olympic event...well some regional masters amateur athletics carnival...where I am the only one entered in my own category. I feel like I am in training. I feel driven to get my body prepared.
Will it work? Will it help this time?
I was going to write, will it make a difference. But I don't think that's a good way of looking at it.
I know from being a parent for more than two years that you can and will give yourself a one-way ticket to Crazy Town (with a stopover in Mental Hills) if: you take the word of every "well-meaning" advice offerer as gospel and if you think that various questionable sources of so-called reliable information (random forum postings anyone?) are, well, reliable.
Do what feels right at the time, I say. Do what matches your values and what you are 98% sure will have a positive impact on the situation/child/your body/whatever.
Life is nothing but guesswork. Inform those guesses with as much good quality information you can and you'll be fine.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Papa can you hear me?
So I have made a new bloggy friend and she is a devastatingly good writer.
She is in a similar situation to me: she's gay, she using donor sperm to make a baby, she is using IVF, she's a she...see how much we have in common?
However, let me tell you the one big thing we differ markedly on: the identity of the donor.
She knows him, has a good relationship with him, she's moved house to be closer to him, they have coffee regularly and she even uses words like daddy and father when referring to him.
Honestly I mean no offence, but I cannot imagine anything more awkward or strange or icky.
The most we know about our donor is contained in a 10-page questionnaire. To us, he is a number. And it might sound harsh or clinical, but that's just the way we like it.
We met up with another friend while in Adelaide a week ago - she's in a same-sex relationship too, they have one little boy also and are also trying for number two.
Her school of thought was all about full disclosure also. "I cannot imagine having someone's sperm inside me from someone I didn't know, or like."
After I gagged, I kind of got her drift. But we actually prefer and like the not knowing. And thank Christ we agree.
Honestly, we are probably a bit gun-shy. Perhaps because T's parents have not been the most, shall we say, accepting of our relationship; and perhaps because we have read one too many magazine stories and seen one too many documentaries about known donor relationships going horribly awry. I guess it is just one less thing we have to worry about trusting.
I mean, we are devoted to each other and committed 100% - that's fine, I will never question that. But then you want to bring in a third party? Who you might not know very well, whose circumstances and mind could change for all sorts of reasons?
It was a preservation mechanism: both for us and whatever children we had, I think.
Of course, there is potential for Jay to go searching for this man when he turns 18. We will help him find him and go with him on the plane if that's what he wants and if that's what ends up happening.
Right now, we are flat out preparing for how we have that conversation - and how we have it age-appropriately.
Believe me, we have both lost sleep over wondering what the hell we are going to say if Jay comes home from Year 1 to tell us that his best friend was telling him that day that he was going camping with his dad on the weekend and where was Jay's dad?
At this stage, I am content to default to what the counsellor told us at the IVF clinic: your son will not have a father, he will have two mums.
And, my, wasn't it a relief to hear those simple words? My brain had over-analysed to the hilt...I was getting ready to draw diagrams, make a papier mache diorama, write a book, illustrate it, clip a topiary interpretation of the situation on the hedge outside and stage a play to help us explain how in god's name Jay came into the world and why he had two people of the same sex as his parents...this, yes this was much better.
"Well son, you don't have a dad. You have two mums."
The scary thing of course, however, is what is said after that...how we deal with that moment when Jay looks at us in the seconds after we deliver such forthright words with blank, naive eyes and his sharp little brain starts formulating the very next question.
Those words are something, but I know they won't be enough.
What will we say?
Who knows? But we will work it out, just as we have always done.
That was a very Hallmark end to the post, wasn't it? Didn't it smack of the "and they all lived happily ever after"?
But that's what I am slowly gathering about parenting. You just do your freaking best. Most days it's fine, some days it is spectacular and others, it's truly from a place called hell.
She is in a similar situation to me: she's gay, she using donor sperm to make a baby, she is using IVF, she's a she...see how much we have in common?
However, let me tell you the one big thing we differ markedly on: the identity of the donor.
She knows him, has a good relationship with him, she's moved house to be closer to him, they have coffee regularly and she even uses words like daddy and father when referring to him.
Honestly I mean no offence, but I cannot imagine anything more awkward or strange or icky.
The most we know about our donor is contained in a 10-page questionnaire. To us, he is a number. And it might sound harsh or clinical, but that's just the way we like it.
We met up with another friend while in Adelaide a week ago - she's in a same-sex relationship too, they have one little boy also and are also trying for number two.
Her school of thought was all about full disclosure also. "I cannot imagine having someone's sperm inside me from someone I didn't know, or like."
After I gagged, I kind of got her drift. But we actually prefer and like the not knowing. And thank Christ we agree.
Honestly, we are probably a bit gun-shy. Perhaps because T's parents have not been the most, shall we say, accepting of our relationship; and perhaps because we have read one too many magazine stories and seen one too many documentaries about known donor relationships going horribly awry. I guess it is just one less thing we have to worry about trusting.
I mean, we are devoted to each other and committed 100% - that's fine, I will never question that. But then you want to bring in a third party? Who you might not know very well, whose circumstances and mind could change for all sorts of reasons?
It was a preservation mechanism: both for us and whatever children we had, I think.
Of course, there is potential for Jay to go searching for this man when he turns 18. We will help him find him and go with him on the plane if that's what he wants and if that's what ends up happening.
Right now, we are flat out preparing for how we have that conversation - and how we have it age-appropriately.
Believe me, we have both lost sleep over wondering what the hell we are going to say if Jay comes home from Year 1 to tell us that his best friend was telling him that day that he was going camping with his dad on the weekend and where was Jay's dad?
At this stage, I am content to default to what the counsellor told us at the IVF clinic: your son will not have a father, he will have two mums.
And, my, wasn't it a relief to hear those simple words? My brain had over-analysed to the hilt...I was getting ready to draw diagrams, make a papier mache diorama, write a book, illustrate it, clip a topiary interpretation of the situation on the hedge outside and stage a play to help us explain how in god's name Jay came into the world and why he had two people of the same sex as his parents...this, yes this was much better.
"Well son, you don't have a dad. You have two mums."
The scary thing of course, however, is what is said after that...how we deal with that moment when Jay looks at us in the seconds after we deliver such forthright words with blank, naive eyes and his sharp little brain starts formulating the very next question.
Those words are something, but I know they won't be enough.
What will we say?
Who knows? But we will work it out, just as we have always done.
That was a very Hallmark end to the post, wasn't it? Didn't it smack of the "and they all lived happily ever after"?
But that's what I am slowly gathering about parenting. You just do your freaking best. Most days it's fine, some days it is spectacular and others, it's truly from a place called hell.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Worry worry worry
I started reading bits of What To Expect When You're Expecting and thank you Heidi whatever-your-name-is for writing in your introduction how common a perpetual state of worry is for a pregnant, or possibly-pregnant, women.
I am a worrier by nature anyway - to the point of neuroses, truly frightening visions and black thoughts, actually, but that's another therapy session.
So, add a pregancy into the cauldron of concern...then make it one that won't be certain until another seven days...and I can pretty much slice cheese with the furrows in my brow.
Mostly I worry that I don't feel anything at all right now. I read something that said morning sickness doesn't normally start until the sixth or seventh week, so that ruled out being temporarily overjoyed at vomiting the other day. Sadly, it was merely gastro...
I swear sometimes I have felt a slight twinge low in my belly, down on my left side. I've felt it about six times so far, and it's not like a pain or anything, but I am convinced it is the embryo planting its suckers into the lining of the uterus and latching on for dear life! Ha, wishful thinking.
I also read something that the embryo floats around for about four days before actually attaching...what a bizarre thought. Is it scared, worried where the hell it is and if its not-yet-formed feet will ever touch solid "ground"?
It's probably having a great time...like going on a last-fling cruise before settling down: literally.
I worry that it's already been absorbed away into nothingness, like the second emrbyo that was implanted into T alongside Jay did.
T felt nothing...it was a tiny speck of cells that simply stopped...being.
What if that's happened already? And what if that's why I feel as normal as I've always felt?
Now, that sort of talk is DEFINITELY NOT helping - but it clouds my mind sometimes. Lots of times.
I put my hand on my belly when I'm alone and try to feel a connection with that little bunch of cells...my little bunch of cells, our little embie.
Sometimes I have a wave of maternal warmth wash over me. Other times, it's like calling out to no one in a cold, empty church...
I keep trying to focus on the thought in the back of my mind that I will look back at this time and laugh at how ridiculous I was, worrying so much.
But you show me a parent who doesn't worry and I'll show you a Catholic priest officiating at a same-sex wedding...with Tony Abbott as best man!
I am a worrier by nature anyway - to the point of neuroses, truly frightening visions and black thoughts, actually, but that's another therapy session.
So, add a pregancy into the cauldron of concern...then make it one that won't be certain until another seven days...and I can pretty much slice cheese with the furrows in my brow.
Mostly I worry that I don't feel anything at all right now. I read something that said morning sickness doesn't normally start until the sixth or seventh week, so that ruled out being temporarily overjoyed at vomiting the other day. Sadly, it was merely gastro...
I swear sometimes I have felt a slight twinge low in my belly, down on my left side. I've felt it about six times so far, and it's not like a pain or anything, but I am convinced it is the embryo planting its suckers into the lining of the uterus and latching on for dear life! Ha, wishful thinking.
I also read something that the embryo floats around for about four days before actually attaching...what a bizarre thought. Is it scared, worried where the hell it is and if its not-yet-formed feet will ever touch solid "ground"?
It's probably having a great time...like going on a last-fling cruise before settling down: literally.
I worry that it's already been absorbed away into nothingness, like the second emrbyo that was implanted into T alongside Jay did.
T felt nothing...it was a tiny speck of cells that simply stopped...being.
What if that's happened already? And what if that's why I feel as normal as I've always felt?
Now, that sort of talk is DEFINITELY NOT helping - but it clouds my mind sometimes. Lots of times.
I put my hand on my belly when I'm alone and try to feel a connection with that little bunch of cells...my little bunch of cells, our little embie.
Sometimes I have a wave of maternal warmth wash over me. Other times, it's like calling out to no one in a cold, empty church...
I keep trying to focus on the thought in the back of my mind that I will look back at this time and laugh at how ridiculous I was, worrying so much.
But you show me a parent who doesn't worry and I'll show you a Catholic priest officiating at a same-sex wedding...with Tony Abbott as best man!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Euphoria dysphoria
Thought I'd better fill you in roughly on the process I am undertaking.
I am doing ICSI...stands for Intra Cytoplasmic Sperm Injection, like you see on TV where the pipette syringe thingo pierces the egg and implants sperm. But it's not that simple...there's lots required in the lead-up.
As I mentioned I am taking a drug called Synarel twice daily. It stops my ovaries producing eggs - d'uh, I mean we need to hang onto those little things, right?
But, here is what I think is the weird part...that's not enough. So, tomorrow we go to the clinic in Brisbane to pick up a round of injections I will need to stimulate those ovaries into hyper-production.
Well, not hyper-production...too much and I end up in hospital, but hopefully enough so instead of the one egg the body produces during ovulation every month, we get about 6 or 10. They are then harvested (what am I? A field of wheat?) and are fertilised (what am I? A veggie patch?) before being implanted - one at a time...
Depending on how many eggs are collected and how many look strong enough after fertilisation to be frozen, that's how many cycles we will have up our sleeve. But T only needed one little embryo for Jay - and it was the first one, so here's hoping.
So that's where we are at right now. Freaking out mildly at the injections, particularly as I am almost 100% sure I will be sticking that thing into my own flabby gut. Despite the fact that I gritted my teeth and injected T when she needed it years back, I don't think Miss Needle-Phobe is really going to cop it as sweet this time around.
In the meantime, it's a matter of coping with the hormonal highs and lows...which whether psychological or real, seem more intense since Synarel. Has it ever been used as a defence in a homicide? I must Google that one day...I may need to know.
Honestly, one minute I can be raging and frothing at the mouth at the fricking idiot in the green Lancer just in front of me on the drive home because she is doing a whole 7 ks under the speed limit, while the next I can be sobbing my way through tissue boxes because Jay wants me - and only me - to read him a book, or he spends his first night in his big boy bed (last night, sob) or if a Huggies ad comes on. It must be love, love, love...boooooo hoooooo!
Most times, such mood swings come and go in a flash. But other times, the consequences are a little longer lasting.
My mum visited on the weekend and we ordered a pizza for dinner Sunday night. I staged a one-woman mutiny against the fact that I always am the one to pick up the pizzas and announced that T would be driving up to get them this time (first red flag that a particularly dangerous mood was on its way). I order, am told it will be 18 minutes and end up ordering T out the door 25 minutes later. She returns and, predictably, the pizza is stone cold.
I feel white hot bubbles of rage rise within me at that point. Turn on my heel and flick on the oven to 200-degrees. I spin around again, snatch the pizza and throw it in the oven - box and all - while harrumphing "I hate cold pizza" and "I told you it was only going to be 18 minutes". A little while later, I decide to check on the pizza only to see the box has caught on fire, having touched the element on the roof of the oven - of all the strangest places...
So we all burst into action, tea towels are swatting, oven trays and clanging and pot lids are being stamped all over the embering box. The smoke alarm is squealing and we begin dreaming of a black Christmas as large square flecks of burnt cardboard up and flutter throughout the kitchen at odd, annoying angles. Noice.
We fluff off the bits of charcoal and eat what we can in silence. I am sheepish, I apologise and feel bad. But the charcoal has been great for my lower intestine.
I am doing ICSI...stands for Intra Cytoplasmic Sperm Injection, like you see on TV where the pipette syringe thingo pierces the egg and implants sperm. But it's not that simple...there's lots required in the lead-up.
As I mentioned I am taking a drug called Synarel twice daily. It stops my ovaries producing eggs - d'uh, I mean we need to hang onto those little things, right?
But, here is what I think is the weird part...that's not enough. So, tomorrow we go to the clinic in Brisbane to pick up a round of injections I will need to stimulate those ovaries into hyper-production.
Well, not hyper-production...too much and I end up in hospital, but hopefully enough so instead of the one egg the body produces during ovulation every month, we get about 6 or 10. They are then harvested (what am I? A field of wheat?) and are fertilised (what am I? A veggie patch?) before being implanted - one at a time...
Depending on how many eggs are collected and how many look strong enough after fertilisation to be frozen, that's how many cycles we will have up our sleeve. But T only needed one little embryo for Jay - and it was the first one, so here's hoping.
So that's where we are at right now. Freaking out mildly at the injections, particularly as I am almost 100% sure I will be sticking that thing into my own flabby gut. Despite the fact that I gritted my teeth and injected T when she needed it years back, I don't think Miss Needle-Phobe is really going to cop it as sweet this time around.
In the meantime, it's a matter of coping with the hormonal highs and lows...which whether psychological or real, seem more intense since Synarel. Has it ever been used as a defence in a homicide? I must Google that one day...I may need to know.
Honestly, one minute I can be raging and frothing at the mouth at the fricking idiot in the green Lancer just in front of me on the drive home because she is doing a whole 7 ks under the speed limit, while the next I can be sobbing my way through tissue boxes because Jay wants me - and only me - to read him a book, or he spends his first night in his big boy bed (last night, sob) or if a Huggies ad comes on. It must be love, love, love...boooooo hoooooo!
Most times, such mood swings come and go in a flash. But other times, the consequences are a little longer lasting.
My mum visited on the weekend and we ordered a pizza for dinner Sunday night. I staged a one-woman mutiny against the fact that I always am the one to pick up the pizzas and announced that T would be driving up to get them this time (first red flag that a particularly dangerous mood was on its way). I order, am told it will be 18 minutes and end up ordering T out the door 25 minutes later. She returns and, predictably, the pizza is stone cold.
I feel white hot bubbles of rage rise within me at that point. Turn on my heel and flick on the oven to 200-degrees. I spin around again, snatch the pizza and throw it in the oven - box and all - while harrumphing "I hate cold pizza" and "I told you it was only going to be 18 minutes". A little while later, I decide to check on the pizza only to see the box has caught on fire, having touched the element on the roof of the oven - of all the strangest places...
So we all burst into action, tea towels are swatting, oven trays and clanging and pot lids are being stamped all over the embering box. The smoke alarm is squealing and we begin dreaming of a black Christmas as large square flecks of burnt cardboard up and flutter throughout the kitchen at odd, annoying angles. Noice.
We fluff off the bits of charcoal and eat what we can in silence. I am sheepish, I apologise and feel bad. But the charcoal has been great for my lower intestine.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Creation
"Your blog has been created"
Were ever more thrilling words ever written? Haha, I will try and suspend the melodramatic. Although, I must warn you all, I am currently on some wacky drugs designed to put my body in a menopausal state. So melodrama may in fact end up being the dominant theme of this little blog.
Hello, this is me.
I have just taken my first cautious steps aboard the IVF rollercoaster, although my female partner has been there are done that - the ups, the downs and the final spectacular, exhilirating rush to the finish that produced our little boy, Jay, who turned two last month.
Now it's my turn and I am 14 days into my first round of IVF treatment. That's 28 doses of a nasal spray called Synarel (cue the menopause and the homicidal thoughts) which helps prepare my ovaries for a round of stimulation injections. And they are now more imminent with the arrival of my period today.
Hang on.
What was that? I think I just heard all the men click out of this blog, right? Haha. If you had a penis and had already read the words "menopause", "ovaries" and "period" just five short pars into a blog, would you hang around? Really?
So, hello ladies, and hello to you, lone man who has stood tall in the face of judgment and hung in there, perhaps out of interest, or perhaps because his computer has frozen stuck on this page. In my mind, you are called Terry, you live in a garage above a kebab shop and maybe you are intrigued by this strange IVF process. I'm with you on that one.
I have started this blog to document my IVF...no, I refuse to say it. There will be no "journeys" here - in my mind, journeys should remain firmly confined to the realms of Idol, Biggest Loser and So You Think You Can Dance (and they shall be accompanied by fake tears and sob stories). This is my experience with IVF - it may be like yours, it may be like that of someone you know, or it may be completely different. But like Dr Phil...or someone, once said, "It's healthy to share". And now that I have joined a blogosphere that for better or worse doesn't seem to understand the concept of "too much information", here I go.
Feel that? Butterflies in your stomach, dry mouth and a whoosh of air as, thud!, into your body goes the bumper bar which has just lowered and clamped to your chest. It's meant to secure you snugly into your seat, but you are shit-scared you might fall out, that something will go wrong or it might not be as good as you'd hoped.
Ready? The rollercoaster has just taken off.
Click, click, click. Here we go.
Were ever more thrilling words ever written? Haha, I will try and suspend the melodramatic. Although, I must warn you all, I am currently on some wacky drugs designed to put my body in a menopausal state. So melodrama may in fact end up being the dominant theme of this little blog.
Hello, this is me.
I have just taken my first cautious steps aboard the IVF rollercoaster, although my female partner has been there are done that - the ups, the downs and the final spectacular, exhilirating rush to the finish that produced our little boy, Jay, who turned two last month.
Now it's my turn and I am 14 days into my first round of IVF treatment. That's 28 doses of a nasal spray called Synarel (cue the menopause and the homicidal thoughts) which helps prepare my ovaries for a round of stimulation injections. And they are now more imminent with the arrival of my period today.
Hang on.
What was that? I think I just heard all the men click out of this blog, right? Haha. If you had a penis and had already read the words "menopause", "ovaries" and "period" just five short pars into a blog, would you hang around? Really?
So, hello ladies, and hello to you, lone man who has stood tall in the face of judgment and hung in there, perhaps out of interest, or perhaps because his computer has frozen stuck on this page. In my mind, you are called Terry, you live in a garage above a kebab shop and maybe you are intrigued by this strange IVF process. I'm with you on that one.
I have started this blog to document my IVF...no, I refuse to say it. There will be no "journeys" here - in my mind, journeys should remain firmly confined to the realms of Idol, Biggest Loser and So You Think You Can Dance (and they shall be accompanied by fake tears and sob stories). This is my experience with IVF - it may be like yours, it may be like that of someone you know, or it may be completely different. But like Dr Phil...or someone, once said, "It's healthy to share". And now that I have joined a blogosphere that for better or worse doesn't seem to understand the concept of "too much information", here I go.
Feel that? Butterflies in your stomach, dry mouth and a whoosh of air as, thud!, into your body goes the bumper bar which has just lowered and clamped to your chest. It's meant to secure you snugly into your seat, but you are shit-scared you might fall out, that something will go wrong or it might not be as good as you'd hoped.
Ready? The rollercoaster has just taken off.
Click, click, click. Here we go.
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