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.

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!

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.