The Fertility Heptathlon

I wasn’t planning to write another Olympic-themed post, but it is hard to find better analogies at the moment.  Over the last 10 days, I have thoroughly enjoyed watching a wide variety of sports, from archery and rowing to the athletics, diving and cycling.  I have to draw the line at synchronised swimming though…I just find it creepy and weird.  I think it might be because the athletes resemble giant music box dancers (cue age-old chitty chitty bang bang trauma) having a seizure underwater.  I achieved my very own lifelong dream last week by getting to see some Olympic gymnastics in person, topped off by meeting my gymnastics idol, Shannon Miller, a multiple medallist from the 90s.

However, the performance and person of the Games for me has been Jessica Ennis.  What an inspiration!  Not just her skill and strength, but the tenacity, determination and desire she exudes, plus the immense and genuine delight she displayed upon winning her gold.  Her journey in the heptathlon made me think of the current chapter of my fertility journey.  I don’t yet know if it will end in similar triumph, but here is an account of the events so far:

1.  Jess Ennis, 100m hurdles: Me, AF arriving on time.

This was a very tense wait, as detailed in my last post.  We thought I would achieve AF in 2-5 days.  I was gunning for 2, but came away disappointed.  In the final hour, target achieved late on day 5.  Not bad for a first attempt at norethisterone.

2.  Jess Ennis, high jump: Me, stimming sufficiently, but not too much.

Again things seemed to be taking longer than anticipated.  I didn’t get to start my injections until 3 days later than planned, pushing the potential egg collection day dangerously close to my trip to London.  My injection technique developed and improved over the 11 days.  I achieved impressive bruises on legs and tummy and (bonus points?) managed to completely forget to do my first cetrotide injection, only remembering I was supposed to have done it 24 hours later!  Thankfully this didn’t have a negative impact on the treatment as I was starting cetrotide 2 days early as a precaution (had someone predicted my stupidity?!), but it did cause me to have a wild late-night panic and full blown identity crisis ("but I have always been sooooo organised…who have I become?!").  My eggs grew steadily and we ultimately made it to egg collection just in time.  The score: 17 eggs, clear of the 25 limit (which would have led to another abandoned cycle).

3.  Jess Ennis, javelin: Me, turning eggs into embryos.

 Of our 17 eggs, 13 were mature and 12 fertilised, which is an incredible rate.  We were warned to expect 60% fertilisation and my calculations made the 12/13 closer to 92%.  Cue shocked celebration.   Admittedly, I don’t deserve much credit for this ‘event’, but I certainly lived this one on the edge, waiting for phone calls and sending every positive vibe I could muster to our little ones in the lab.

4.  Jess Ennis, 200m:  Me, getting to blastocyst.

We needed 5 good quality, still growing embryos to push on to blastocyst (the stage an embryo reaches on day 5).  Success rates are greater for blastocyst transfers, mainly because you are assured of a strong embryo simply because it has made it to blast.  On day 3, we had two “stand out” embryos and a couple of “average” quality.  On advice from our embryologist, we decided not to keep them going in the lab and to have the best two transferred on day 3.  I am counting this as a success in this event.  Although we didn’t make it to blast in the lab, we got two good quality embryos and have to have faith that they made it to blast once back inside.

5.  Jess Ennis, long jump: Me, embryo transfer.

Our ET ended up being quite last minute – a decision on a Saturday morning which left only time to shower and head to the hospital.  The pre-transfer shower is an interesting one, as it’s all about washing off any fragrances as these can harm the embryos.  It never feels quite right going out having used fragrance-free soap and moisturiser and no deodorant, but it’s definitely one of the easiest sacrifices to make in this process.  Our transfer went as planned, even down to the request for me to have a half-full bladder at time of transfer.  Now I challenge any of you to magically generate a half-full bladder on demand!  Add to that the small unexpected delays and half-full can feel frightening full very quickly.  And that’s before they apply heavy pressure with the ultrasound!!   Trying not to pee oneself while legs are in the air is perhaps the toughest physical challenge of the fertility heptathlon.  Our doctor seemed pleased with the ease of the transfer and despite some noticeable swelling in my ovaries, all looked good on the inside.

6.  Jess Ennis, shot put: Me, THE TWO WEEK WAIT.

The main goals in this event: stay calm, balanced, rest up and keep positive.  The main challenges: trying to stay calm, balanced, to keep hoping, believing and dreaming  in the face of constant symptom-spotting, most of which can easily be attributed to the support medications (still on 8 tablets, one injection and 4 pessaries a day).  I thought I was achieving a personal best this time around (2WW #8).  My wonderful GP signed me off work, there has been amazing TV to watch all day long and I have been so well looked after by my super DH.  While I could feel the anxieties rising, by day 7, I was hanging in there.  And then the world fell through my living room ceiling.  We have been having work done on our roof since March and, other than the inconvenience of scaffolding, noise and mess, it has been bearable.  But whatever they did on Friday caused a hole in just the wrong place and we have had 4 consecutive days of water penetration, with damage to our ceiling, wall, curtains, table, light fitting and shade and the countless towels, buckets and saucepans that I had to run around and grab to catch the water.  We also lost an irreplaceable photo from 9 years ago.  So much for me staying stress-free and chilled on my sofa.  I had an Olympic-worthy meltdown on Friday and have managed not to cry since then, but certainly over-exerted myself in 2WW relaxation terms.  Now I am not suggesting that if this attempt at baby-making has again failed, it had anything to do with our roof crisis, however it was one big ole soggy stress I could have done without. 

Yesterday, 9dp3dt, I started bleeding.  Just a little in the morning, but enough for my heart to sink.  It seemed to stop during the day but was back last night and still going this morning. I googled like a googling maniac until I had read enough accounts of women bleeding at the same stage and still being pregnant.  However the doubt is still there.  Tinged with the start of that sense of devastating loss that I have known too many times already.

7.  Jess Ennis, 800m: Me, that elusive, longed-for BFP.

And so we wait.  Two more days until I am supposed to test.  Three more days until the hospital will do a blood test to confirm what has happened.  Will I get my gold medal?  Who knows.  Can I come away from this knowing I have given it my all, tried my hardest and done absolutely everything I can to make it a success?  I really hope so.

And the gold medal for patiently waiting goes to…

Olympic fever is in full force with the 2012 opening ceremony in London this evening.  I love all things Olympics and am trying to embrace the excitement and energy the games are bringing to the UK.  But these Olympics are tinged with sadness for me.  Seven years ago, when London won the bid, I was at a gymnastics event with a friend and we were enthusiastically chatting about how we would get tickets to see the gymnastics in 2012.  I vividly remember gasping and saying, “oh my goodness, we’ll have to take the kids!”  I was so, completely convinced that I would have at least one, if not two children by then.  This statement has played again and again in my mind over the past few years.  I have chastised myself for my naivety and complacency and cried over what could or should have been.  But, like the rest of the country, I have continued to count down the days and wait patiently for the start of what will hopefully be a wonderful international celebration.

I have learnt that patience is not only a virtue, but also an essential part of any fertility treatment journey.  You wait patiently (mostly) for appointment dates and times; for a period to come so treatment can start; for blood test results and scan images; for news on your eggs, sperm and the fertilisation rate; for the survival rate of your embryos each torturous day until they are transferred back where they belong.  There is an almost comedy wait in theatre too when you have an embryo transferred.  This is done via a catheter inserted into the uterus (a relatively painless procedure).  Once the doctor has hit send, the catheter is removed and returned to the adjacent lab, where an embryologist checks that the microscopic babies haven’t got stuck in the tube.  This wait, with legs in stirrups, speculum still inserted and a bright light shining on lady bits, is eternal.  At my clinic, we wait for a ‘thumbs up’ from the embryologist through the little window into their lab.  Although I have been through this process 7 times, I still forget to breathe while I wait.  Saying that, there was one time in which the doctor and my DH provided some unexpected entertainment by being so engrossed in a chat about the merits of certain local golf courses that they missed the ‘thumbs up’ signal entirely, leaving me both exposed and confused as to where I was.

Then comes the biggest wait of all:  the two week wait.  Those four words now fill me with utter dread.  Gone are the positive thoughts of being PUPO (“pregnant until proven otherwise”), the excitement of what might be and the pride in how far we have come.  These are replaced with the knowledge that clocks will slow to an almost stop; days will drag on and on, filled with miniscule twinges that require endless analysis as to whether they might potentially, maybe, possibly be indicative of pregnancy.  And all with the soundtrack of two opposing little voices in my head: “just do a test”… “no, testing is a bad idea”… “but at least then you’ll know”… “but what if it’s negative?”… “but what if it’s positive?”… “but what if it’s negative?”…  you get the idea.

I appreciate that sounds defeatist, but I have had 7 ‘two week waits’ following treatment and over 20 after attempts to conceive naturally.  Not one of those has resulted in a pregnancy.  Instead each has culminated in the arrival of a bleed, sometimes expected, sometimes not.  And with that, nothing short of grief and despair.

My DH and I have been grieving for so many losses for so long.  Yet they are losses that we can’t openly acknowledge.  Society doesn’t recognise the loss of an embryo.  You don’t get to have a funeral or memorial service.  You barely even get to speak about what’s happened with anyone other than a partner who is also broken by grief.  It’s not just the loss of something we have created (albeit with the help of doctors, nurses and embryologists), but it is the loss of what might have been.  Of the hopes we had generated when we dared to believe it might actually happen for us.  Dates gain significance – when our first scan might have been, through to when our child should have been born.  It feels like every day someone else unwittingly overtakes us in our self-imposed race to parenthood.  And we are left behind in a cloud of their fertile dust, knowing we have lost another friend to that elusive club we might never get to join.

I worked with my counsellor on beginning to acknowledge the losses we have experienced.  On allowing myself to feel sad, angry, disappointed, frustrated…the list goes on and on.  And then I started to be able to pick myself up, piece by piece.  My DH and I decided we wanted to do something to honour and acknowledge our babies that never were.  We thought for a long time about how to do this.  For ages I wanted to burn something (angry much?!).  We thought about writing things down and sending them out to sea, but I worried about the pirates.  We considered planting a tree, but are garden-less.  In the end, it seemed that our quest to find a way to remember was all we really needed.  The journey is the destination after all. 

In thinking about ways of recognising and acknowledging the trials, the semi-triumphs and the losses associated with fertility treatment, I am reminded of a little ‘ceremony’ my DH and I had after our very first embryo transfer.  Our treatment had been against the clock… our first cycle of ICSI had been abandoned and all embryos frozen due to the risk of me developing OHSS because of the number of eggs produced.  We then had to wait 3 months before any embryos could be thawed and replaced.  This meant that our first transfer came dangerously close to the date we were relocating abroad for a year.  There had been lots of crossing of fingers and willing hormone levels to reach their targets in time and it seemed like we were going to make it.  For those who haven’t been there, you usually only get 24-48 hours notice of when a transfer will happen.  First you need a positive ovulation test and a blood test that confirms the LH surge.  Then the frozen babies need to survive the thaw and keep growing.  With those hurdles safely cleared, you’re usually good to go.  Unfortunately the last-minute nature of transfer number 1 meant that DH was away on a business trip and not due back until after the procedure had taken place.  Although he wasn’t needed in the same way as at egg retrieval (also men’s room day), it was important to both of us that he been included somehow in the event.

So in lieu of his presence in theatre, we decided to do something just the two of us that evening after the transfer.  We had been given some Chinese lanterns the previous Christmas – the giant kind that have a wick inside that you light and then they fly off into the night sky (before landing in a field somewhere and inadvertently culling some livestock).  We wrapped up warm and walked to a nearby park with views across the city where we live.  It was a dark and somewhat breezy night so we had to shelter from the wind at the side of a big statue.  We took turns tearfully writing our hopes and wishes on our lanterns before huddling round the first one to light it.  If this generates an image that would have seemed highly suspicious to any night-time park wanderers, then you are picturing it correctly.  The lantern filled with hot air, rose gently into the air and flew graciously off above rooftops carrying DH’s wishes with it.  We took a moment to appreciate the beauty and the symbolism before turning to light my lantern.  At which point, the lighter sparked and failed.  And sparked and failed again.  It was clear it had produced its last flame.  We were left with no choice but to bundle down the hill to the nearest 24-hour shop, with my now opened, and therefore giant, lantern trailing behind us.  New lighter purchased, we trudged back up the hill to our spot in the park and lit the wick. 

Things didn’t seem quite the same as before…the lantern struggled to fill.  It was a bit squinty and there seemed to be a small tear in one side.  When it seemed full enough we tentatively let it go.  It bounced once, twice along the ground.  We cheered it on as it stuttered up in the air, rising with small jerky movements on the breeze.  Finally it seemed like it was going to take off and it rose up and…… became firmly wedged in the branches of a nearby tree.  Where it promptly burst into flames.  Fearing CCTV infamy and an arrest for reckless fire-raising, we fled the park and ran home giggling.  And revelling in the apparent symbolism of something getting ‘stuck’, which was exactly what we were hoping our embryos would do.  To this day, there is a charred metal ring in that tree, which makes me smile sadly whenever I see it.  It reminds me of what might have been, which brings that wave of grief, but this is followed by the memory of the hysteria of our sprint home, fearing the authorities might not share our delight in the symbolic stuck-ness of our lantern.

And so to the present, where rings are the symbol of the day (the 5 Olympic, un-charred variety) and I am waiting.  Waiting for a call from the clinic to tell me how many of our 12 embryos made two days ago have survived and continued to grow.  Waiting to know if and when I can go back to have one or two transferred.  Waiting to know if it is going to work this time, if our dreams might finally come true.  And if I might be ‘taking the kids’ to the Olympics after all, because I believe that embryonic and in-utero still counts for me.

I am the Starlight!

Yesterday I had a little trip to the theatre to see the touring production of ‘Starlight Express’, which incidentally was the first musical I ever saw at the age of 7: the starting point for a lifetime of loving musical theatre and forever cursing the gods of musical talent for giving me none.   Part way through Act II, Rusty, the brave steam train sings a heart-felt, motivational track, prior to the big race.  It’s an exciting, triumphant moment in the show, which makes the audience want to take to their feet and cheer him on.  And yet yesterday, up in the cheap seats, sat a highly emotional, hormone-filled me, sobbing along to following lyrics (this is a duet, Rusty’s words in italics):

Only you

I am the Starlight.

Have the power within you

I can achieve

Just believe in yourself

Anything

The sea will part before you, stop the rain and turn the tide

All the things I didn't believe.

…

If only you

I am the Starlight,

Use the power within you

I can see it through.

Needn't beg the world to turn around and help you, if you draw on what is deep inside.

Apologies for any errors in the above.  Turns out Dr Google can do more than diagnose my every womb-twinge, as he appears to also know the words to every song ever written.  Although, I have somewhat lost confidence in his accuracy after cheating on my Spanish homework with ‘google translate’ earlier this year.  Not sure what I actually said, but my Spanish teacher giggled for a good half hour.

There are approximately 6 people in my relationship with infertility.  Me and my DH (dear husband for newcomers to my blog and/or the world of infertility acronyms) are pretty essential participants.  Dr Google probably comes next.  I tend to consult with him most days, searching incessantly until I find a post that confirms whatever hypothesis I am testing (or denies it, whichever is most likely to lead to a decent night’s sleep).  An example is last week’s desperate digging for confirmation that norethisterone doesn’t always lead to a bleed 2-3 days after finishing the tablets.  In my case it took 5 torturous days for my period to come.  Dr Google revealed that in some cases, it can take from 2 weeks to never.  At which point I shut down the macbook and tried to erase what I had just read from my mind.  Such is the pattern of my consultations with Dr G.

So it looks like we might be able to fit our third ICSI cycle into the short space before my trip to the London Olympics.  Knocking on wood, crossing fingers, toes and eyes and any other body part that might help to twist fate in my favour.  My fertility counsellor (also an essential part of my baby-making relationship) frequently comments on my tendency to engage in ‘magical thinking’, an exercise most commonly observed in 3-7 year olds.  However, in the world of fertility treatment, where there are so many uncertainties, I think placing faith in superstitions is a natural way of trying to scrape back some control.  But I guess everything is good in moderation and, when it extends beyond lucky knickers or the unlucky route to take to the clinic into an intense fear of singular magpies, then magical thinking can become somewhat paralysing and, quite frankly, pathological.  So my counsellor has been helping me to maintain some perspective and retain my mental health (or some of it).  She has honestly been the most incredible support throughout the last year.  I really don’t know what I would have done without having the time and space to talk to her about whatever was on my mind that particular week.  She is such a lovely, warm and supportive person to be around and I have just about got over the fear that she might fire me due to extreme exhaustion and bleeding ears.

Another party to our fertility relationship have been the nurses at the clinic.  They are the wonderful ladies on the front-line, doing the scans, taking the blood and dealing with many anxious phone calls filled with questions from the sublime to the ridiculous.  Ok, so none of my questions have ever been sublime and most have been completely ridiculous.  This part of the relationship is all about give and take though…I am a nightmare to get blood from.  I apparently have ‘shy veins’.  They are almost impossible to find and the doctor often has to be called to take blood from the back of my hand with a butterfly needle.  Not fun for anyone.  I once asked my favourite nurse why I was so hard to get blood from and her response was “sometimes it’s just harder with chubby arms”.  I didn’t manage a verbal response, although there were many clever ones that came to me later (the story of my life).  I immediately put my arms on a diet, but they just aren’t sticking to it.

Another vital part of our big baby-making relationship is our consultant – chief decision-maker, yet a very elusive presence.  The way our clinic works is that you get whoever is there that day to do the procedure.  So it’s often a different consultant to the person you are ‘assigned to’.  This can have its benefits.  We have met an impressive array of characters in the gynaecologists we have seen over the years.  One had a name that rhymes with ‘fanny’ (no joke).  He was also only about 5 feet tall and had a moustache, which just added to the fun.  Another consultant told me mid-transfer that I had “a really lovely cervix”.  If you can suggest the most appropriate response to that compliment, please let me know, in case it happens again. 

So over the next couple of weeks, my lovely cervix and I are going to be subjected to numerous injections, tablets, scans and blood tests, all hopefully culminating in a successful ocycyte retrieval (egg collection), in which they find lots of healthy eggs, but not too many that the treatment has to be cancelled (which is what happened on both our previous cycles).  I have been talking to my ovaries and asking them very nicely to grow an appropriate number of eggs, as quickly as they can so I can still make the Olympics.  I have always dreamed of being an Olympic athlete, but will probably need to wait until they introduce egg production as a medal-worthy event.

During the inevitable moments of anxiety, panic, fear and self-doubt, I am going to try to remember Rusty’s wise words:  I am the Starlight, I can achieve….anything…I can see it through.  While continuing to try my very hardest not to belt them out to my very own ‘tune’.  Apparently Lord Lloyd Webber doesn’t appreciate changes to his work, however unintentional… 

Until the next time… x

Testing Times: poked, prodded, cupped and 'the danger wank'

I quite enjoyed my first blog experience.  Writing was very therapeutic and receiving positive feedback from my 3 (enforced) readers was really encouraging.  So I am back for more...


Our quest for a baby began with a mutually agreed date: 1st October 2008.  An emotional conversation the previous valentines day led to the defining of this deadline.  That v-day one of my best friends told me she was pregnant.  Me and the husband (herein DH ('dear husband' for those unfamiliar with fertility website acronyms)...apologies to all the acronym haters, but DH is easier to type and I have promised eternal anonymity for my lovely DH....the reason for this may well become apparent as you continue to read...).  Where was I?  Oh yes, my lovely DH and I had been married for 7 weeks and I was 100% ready for the baby-making party.  I broke this news to him as we were enjoying a romantic dinner and, even in the dim candlelight, I saw the colour drain from his face.  You see, no one ever told him that getting married was simply the gateway to making babies.  Just like no one told him that getting engaged meant using words like 'marriage', 'wedding', and 'table centre-piece theme colours'.  He needed some time to adjust to this big news and so we agreed to continue to play it safe until the aforementioned October d-day.


I so clearly remember the utter conviction I held that the very first time we did the deed without protection would result in a tiny human.  Proof, I believe of the quality of my high school sex education  (the promotion of fear-induced celibacy).  Little did I know that there were only 2 days each cycle in which my eggs would be in the right place, and for me those two days only happen ever 5-6 weeks due to my long cycles.  So in October 2008, we gave it our best (although somewhat ignorant) shot.  And in November too.  By December, I was desperate to give everyone the news of an impending birth as a Christmas gift (no, not religious, was just lacking present inspiration that year).  But the month came and went and no conception had occurred (apart from the immaculate one).  So I decided to investigate (hello Dr Google!) and ultimately invested in a BBT thermometer with accompanying log book and a handful of ovulation predictor tests.  With the exception of some peeing-on-sticks rookie errors (oh, there are many ways to do it wrong...this perhaps needs a full post to do it justice), all went well with the temperature-taking, ovulation predicting and appropriately-timed sex.  But the months continued to close with the disappointing arrival of Aunt Flo (AF - fertility lingo for a bleed, or 'peter period' as a friend of mine used to call him).


By May 2009, I had a feeling something wasn't quite right and so went to see my GP, armed with the insider knowledge that they wouldn't do any tests until we had been trying for a year.  Cue little white lie.  We were referred for tests - mine were the blood variety, DH's required an aim and fire into a questionably small container (someone having a laugh?!).  He had to submit two samples.  I am sure this is because most gents' first sample ends up on the bathroom floor.


The day we got the results, our lives changed forever.  I know that sounds terribly dramatic, but it's true.   Everything looked fine with me, but for some inexplicable reason, DH didn't have enough swimmers.  There probably isn't a bigger assault on a man's manhood and, as I am typing this, I am overwhelmed by the strength, dignity and courage he has shown since that horrible day.  He is my rock.  And this infertility cross we have been given to bear is ours.  It's not his problem or my problem.  We own it together and will beat it together.


Following results day, we were guided (shoved) into the 'assisted conception services' maze.  This meant a three month wait for a gynaecology appointment, which consisted of me having to attend an appointment ON MY BIRTHDAY (shouted in horror), which encompassed a comedy journey to a nearby hospital, in which we drove past the hospital three times but couldn't manage to find the entrance (cue hysterical meltdown).  We then fought for a parking space, waited a long time to be seen by a receptionist, only to be told we were at the wrong end of the hospital and had to sprint (literally) to the other end so we didn't miss our appointment.  I tell you all this seemingly irrelevant detail to illustrate the absolute pointless-ness of it all, as the gynaecologist looked at the referral info and simply said she didn't know why we had been given the appointment, as on paper there was nothing wrong with me.  And gynaecology is all about lady-bits after all.  So she referred us on to another hospital, where we were unceremoniously plonked on a waiting list, where we remain to this date.  Three whole years later.


Now, I am incredibly thankful for the NHS and the accessibility of free health care in the UK, but my eggs were not getting any younger and I don't think my emotional health could have taken three years of waiting.  So I began to research private clinics.  There are three options for private fertility treatment nearby and it was difficult to decide which would be best for us.  Success rates seem so arbitrary - there are so many factors to take into consideration.  Prices gave more food for thought, but these needed to be balanced with distances, petrol costs and the whole thing became a bit tricky.  Then one clinic invited us to an open evening.  DH was horrified at the idea - he told me all he could picture was wine and nibbles and a room full of infertile couples - his idea of hell on earth.  I reassured him that it would be the opposite, given the sensitive nature of the subject matter, I was sure it would all be very discrete.  However, we arrived to wine, nibbles, and a room full of apparently infertile couples.  I actually felt massively reassured by this - they looked normal!  And there was wine.  Thankfully the evening included a free consultation with one of the doctors and we got to meet with Dr C and hear his thoughts.  


A couple of weeks later, we met with Dr C again for a more formal consultation.  He reviewed the info from the other hospitals and explained how he would approach treatment.  At one point he stopped to ask DH if he had ever been "examined".  "Errm, no" was the cautious response.  Followed by Dr C's "do you mind if I take a look?".  Now, DH's mind was an open book for me at that moment and page one said "not in a million years are you coming anywhere near my special place" (include expletives as you wish).  In spite of this, he replied with a small yet brave "ok".  Dr C took him behind a curtain, leaving me sitting the other side.  There was the sound of a zip, the snap of a latex glove, an awkward cough and it was all over.  Later that night, DH advised there was some light 'cupping'.  The outcome: all anatomically correct.  And sizeable (my assessment).


So with DH suitably violated, it was my turn.  Throughout a course of treatment like ICSI it is necessary to have several scans to look for things like follicular development, uterine lining and, if everything goes to plan then a small, flickering heartbeat.  When I went for my first scan, the nurse took DH and I into the scan room and left us so I could get into my gown.  We looked quizzically at the scanner, with its large penis-shaped probe - we'd seen lots of baby scans on various films and TV programmes and had pictured gel on my tummy and a grainy picture on the screen.  With the nurse back in the room and my legs in stirrups, the realisation that this was an 'up the way' scan hit and DH mumbled something and made a quick exit.  The nurse asked if I was ready for my dignity to go out the door and the only suitable reply was "I think he already left".


My all-time favourite moment of the pre-treatment testing times was when DH had to take another sample to the hospital.  With his aim much improved, this should have been an easy task, but he was given a specific time on a weekday to submit his sample.  He wasn't quite ready to use the "men's room" at the hospital (for fear they might know what he was doing in there.  He is a bright man, I promise.  In fact, his later evaluation of the men's room supporting materials may feature in a future post, so stay tuned).  He therefore planned to 'do what he needed to do' at home and then take his sample to the hospital.  I had been courier on a previous occasion and would like to note that this is not a simple job due to the need to keep the sample warm so the wee guys don't die.  They recommend you put the container in a pocket.  I expertly managed to choose a pocket-less outfit that day and had to traverse hospital car parks and corridors with semen in my bra.  Fun times.  Anyway, back to DH and his specifically-timed sample submission.  Meetings at work meant he was too pushed for time to get home and then to the hospital.  I assumed he would grow some balls and use the "men's room", but no.  I later found out that he chose to have what we have since termed "the danger wank" at work, in a toilet stall.  How he wasn't caught and fired, I have no idea.  Although having shared this little anecdote with a few others, I have been advised that men need to 'relieve themselves' at work fairly often.  I am still traumatised by this news.


Fast forward to the present and, while our tests may be over, the testing times endure.  I am currently waiting for a bleed so that our third ICSI cycle can begin.  I have spent almost 4 years willing AF not to show up.  Begging, pleading, bargaining on a regular basis to not have a period.  And now I am desperate for one.  It's a bit of a mind f*ck.  It's not that I am being unreasonably impatient - I have olympic games tickets and need to be in London on a certain date, so really need things to get going.  Plus I am impatient.  So if you know of any special dances you can do to make things hurry up, please let me know.  Thank you x

beginnings...

Where to begin?!  This is my first ever blog.  I wonder how many blogs start with those exact same words?  I have read many, commented on a few but, until today, never considered writing my own.  I am still not entirely sure anyone would want to read it, which is probably just as well given I have no idea if hitting the big orange 'publish' button actually enables anyone to stumble across what I write.  Plus I don't think this is something I am ready to share with people I know in the real world, so I don't plan to advertise it in my social networking circles...


So what happened today to inspire me to embark upon blogging?  Such a funny word, 'blogging'.  As the title suggests, I have been a passenger on an infertility roller-coaster for just over three years.  37 months to be exact.  Or 44 months if we date it back to the day my husband and I started actively trying for a baby without knowing the challenges that lay ahead.  That's just under 4 years, approximately 8% of my life, or more significantly, around 88% of my married life.  That may just be the most maths I have done since A'level (which I passed by the way...I feel the need to promote myself as an intelligent human being at the beginning of this blog in the hope that whatever comes out of my future typing can be seen in the context of a bright, capable person, affected by some challenging life experiences which have the potential to impact upon said person's ability to present coherent, intelligible...where was I going with this?).  Oh yes, for 4 of my 4.5 years of marriage my husband and I have been strapped in tight to the infertility roller-coaster, racing through peaks and troughs, and long, long periods on the slow inclines in between treatment.


In that time, I have drawn strength and support from close friends and family members.  I have also discovered the power of friendship through posting messages on a fertility support website.  It was on there that I made an incredible friend in another young lady, bravely facing her own off-road journey to a baby, while regularly sending me cyber love and support.  Today she sent me a link to a blog written by a new mum, who is also a survivor of fertility treatment (http://the2weekwait.blogspot.co.uk - I thoroughly recommend a read).  With the encouragement of the friend who sent me the link to the blog, I decided to sit down, start typing and see what happened.  It helps that I am 'working' from home today, which translates to: an impeccably clean and tidy flat, 2 loads of washing done and blueberry muffins baked, while my pile of work has been shifted from sofa to coffee table and back to sofa.  I will make a start as soon as I have given this blog thing a try...


I am unsure of blog etiquette - how much is ok to write on your first post?  Should I end with a cliffhanger to encourage my readers to come back for more?  I can't promise to always be cheery or to have funny stories to share.  But what I hope to do is give an insight into my journey as I embark on what will be our 8th attempt at making a baby the scientific way (there have been many more attempts the traditional way).  I have never achieved a pregnancy, nor have I been able to have a fresh embryo transferred due to my special way of responding to the fertility drugs.  I have had two cycles of ICSI (similar to IVF), in which I collectively produced 61 eggs (I am reeeeeally good at making eggs), which made a total of 27 embryos, all of which had to be frozen (if they had transferred any at the time and I had become pregnant, I would have been at high risk of developing OHSS, which is potentially life threatening).  Over a two and a half year period we have had the best 14 of those embryos transferred two at a time, but none have stuck.


So within the next couple of weeks I will be starting on the drugs again and hoping and praying that I respond like a normal person and we are able to make at least 2 good embryos, which can be transferred without going in and out of the freezer.  I hope to share my experiences as I go along and I can also think of a few little anecdotes from the past, which will hopefully make you smile.  They did us, eventually, which I think may be the secret of our survival thus far...


And so to end this beginning with a request for advice:  for any ladies who have been through fertility treatment, or even just a smear test, is it more appropriate to have a bikini wax so all is tidy down there, or to leave things au natural, so not to appear to be trying to impress?  I have so far just tried to pretend that the nurses and docs see so many lady bits that they don't care what they look like, but am having a crisis of confidence and am concerned I may be the only woman at the clinic to have not taken care of things appropriately?!  


Thank you for reading and I hope you will continue to share my journey.  Fasten those seat belts...