All aboard the express train to the hen house. They’ve got my nesting box ready, I’m scratchin round in the straw, there’s gonna be a layin. Bock eeeek!
Despite facing the “maybe we’ll cancel” call Saturday, despite planning the entire existence of project supergrover around surgery next Monday, we had a visit from the stern nurse and her magic wand this morning (“this will be cold…”) and we’re good to go this Friday. THIS Friday!
Hub in boots has been flapping his wings and making chicken sounds all day. He’s pretty impressed I can lay an egg. We were hoping for a dozen of the finest hormone induced artificially fed stressful existence cage eggs, but with me we’ve got a relatively happy hen and fingers crossed for a few short of the dozen. Or a half dozen. Whatever. I was a bit disappointed but you can’t exactly squeeze another one out. It’s IVF, not Steggles.
I am trying to think of the appropriate metaphor for what I am currently carrying around. A bunch of lead balloons on either side? Saddle bags full of shot puts? Bunch of lead grapes? Dunno but there’s something in there. Not so much painful as awkward. It is painful, but is it worse than regular period pain? Just different I guess. It’s slowly getting more intense as time goes on, but it isn’t impossible. Have to say so far, IVF has been quite fine. Touch wood. Nowhere near as bad as I was expecting.
I was quite miffed originally I didn’t get clearer guidance on when to exercise during IVF. I ran Friday night (day 6) , I ran Sunday night (day 8). No probs. Boxercise on day 4, no sweat. Today with my giant saddle bags? I am supposed to box tonight. No bloody chance. I feel like my internal organs might fall out if I moved faster than a shuffle, and a sit up would be out of the question. There will be no running. I think walking is a bit of a stretch, frankly.
Re my last post, nurse Tina was right – the pain, she arrived yesterday. No sooner were the words uttered “Yeah but I’m not in pain!” to someone in my office, than she arrived. Quietly at first (hello, you’ve been expecting me), but by the time my 3pm class hit she was a little louder (HELLO! I’m HERE. NOTICED ME?). To tell you the truth I was happy and pretty relaxed about the pain. I knew it meant we were moving in the right direction. I just have to remember not to reach for the naprogesic – they’re banned right now because they can affect implantation.
Hub in boots is psyching himself up for what he refers to as “humina humina day”. I am not sure that it will differ greatly from the good old bachelor days of a six pack of beer and some internet porn in a darkened room. Oh the inequality. He gets a bar fridge and a selection of vids, I get knocked out and attacked with needles in my most sacred bits in a room full of strangers, only to suffer bloating and bleeding for several days afterwards. Raw deal, I’m thinking.
In a similar vein, it is astounding the contrast of the marketing materials on IVF to the reality.
- The marketing brochures: photos of mothers with beautiful babies and doting husbands in a labour ward. The reality: he’s in a room on his own watching porn. I have a random doctor with his head between my legs with several assistants.
- The marketing brochures: graphs and flowcharts and a systematically planned medical intervention. The reality: a variable speed merry go round, or an express train without a driver. “the human body? Fuck knows what’s happening, just get on board!”. Yee ha!
- The marketing brochures: clear outlines of days. The reality: absolute unpredictability of your whole existence with about 4 possible date scenarios running simultaneously, and it can turn on a dime.
- the marketing brochures: all of the qualifications of your personal specialists. The reality: the voice on the end of the phone and the nurse holding the magic wand is your only link to the higher up medical professionals until they’re looking up your twilight zone as you drift off into the ether
- the marketing brochures: hopeful looking couples sitting in a chic office with a doctor. The reality: a hapless pair sitting together at the dining room table surrounded by syringes and sharps containers, belly out, wrestling with a single bloody air bubble, having driven home at 90km an hour with the fuel light on to make “injection time”
Tonight was it for injection land.
The drug wars are over. Almost. The gonal f (get you a layin, girl) has been left out in the cold. Done and dusted. The cetrotide and its crazy powder got one last look in before we got trigger happy. They rang me with the instructions today and I had to run out of a meeting. I wrote four pages of notes on the call. Cetrotide at 8pm for the last time, then baby, at 10:20, it’s trigger happy time.
I was doped out on the couch, hadn’t had tea, hanging on to a heat pack for all I was worth and drifting in and out of sleep when 8pm rolled around. I’ve been a bit wiped since the pain kicked in. No moodiness so far, I have actually been completely cool. Serene almost. No Gonal f felt weird, and I drew up the mixed powder and then jabbed the cetrotide. I immediately broke out in a bit of a rash around the injection site, but it did not swell like previous nights. Almost rang the after hours number about the rash, but figured I’d do a “wait n see”. Hope nothing becomes of it.
At 10:20pm, exactly, precisely 36 hours before the egg collection surgery, I gave myself the HcG trigger. There’s something about chinese hamsters on the leaflet. WTF? This is the final number in the IVF show, the curtain closer. I used to have a “game n watch” game in the 80’s when I was a kid, and mickey mouse had to run from hen house to hen house with a basket, catching eggs. That’s what the Ovidrel trigger does. Gets the basket out, and removes all the barriers. Starts those eggs a rolling. Lets hope someone’s there to catch them.
And on Friday, when I’m out to it, my doctor that I haven’t seen since we signed the forms, will drain each of the dark circles they can see on the ultrasound by sticking a needle (yes a freakin needle!) through the wall of my you know what, drain the fluid, and hopefully find in there, a happy little egg. The more eggs, the more needles go in. Nasty. All they can see on the scan is the fluid in the follicle, and they measure it using the ultrasound software, then work on the theory that over a certain size they’ll contain a mature egg. At first one follicle is larger and there’s lots of smaller ones. As the days go on, some give up the ghost and disappear. In a natural cycle, when one becomes dominant the others die off. In an IVF cycle, the drug wars to “egg you on” and “hold you back” at the same time, having the effect of growing all the follicles in a game of catch up to the dominant one so they all become a viable size, holding off ovulation, then finally releasing it with the trigger. Hence the bunch of lead grapes I’m currently carrying around.
Project Supergrover is moving into phase 2. Goodness knows how it got that name. We were having a drunk conversation one night a long time ago. Way before IVF, back when we thought we could do this the easy way. There’s a newsreader we love on SBS who does sports reports. And he has this mad name: Tui Palore Evan Charlton. And we decided we liked the name Evan. But we also decided it needed a whimsical middle name. So we thought snuffleufugus was a bit long, and settled on Grover. I am not sure whether we really WOULD give a kid the middle name Grover, but after a bottle of red it seemed like a damn good idea and it stuck. So when faced with IVF, Project supergrover was a logical extension.
Anyway, hub in boots bought us matching supergrover t shirts for operation supergrover. I think we’ll wear them on Friday and freak the staff out. He had his on especially for the trigger shot tonight.
Bock bock bock….bock eeeeeeek!