Geez that was a surprise and complete shock. A negative pregnancy test yesterday. Not exactly ground breaking news. Had a trip to the counsellor and was a total negative nancy, ranting and raving about poor old hub-in-boots lack of reaction to Friday’s shitty shitty news and subsequent absenting of himself on Saturday. The counsellor was rather patient with me. She’s got a good sense of when it’s time to step in and correct misconceptions, and when it’s important to just let you run off at the mouth. I ran off at the mouth like someone with tourettes. I believe there is a special flavour of tourettes which is a well known side effect of IVF.
Shortly afterwards hub-in-boots arrived for the doc we’d managed to shoulder into for a 15 minute slot. And I was happy to see him. Still he started cracking bad dad jokes throughout the TV show that was on in the waiting room. See, he’s supposed to be a dad. He has a lifetime supply of dad jokes, and I should not be the only one that has to suffer. This should be the inheritance of an embarrassed offspring with teenage friends, wishing the earth would open up and swallow them. Dad jokes are just wasted on me. Plus there’s only so many times I can punch him in public.
Despite my exile in a little icy chasm of cold quiet fury all weekend and monday morning, I was glad to see him. Started to realise how utterly ridiculous my words had been. It was good to get them out, but seriously. The self pity can only roll so far. Hub in boots strapped on his crampons and hiked into my little ice crevasse by asking all the questions in our specialist appointment, which was surprisingly positive. Instead of telling his usual long stories, he got to the point, followed up with more questions, while I sat there in my numb little tunnel trying to discuss how we manage to go again over xmas with doctor holidays and public holidays. Bloody complicated as it turns out.
Just like at the start when we didn’t know where to go or what to do or where to do it, at some point in the appointment my little self appointed ice cave began to crack, and things clunked into place. The doc just mentioned the possibility of going again, straight away, and it clicked. I was out. I felt a huge weight just lift off me, and I sat up, and started asking questions. 24 hours earlier I swore I could not go again, not right away. But I’m back. I must be mad, but I’m back.
The doc went and hunted out the blood sample I’d given for the pregnancy test at 7am, (where like a child I was deliberately 40 minutes late just to show my utter contempt for the place and to show they didn’t control everything about me. Yeah good one ice queen. IVF is reducing me to a child having a lay down tanty in a supermarket). Anyway, he said we’d hear the next morning.
We were both weirdly relieved. The doc had said good things. That at my age, to get to an a grade blastocyst out of only 3 mature eggs was a very good outcome, that I’d responded well, that we had room to move with the doses of drugs to get more eggs next time around. He was positive about our chances. He talked about the possibility of a longer cycle (agonist) at Xmas, but why he did not think this was the best cycle for me (it suppresses your pituitary gland more, and he was worried it was harder on me, depression risk wise). He also talked about the possibility of a couple of week’s delay via the pill, then a normal antagonist cycle, but largely with a different doctor due to his holidays. Agh. More unknowns. And then he talked about going again straight away. We discussed the horrors I went through after embryo transfer and how crook I was. But with progesterone levels in many IVF cycles FIVE TIMES what you normally experience in a natural cycle, I kind of get it now. No wonder I wanted smarties for dinner every night.
We left and headed straight for the pub. It just seemed like the right thing to do! I’m not sure what we were celebrating, but we were celebrating. Two light beers and I was done, but on the way we’d seen our friends at the cafe and scored an invite to a barbie at their place. Score! No cooking! It was a STINKING hot night (37 degrees celsius), so we were pretty keen. Kicking back in their backyard, eating loads of unreal aussie italian food, it was a pretty good night. Even better when the doc rang at 6:30pm to say the bloods were back early, and if we wanted, even though I was on day 4, my hormone levels were still nice and low and we were good to go. We opened the champagne and kicked back. It was almost like being a human being again. I started to feel like a person and not an egg carton. I started to look at hub in boots instead of fume at him, and I enjoyed watching him break out and have a few beers and relax, and have a laugh, and be a person too, not a feeding cleaning drug and heat pack administering machine, but a real life man with a personality. All of a sudden, after a few horrible isolating days in a cold war, we were back on the same team.
So 7am today I headed out and we strapped on our superhero capes and Project Supergrover Mark II kicked off. Still can’t believe we’re doing it, but to have the whole of Xmas with just family and relaxing and no needles or tests or timing worries, it is worth it.
“There’s no way I could go again straight away.”
“Yeah me either”
“My body is shot”
“and we’re both so exhausted”
“we really need a break”
“want to go again straight away?”
“yeah sure. Good idea”
“We must be insane”