We can fix you, poke a finger in my eye and hope to die, promise…

I have one in every colour...

I have one in every colour…

There are some really fun things about being infertile. The most funnest is of course the not being able to get pregnant bit. The second most funnest is having your hormones turn you into some crazy-assed banshee who, at will, (which coincidentally is most of the time) can explode like a landmine when pushed. The fourth most funnest is taking about six hundred and fifty-two pills every single day – to the point where your pee resembles the colour of yellow powerade and actually begin doing the opposite of what they’re set out to do…yes melatonin, we be talking to you. Apparently it helps you sleep. Unless you’re in that small percentile where it does the opposite and keeps you awake for approximately…oh just the ENTIRE night.

The most funnest bit that I really love is when people you trust tell you they can fix you. I’ve been to see, well actually I lie when I say I’ve been to see her because in my two consultations both of them have been via skype, so I actually haven’t physically seen anyone. But this person I’ve seen-via-skype informed me she didn’t think my tubes were blocked and also apparently – and despite every other fertility specialist and scientist disagreeing – that my eggs are actually fine and 38 is apparently a good age for conceiving, she believes in all her wisdom (I should point out she’s neither a doctor or a scientist). Trouble is you take one partially demented (via hormonal infliction) desperately wanting, possibly naive but very trusting infertile woman and you sprinkle your seeds of hope over her head…it gives her false hope and that, my friends can be dangerous. It creates a girl who argues with her heart and her head on a constant basis.

Those monthly battles go something a bit like this: Heart, ‘I think I’m having some symptoms, we should really do a test,’. Head, ‘No.’ Heart, ‘but you don’t understand I really think it’s worked this time, she said it could, she said I might.’ Head, ‘No.’ Heart, ‘but just one, please go on I’ll only do one, promise,’. Head, ‘No. End of.’ Heart then turns on her heels and stalks off with her nose stuck up in the air. She’s pissed as all hell. But head is right. Tests only make you a) more anxious and b) even more anxious. Fertility can be a mind struggle and half the battle is having hope, being positive but it’s also being real. Every single specialist will tell you your eggies have less chance of baking once you plummet from 35, apparently it’s like being on the edge of a cliff once you reach old age of 38 and by 40, well it’s almost goodnight nurse. Sure, there are miracles, hell even some women can do it on their own at 40 and older but they are a minority. A girl can dream can’t she? It doesn’t stop me from being ever the optimist and hoping just one day it might come true.

I’ve had everyone – except Dr Babies – tell me their little concoction can help. If I go and have needles before and after, apparently there’s a 65 percent chance of conceiving. If I go a naturopath and follow their diet, drink their bin juice – which is what The Vet calls it because it resembles the remnants of week-old bin rubbish in both aroma and appearance and the taste is possibly similar too – two times a day for three months, there’s also around a 60-80 percent chance of conceiving. Oh boy, sign me up. Fire away, if you can give me those kind of stats, I’ll let you string fishooks through my arms if that’s what you need to do. Only problem is, where do they base these stats? Are they based entirely on medical results? Are they completely accurate…your guess’s as good as mine.

We’ve had our break. It’s been four months since our last confession, I mean cycle, and we’ve got our combats on ready to face the next war zone. I’ve given up gluten, alcohol (okay mostly) and shopping – alright that one might not have been for fertility but I lost my will to shop long ago, along with my waistline. I’ve been keeping calm, even been wearing tiny pressure point needles (that look like massive pimples) in my ears. I’ve been drinking green juices and have given in to eating the odd kale salad. I’ve tried massaging my belly with a healing crystal and when I get my lazy ass there, have been doing Barre classes to ‘improve the positioning of my uterus’. Yes folks, I’ve gone completely batshit crazy. I’ve done everything they told me to do and then some. I’ve listened. I’ve believed. The control is no longer mine.

Next week will mark the start of our eighth round of IVF.

We are back with Dr Babies, who throughout this has been our voice of reason. He has given us real medical stats, they might not be great, or what we wanted to hear but they are proven.

Don’t ask me how long we’ll keep doing this or even how I feel about starting all over again because I don’t know. To answer that would be to give up hope. All I know is I’m ready to start the battle again. The ups and the downs, the invasion of my body, the insomnia and the stress. The hopes and the dreams, the cautions and the disappointments. The numbers and the stats, the tests and the results. And the waiting, oh the waiting…

I come ready to fight this battle…and, by f*** I want to win. I have my steel armour, crafted by my army that is the constant love and strength I get from The Vet, the 10 y o, my family and my friends…and let’s just hope there’s something Over the Rainbow…Love n hugs, Lady MamaGxoxo

2 thoughts on “We can fix you, poke a finger in my eye and hope to die, promise…

  1. Suzanne Nicole says:

    Your post made me laugh 🙂 I can relate to that desperation. Yep, you have to be pretty discerning when it comes to fertility help -everyone can help -for a large fee of course!

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