Category: IVF

Take what you can get…

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Lotsabubs: Never have more babies than you have hands...

Lotsabubs: Order the mini van…

Don’t be at all alarmed if my voice drops a peg or two. Or if I start sprouting a few little hairs on my chinnie chin chin. Or even if I develop Arnie-like biceps bulging from my arms.

Because this here Lady MamaG vessel is producing bugger all eggs and even less of those that make it to embie stage, Dr Babies has signed me up to take Testosterone, which has in turn seen me check the mirror every morning for signs of an Adam’s apple appear out of my throat. So far so good. Why the need for man juice? Well, apparently it aids the growth and quantity of eggs. I’m all for whatever means I don’t have to keep going through another year of six anesthetics, three egg collections and six embryo transfers – hells to the yes, where do I sign me up? I lost the ability to care what goes into my body and how it looks long ago. Around the same time my wardrobe stopped fitting me. And the good doc has also been kind enough to prescribe a little Melatonin to help make me less cranky. sleep better, for which the men of my household are extremely grateful.

We’ve decided to sit this month out and give it one last shot for the year in November…which also happens to be my month of birth (all choccies, prezzies and diamonds gratefully accepted) by which time, hopefully my pipes can produce some fighting little embies that are able to make it the whole nine yards this time.

There’s one more change to our next cycle and that’s the decision to pop two lovely little embies in on our next transfer. Now don’t think I haven’t considered this as much as much as Britney before shaving her head. I have so many friends with twins I could actually start a David Koresh-style commune and still have some left over in the neighbouring suburbs. I’ve seen them juggle babies on boobs, change nappies by the green wheelie bin load and buy van-like vehicles just to transport them but I’ve also seen the beautiful gift that is multiple births and while I’m in no dreamland that it would be ‘fun’ to have twins despite The Vet and the 9 y o thinking this would be ‘awesome’ (their word, not mine) I would rather be blessed with two than none at all. It’s something I’ve had to get my head around and when Dr Babies suggested it would be the best option for our next round, after I slapped him in the face (no I didn’t really) I took a moment to think – that would be a nano second – and you know what…? Whatever number that Big Bloke upstairs decides to dole out the little people, I’ll take thanks very much.

When you undertake IVF, you do so knowing there is always a risk of multiple birth because of the drugs, the potential of embryos splitting and a few other factors. I’ve considered this and unlike the muppets on Today Tonight that have decided to sue their fertility doctor because they ended up with triplets and not twins, I know what I’m in for…be that one or two, I’d just be grateful to have any at all and count my bloody blessings.

So cross everything including your nose hairs this might be our final round and we get the little dream we’ve been hoping for…however many that might be… Lov’n’ hugs, LadyMamaG xox

Sometimes it’s just shitful…

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No stork stopping at Lady MamaG's this year...

No stork stopping at Lady MamaG’s this year…

So the end of the LONGEST two weeks of my life is up and nudda. Not one little embryo attached. Bugger. What do you get for all your hoping, praying, wishing that maybe, just maybe you might get lucky this time? Well you get a big fat one line on the POAS (for those who don’t know what that abbreviation is, I’ll spare you the overshare, let’s just say it’s a test). After going through what was our sixth round we came out with just one surviving embie and even that little sausage just didn’t manage to make the distance.

There are so many questions – why, why and mostly WHY being all of them but really, there ain’t no answer… it just is. Didn’t work. Again. But being the tough Scorp that I am, as well as being determined as all hell, stubborn as a forehead pimple and basically not ready to give up, we’re back up on the horse’s back. Well, not right now but after a nice little break of one month where I hope I might be able to have something that’s been absent for the past few months…and that would be a full night’s sleep, thanks very much. Not even the 9 y o kept me awake this much when he was a newborn.

If the nasty infliction that is infertility has taught me one thing, it’s that you can’t give up hope. You can’t chuck it in just because it didn’t work. You can’t ‘put a number on the amount of times you’re going to try’ any more than you can put a number on how much you want a baby (but if  you’re asking that would be the mostest in the world). You can’t feel sorry for yourself and be weighed down in the gallows of pity because there is always someone who has been on this journey longer than you, has suffered more loss than you or is taking it a whole lot tougher than you. As women we can’t help but feel like we’ve let the side down worse than the Wallabies in a test match because that’s what we girls were put on the earth to do…reproduce…and when that natural right is taken away, or at least out of your control you become more obsessed than Kris Kardashian over a new handbag line.

I’m just grateful that on what was yet another of the saddest nights of my life, I could still sneak in to 9 y o’s room and kiss his little golden lashes on eyes long ago closed. That I could climb in bed beside The Most Beautiful Man in the World and know that everything’s going to be alright. Cos it is the people who love you who get you through this shitful ride… Lov n’ hugs, LadyMamaG xox

Heads up: you may get a lump in your throat…

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I've got your back, mama...

I’ve got your back, mama…

‘Yay I’m so excited! Will I get to see the baby moving around?’ This was 9 y o’s reaction when I told him he had to be chief support crew for our embryo transfer this morning because The Vet was being chained to his clinic by a hectic back-to-back appointment schedule. ‘Well, no buddy, when the embryo goes in it isn’t a baby yet, it’s only slightly smaller than a pinhead so all you’ll see is a little white light.’ He bounces out of bed and gets dressed. ‘We need to take Lucky with us,’ he says grabbing a little soft toy bear sent to us by some very dear friends from home. ‘He’s going to be our lucky bear,’ he tucks him under his arm.

I swig down the three glasses of water they make you have an hour before so your bladder swells up to an uncomfortable balloon-like shape and means they can see what they’re doing down there when little embie gets tunneled in. ‘I’m so excited when do we get to find out if we’ve got a baby?’ 9 y o asks in the waiting room. It’s clearly evident he has inherited his mother’s impatience for waiting any length of time whatsoever. For anything. Well, once it’s put in we have to wait for 11 more days until they take a blood test and tell us if it worked or not, I explain. ‘It’s going to work,’ he says triumphantly. God love his optimism, little champ.

We get to the doctor’s office and unfortunately for both me and my bulging bladder they’re running half an hour behind schedule which means those three glasses I told you about earlier are about to erupt out of my bladder at any given moment like Mt Vesuvius. I smile sweetly at the nurse when she says she won’t make me laugh. Yeah, it’s not funny, love. AT ALL.

We go into the doctor’s room and 9 y o takes the seat beside me while I climb up on the bed. He shakes the doctor’s hand like a grown up and sits down with Lucky in his hand. ‘This is our lucky bear,’ he tells the doctor. As the bed is lifted and the transfer begins 9 y o gently places Lucky on the pillow beside my head. ‘Here mummy, hold my hand,’ he says gently. I look up at the nurse and she’s got tears in her eyes. The last time he did that was when our wedding cars never turned up to take us to the church. He wraps his little fingers tightly around my hand and watches intently, but silently as they implant our little embie. A few stray tears trickle down my cheeks and I feel his soft fingers wipe them away. ‘It’s okay mummy, you’re being so brave,’ he tells me. I think the nurse and I are both about to lose it. Even the doctor has to swallow.

We’ve been through a whole lot, 9 y o and me. I’ve always known he was one helluva special little soul but it’s times like these that I’m reminded exactly how damn lucky I am to have him. We exit the clinic and to my great relief after a quick toilet stop, I’m able to actually talk without holding my breath. The kid tells me he can’t wait to meet our baby. ‘Can I come to the appointment when you get to find out?’ he asks. Sure I tell him. And may we be blessed with another one exactly like you. Only two-hundred and sixty-four hours to wait…and counting.

With all the love of your mama, daddy and your big brother who just can’t wait to meet you, grow little embie, grow…Lov n’hugs, Lady MamaGxox

It’s getting hot in here…

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It won't hurt a bit...

It won’t hurt a bit…

Well butter my toast if I’m not flippin’ over school holidays already. Yes, yes I know I should be grateful that I’ve got a kid at all but it’s not actually mine I’m sick of it’s just other people’s. Case in point: Some little kid pushed in front of me in the line at the video kiosk (seriously how good are those green machines?) the other day and it took all my control not to grab him by his little rat’s tail and give him a good telling off. Respect these days. There’s none of it. I wondered if I shouldn’t have waved my tuckshop lady arm at him and told him I have the potential to turn little rude kids like him into piles of slime with the power of my eyes, but then he’s probably never read The Witches so therefore my rant would be wasted and he would just think I was loopy. Which possibly, I am. Temporarily of course.

This time Dr Babies has ramped up my hormone injections to the same dose I was on last time which did produce more eggs but now we’re just waiting to see how many will grow into tiny little hatchlings. My belly is beginning to resemble something like those kids you see in the Save the Children ads because it’s all puffed up like I’ve swallowed an actual basketball from my egg collection on Monday. Oh fun times. Let’s just say if you’re bored one day and have nothing better to do, don’t go and fill your uterus with a whole lot of fluid and gas. It’s not as fun as you might think. It actually hurts to laugh. Or move, or walk. It’s got bruises from where the injections have gone in and even though I’ve asked The Vet very kindly to do it gently, sometimes I think he forgets I’m not one of his dogs who has the fortune of having thick fur to soften the needle prick. Don’t even get me started on hot flushes that feel as though someone’s plugged an electric blanket into your bum.

I had to stop myself from hyperventilating when Dr Babies told me he was taking his kids on holiday and wouldn’t be here to do both my egg collection and my transfer (how inconsiderate of him to take a day off in a year!) but calmed myself the hell down when I realised there’s bound to come a time when your doctor has to actually have a holiday. I’m not going to lie, I did wonder for a short time about offering to pay for his holiday to be taken at a time after my own treatments.

I decided to watch a video of how they do the egg collection last night and I wouldn’t advise it for Wednesday night viewing. An STD episode of Embarrassing Bodies would make you squirm less but you know what there really are a lot of people in the same boat as us. Infertility is spreading faster than a One Direction infection only it’s much much more emotional – I’m aware those of the female fourteen year-old-variety would disagree but with one in six, them numbers are not great.

So now it’s back to waiting by the phone. I feel a bit like Miley hoping desperately for Liam to take her back. Except I don’t have little horns on my head and have, thankfully kept my undies on and my tongue in my mouth…for this week at least, after another ten days on progesterone I can’t be certain. Lov n’hugs LadyMamaGxox

Hello old self, are you there?

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Least I haven't reached this stage...yet

Mind out where you put that chain, lov, you’ll end up with a nasty yeast infection… Just saying…

Today I thought about doing some pilates. Which is better than yesterday when I didn’t even think about it at all. I still haven’t done it but the very thought of doing it, I believe, has awoken some very very lazy muscles in this here LadyMamaG. The reason I’m telling you about thinking about almost doing pilates is because I want to share with you how much fun it is to not feel like your real self anymore.

This morning I thought it might be a good idea to weigh myself, see what all them lovely lil’ fertility drugs been doing to this here 37 y o body. To my greatest relief the scales had gone flat. Thanks to the Gods who made that happen. It still doesn’t change the fact almost everything, no actually everything don’t fit no more. I used to love getting dressed in the morning. It was like a little fashion magazine shoot going on in my wardrobe every single day. Now I’m quite happy to mooch around the house in my pilates pants (let’s not judge me) until oh, at least before I have to do the school run. Sometimes I might even do the school run while still wearing them. To which 9 y o rather unsubtly reminds me, ‘why are you still wearing that mummy?’ when he jumps in the back seat. Thanks young man for making me feel like Britney post-shaven head. He also likes to ask why I haven’t got any makeup on. Kids are good at honesty, I’ll give ’em that.

So besides the fact I dress to do pilates but don’t actually do it. And that every single thing in my wardrobe no longer even wants to look at me it’s so disgusted, there is the other thing. What have I become? Am I the girl who is happy to let her armpit hair grow a couple of inches (stop screwing up your face, I haven’t reached that stage yet) while still trying to squeeze into a pair of shorts sans-IVF that are two sizes too small and therefore give me two bums? Lucky for you all, I have not assaulted your eyeballs with this visual though summer is just around the corner you’ll be glad to know. Have I become that girl whose vocabulary doesn’t stretch much further past progesterone, gonal-F, orgalutran, prednisolone, progynova and elevit – which besides the fact makes me sound like some really clever person who might be a doctor, when really I’m not – can be mighty boring. Especially to those who may just think I’ve rattled off the cities of some far away country.

Well at least I’m not swinging naked from a giant cement ball. Though if I did look like that, maybe I would…

Countdown is back on until my next round of friendly local neighbourhood needles. Fun times indeed. Lov n’hugs to y’all specially those with foam fingers, LadyMamaGxox