Not quite seven weeks ago, I was sitting on my bathroom floor with a foil packet in one hand and a little white and pink plastic test stick in another. I’m more nervous than a Catholic schoolgirl at confession. Everything is riding on this. It is our last little icicle. It has to take.

As the fluid creeps up the window I can just slightly make out a faint line, it continues and there’s another brighter, darker line beside it. I wait two minutes. It’s faint but is it? Is it a line? Is it really? I can’t believe it. Holy mother of Jesus it is there – albeit faint but there’s a bloody line.

Friday morning has come, I get up at 7am, do one more pee-on-a-stick taking my total to four (yes, four in two days) and make the twenty-five minute trip to the clinic for my blood test. I’m in such a hurry I’ve forgotten to drink my water, which makes it hard for the nurse – who is in training – to find my veins. ‘They’re bad at the best of times,’ I smile to her as she pumps at my inner elbow attempting to make my veins stand to attention. ‘Sharp sting,’ she says as she attempts to prick one of my veins in my left arm. She’s not kidding. It hurts like all buggery.

I pull down my sleeve and hop down off the chair. ‘You should hear from us between one and three,’ she says. Usually the clinic calls around 12-12.45 and they always call the positive results first, which means if you haven’t heard from them by 1.30 your luck may just have run out.

I go to the supermarket and pick up a tiny set of newborn Bonds baby socks, then to the newsagent and buy a brown postage box and some yellow tissue to go inside. I got a permanent marker and on the first pee stick – the one with the best two pink lines, I wrote ‘congrats’ with a smiley face and an arrow pointing to the word pregnant beside the result window. I put them all in the box with a card for The Vet telling him ‘Congratulations baby, we did it…’

At five past two in the afternoon I’d had enough, I try the clinic and press two for the nurses, then three for my team. No answer, straight to voice mail. I wait another five minutes and call again.

‘Hi,’ I tell her when she answers, ‘I’ve been waiting for my call and it never takes this long…’

‘Oh yes, sorry we’ve been really busy,’ she says. ‘Okay well I might as well tell you now,’ she continues. There is a two second pause that seems more like an hour. ‘You’re pregnant, congratulations!’ she blurts excitedly.

There is silence from my end. I am shaking and tears are streaming from my face.

‘Are you there, are you okay?’ she says.

‘Yes, yes, thank you. Thank you so much,’ I tell her as though she’d given me the gift herself.

I drive as quickly as I can to the clinic. ‘Have you heard yet?’ he asks. He’d been watching his phone waiting to hear from me. ‘Oh, and this came for you today, no idea what it is,’ I tell him and place the brown box on his consult table.

He opens the box and looks inside, pulling out the contents and looking puzzled. He puts them back in and looks at the address on the front of the box, then he looks at it again. He looks at me and I can’t hold it in anymore. A smile breaks out over my face. Tears fill his eyes. He has a smile that only a man who has just learnt he is about to become a father could have. Words cannot describe our joy, our love for each other and for the tiny little person growing inside me.

The Little Seed as I’ve started to call it, will be due on February 9 – making it an Aquarian. We have one more blood test the following Friday, I tell him, and then we get to go for our first scan the week after that – at six weeks. That’s when they can hear a heartbeat. Grow Little Seed, with the love and wanting of your mummy and daddy, grow.

I go for the second test a week later – and yes, this time once again, I have cheated. I take a pee-stick test in the morning before I go in for my bloods. The nurse rings again. ‘Hi, your tests all look good and we’ll need you to come in for your scan in another two weeks.’

This is where we get to hear a heartbeat, the little tick tick sound of our seed growing into a real live baby. By the time we reach week seven, one of the four pregnancy apps I’ve already downloaded to my phone tells me the seed will have grown into the size of a blueberry. It will already have little arm and leg buds and a beating heart.

The morning of the scan I’m elated. I Can’t wait to see our little baby for the first time, hear it’s little heartbeat, see its tiny Little Seed self. I can’t wait for my husband to see his tiny baby growing inside me.

We make light conversation and joke about the fun side affects of progesterone (constipation), which really aren’t that fun at all quite frankly. I hop up on the bed and Dr Babies does the first scan over my tummy using a small probe. He looks around, and has a quizzical look on his face. He tells me to go and empty my bladder – which I’ve deliberately over-filled because I thought it might help to see.

I come back and hop up on the bed. This time the probe goes via another angle (which I’ll spare you from the details) – but it’s the most accurate way of judging the size of the baby. Five minutes ago, I was so happy. Five minutes ago, we were pregnant, having our little Aquarian in February.

‘Oh this isn’t good,’ Dr Babies says looking at the screen that even I can tell has an empty black sack on it. The tiny little black jelly bean-like shape is the sack where our Little Seed is supposed to be sitting – with its heart beating strong and its little limb buds waving about…only they’re not. There is no baby. Just an empty pregnancy sack.

The little embryo didn’t survive. I don’t know if it was five weeks, six or even four – we were pregnant at some stage but just as quickly as that hope is given it’s taken away again.

The good news, Dr Babies tells us, is that at least we can get you pregnant. That’s one hurdle over. Now it’s just making it to the next stage.

I had written a card for the 9 y o, telling him he was going to be a big brother. I hid it in my handbag and decided we’d tell him, like everyone else, once he got back from his holidays and we knew the baby had a heartbeat. He’d been looking for something one morning and found the card, asking if he could open it. No, not yet I told him. I wish I could hug him right now but he’s thousands of kilometres out of my reach. A month ago when we’d started this journey, he’d won a little red teddy out of one of those claw machines, ‘I’m saving this one for the baby,’ he’d said. Optimistic, like his mama.

Now we are back to square one. Back to injections, needles, bloods, hormones, drugs, waiting and hoping.

Sometimes no matter how big you smile, you just can’t hide the pain you feel inside.

Love n hugs, Lady MamaG xox

Waiting is shitballs. Just saying. But really, no it is. For the record, I’ve always been a girl who doesn’t like to wait. When I was a kid I always went in search to find my pressies early and would open just a corner so I knew what was inside. I never waited until Easter Sunday to eat my choccie and if I see something I want there is NO.SUCH.THING as layby. I’d like to say I’m a instant kinda girl. You know, someone who likes to be in control, know where I’m going…and to basically have everything like, yesterday.

I have to say I feel like this past week has dragged on longer than an entire year and thanks to those terrible awful things they like to call drugs ending in ‘erone’ I have been feeling lower than Lyndsay Lohan’s reputation. It ain’t easy waiting for someone to deliver you news as though they are God themselves. You get to wait for 11 days – that’s two hundred and sixty four hours if you’re asking – until you go for a blood test and then get to wait another four hours until the nurse calls you and delivers you…what has been for me, bad news, the past three times. It’s not her fault but shit, it is like the hardest phone call in the world, well almost. I have had another phone call which ruined my life but let’s not even go there. This nurse has all the power in her hands to tell you if ‘yes you are pregnant’ or the answer I’ve inevitably been receiving, ‘sorry, but it didn’t take this time’.

Yes she’s lovely, yes she’s kind but if you’ve ever sat and willed a phone to ring with good news, maybe you’ll know exactly how I’m feeling. Sure, there’s other ways, I could go and take my own test, soften the blow somewhat but like all fellow IVF devotees know that is sacreligious. You are meant to wait. Wait for the blood test. Wait for the phone call. Wait for the news. Wait for the joy – or the heartache.

Which would be fantastic if it wasn’t that it seems to be occupying every single inch of my headspace right now…there’s not even enough room in there to consider if I need a new pair of winter boots it’s that bad (I hear your collective sighs). Or enough space to consider that the world is not about to end and that really if I miss an episode of Offspring that I won’t completely go into meltdown…or that I really am a fortunate little Lady Mama G with so many good things going on in my life.

But balls to that. I want a baby. I want the damn thing to work and I want all the second-guessing I keep putting my body through, all the constant hormonal army inside my body causing a complete uprising to just bugger off and have it’s own little protest in someone else’s head.

Love n hugs, Lady MamaG xox

Sometimes things happen that make you think, why? Like the fact a tiny little baby thousands of miles away was left for dead inside a sewerage pipe while for almost a year now, we’ve battled our own journey trying to bring a small person into the world. But then life doesn’t always deal out fairness in dollops.

Earlier in the week we implanted our last little icicle in the hope we might be blessed enough to have another – well for me at least – baby in nine months time. There’s no more little icicles left in the freezer for back up so this one has got to make it all the way. This time, it was not just about simply sending a little defrosted kidsicle up but there was so much more than that. I have grown so fond of my dear specialist Baby Doctor that I am planning on suggesting Queenie puts him up for an OBE in fertility.

Through yet another set of tests – and more needles – fun times, plus a uterus biopsy (oh, you want to know about where all the good times are being had, you come see me) which revealed my NK cells are way up high, like a diamond in the sky. Except that’s not a good thing – well it isn’t when you’re trying to conceive. It basically means my immune system seems to be a little too good and basically goes in and kicks the ass of anything trying to make a little nest for itself…great for infections or bacteria however, shitful for a little harmless embryo doing its best to burrow in under the layers of uterus lining.

To try and counteract this, four days before implantation, I was hooked up to an IV of introlipids (fat cells) for five hours in a hospital bed while my uterus hopefully gained enough fat and lining to go all Kill Bill on those NK cells. It has also meant I’m a pill-popping manic…and I do mean M.A.N.I.A.C guzzling anything that starts with a p and ends in something erone…including a nice round little group of four steroids, plus oodles of progesterone and HRT a day so don’t be surprised if you spot my family walking down the street with their suitcases in tow. Life in the Lady MamaG house may not be as fun as it once was.

I’d decided after going three months back-to-back and having three failed attempts I needed just a little break to regain a little bit of positivity (and perhaps some saneness) and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was scared as all hell that this one isn’t going to take either. Strong as I’d like to think myself as, this whole infertility thing is so much bigger than me. But then when I feel all sorry for my own lovely self I am reminded of others’ pain being far more greater reaching than my own. At the clinic the other week, I watched as a girl asked the scientist if she thought a picture of her blastocyst (embryo) looked like it would take. The scientist was about as able to answer that question as the Big Man upstairs himself. She patted her gently on the shoulder and kindly reassured her, ‘I know you’ve been through so much, I really hope it works for you this time’ the scientist told her. Her shoulders hunched I could see the woman fighting back her tears. I didn’t know her but I wanted to go and give her a big old hug, to tell her I’m sure it would take to share some of her burden because there is nothing more painful than being constantly deprived of the greatest gift of all time.

While it feels like everyone from Kimmie K to the girl in the hairdressers seems to be up the knock except me, it’s hard to remain up beat when the thing you want most in the world is so utterly out of your control…but while we cross our fingers and wait, hope and pray I am reminded of the two biggest blessings I do have…9 y o and The Vet…for that I am truly grateful…Love n hugs, Lady MamaG xox

So it’s been a while since Lady Mama G has enlightened you with the goings on of the world of infertility…and man has it been unkind. Hello My Name is Lady Mama G and it’s been over two months since I last posted. In that two months some stuff has gone down. Bad stuff. Forgive me Father for I’m about to ask…where the hell were you when I needed you to sprinkle me with some bloody good news dust, huh? You was awol, that’s where you was.
 Let me tell you about the ride so far. It goes a little like this. We had another transfer – following the typical protocols where they wait till after you’ve ovulated, then they chuck a little embryo in the hatch and hope like hell it sticks. Except it didn’t. Despite that nasty little drug they like to call progesterone tricking me into thinking it did. My dose had been upped to the point where I was convinced not only was I definitely up the knock but was pretty sure there were two little inhabitants cruising round in my uterus. Except there wasn’t. When I got the call to tell me the shitballs news that the naughty ‘P’ had fooled me into thinking I’d be getting a positive at my 11-day test I’d be lying if I said I was anything but completely shattered. This one was different from the first cos I felt all the signs…the early signs. Except they weren’t.
 So ever the optimist, if I’ve learned nothing in this tough old life so far it’s that when you get a kick in the guts, you get your breath back and act like nothing’s happened. Back on you go.
 I like the number three, I think it has a good ring to it and like they say good things come in three’s. Third time lucky. Three for free. Well that kept me in high spirits as did the fact my son was conceived in March so I was convinced, much like a female dog, that perhaps March is my ‘season’. Call me crazy but I’ll take anything. This time round I got to take a lovely little concoction called HRT three times a day, as well as my good old friend progesterone. I hadn’t gone out and bought too many baby clothes but a little part of me thought I’d been dealt enough hurt and a bit like Clint Eastwood, I was feeling Lucky. Like the good old luck god would bring me some loving. Except she didn’t. All the pains, all the nausea, all the little flutterings of joy were mistaken. Nothing but an empty old uterus. Yet again.

People want to know if you’ll go again. You’ve got more embies in the freezer, you should use ’em up, right? But exactly how much hope I’ve got left in me I can’t say. How many more times I can put me, my darling husband and our boy through the disappointment of ‘just one more failed attempt’, I’m also not sure. I’ve decided to hibernate for a bit because like a good Scorpio, I’m not a fan of fuss. I’ll dust myself off and probably be up for one last try next month, or the one after that is, if my head and heart can get along and play nicely again.
I’ve still been frequenting Mr Needles, and Dr Babies has been amazing – I know I’m in good hands there but what about the hurt…? Not just for me, but for The Vet who is also heartbroken and the nine-year-old who rather optimistically told me that ‘we can try again though, right?’ when I explained yet another baby hadn’t made it past a poppy seed. Yes, optimism it’s the only thing that keeps us going. That and love. And fortunately, I’ve got plenty of that to keep me going through the pain.

with a little luck there’ll be one more face in this pic next Chrissie…

I’d be fibbing actually, no, I’d be damn lying if I didn’t say I was nervous as all crap about what is going to be one of the biggest days of my life tomorrow.

After a bit over two weeks of poking, prodding and punching holes in my skin with some rather unsharp needles containing some pretty unflattering drugs, consuming more hormones than is completely necessary for a woman of my age, resulting in enough bloating to rival Bridget Jones in her nana pants (which also means my ENTIRE jeans wardrobe seem to have mysteriously got faulty zippers) and being put to sleep by the nice tall man in his floral surgery cap who struggled to find a good vein for which to thrust his rather thick needle into…it has now finally come…D-day.

So yes, I’d be telling big gigantic porkies if I didn’t say I was more than a little bit of a scardy cat blithering mess ahead of what is called ‘implantation day’ tomorrow.

That’s where they take the little eggies (which have hopefully, by now, grown to the size of a poppy seed) and slide ’em up inside their mummy’s baby baker with the hope they will then grow into something resembling a zygote in a few weeks’ time.

As you know, waiting isn’t my strongest point as a Scorpion and it has taken all my strength to not go on a crazy baby room decorating spree (seriously, have you seen baby cots these days? Rockin!). And while I may have worked over a few colour schemes and mood boards, I have managed to refrain from purchasing anything except Evie – she is my good luck charm and I wear her every day. I actually picked her up at the Auckland airport when I was flying home at Christmas time. She was part of a collection of jewellery by Kiwi fashion designer Karen Walker – who I did a story on way back when Adam was a boy and she was just starting out. I’ll never forget she wrote me the most beautiful card thanking me for the story, so I decided this would be my good luck charm. I named her Evie after the little girl robot in the kids’ movie WallE and I twist her around in my fingers whenever my nerves get the better of me (which is mostly every single day right now).

I’m fortunate to have the incredible love and support of my beautiful better half, my gorgeous son (even though the end of school hols is driving me to the end of my wick) and all our family and friends in what is a pretty emotional roller coaster of fear, excitement and nerves but all I can think of is that perhaps, just maybe…I’ll be able to hold a tiny piece of my beautiful husband in my arms in nine months time.

Fertility gods, I have been a very good girl. Not one single baby thing bought. Love n hugs, Lady Mama G xox

needles shcmeedles, it’s the end result that matters most…

If you ask someone who’s been through it, they’ll tell you that IVF is (mostly) a pretty shitful experience. You get loaded up with hormones, have to inject yourself daily (with said dreaded hormones) get to feel puffy, gain weight, go all kind of crazy arse aggro on your family and that’s before you get to go through the horrible awful wait (that is the countdown to 11 days when you can take a pregnancy blood test).

If you know me, you’ll know I love needles (and self injecting) about as much as I love kicking my toe on a supermarket shopping trolley wheel…I freaking hate that sharp pain that goes with it when all you can do to stop yourself from crying/screaming/hitting something is to let out a nice big swearword to dull the pain.

So, for most people IVF is not a pleasant experience. Except for the friend who told me, ‘don’t listen to people when they tell you it’s horrible, don’t listen to people when they tell you it’s scary, awful or painful…my IVF experience was wonderful and this is your journey, and yours alone. Let it be a beautiful one’. You know what, it was like she was Mr Miyagi telling the Karate Kid to find his ‘inner peace’. Those words were the best advice I could have ever got because every girl’s experience is different from the next. Not every woman has pain, or swelling, or vomiting or mood swings or sore needle sites.

But hold on to your white undies my little Beliebers because it’s not all rosey tinted glasses up here in IVF land. I am scared as a cornered Christmas turkey. I am worried it won’t take and it does sting a bit when those sharp little needles puncture your skin like a crack junkie (though I suspect their needles are slightly thicker and hurt a bit more). There are lots of blood tests (can we quit it with the needles already?!) scans and waiting…all of which I’m not fond of either.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m freaking the hell out. I’d also be telling little fibbies if I didn’t say there are the odd side effects but I figure if I tell all my friends, family and pretty much everyone I know that I could basically take out their eyeballs with my bare fingernails at any given moment, I think we should all be pretty safe.

Love and hugs, Lady Mama Gxox

when you wish upon a star…

Nine years ago, at 9.30am on a warm and sticky Monday morning, you made your (rather hasty) entry into this world and that was the very first day you melted our hearts. From the first moment the first person in the world held you, he promised nothing and no one would ever hurt you…he said hello my little man with a smile of father’s pride and we both thought nothing could ever beat this moment.

And then there was the first time you looked up at us and smiled…and we melted all over again. Then when you mumbled your first word (even though it wasn’t mama) I thought my heart was so big it was going to burst. The moment you took your first steps, the pride inside our hearts was like you were the first baby to ever walk in the world.

Then it was the first time you learnt to ride your bike on your own, wobbling down the road with your little legs pedaling as fast as they could to keep up momentum, little squeals of glee as you realised you got it, you got it, you’re actually riding on your own! And even though he wasn’t there beside you pushing you along, he was there beside you all the way. You wished upon that star every night and it twinkled right back down at you, watching over your every step.

Your first day of school…in a hat falling down over your eyes, your spindly little legs hanging out beneath too-big-for-you shorts and a schoolbag that almost touched the ground…how could my baby have grown so big so quick?

Then suddenly, the day you gave your mummy away, you grew up into a big boy…almost like it was overnight. Your legs seemed longer and you stood taller. There was something different about you. An inner smile. An inner peace. You held my hand when the wedding car man forgot to pick us up and you told me ‘it’s going to be okay, mummy’ and all of a sudden it was you making everything alright for me. On the happiest day of our lives, my heart was so big when you walked me down the aisle and we three became one.

Nine years. So much has happened my baby boy. So many smiles, so many tears, so many falls but so many rises.

Thank you for bringing me the best 10 years of my life, little peanut.

Love, your Lady MamaG xox