An IVF story

Alive and still kicking

I've been a bad, bad blogger.  I haven't exactly jumped ship - I am in a little dinghy behind the Good Ship IVF being towed along at the back - but I am taking a break for a while. I need a break from thinking about infertility, IVF, babies, pregnancy etc etc etc for every minute of every day. I'm too tired for all of this.

I simply don't know how some of you carry on with assisted reproduction for years and years. Two attempts and I am pooped. Right now, I don't want infertility in my life. I don't want anything to do with infertility in my life. I want to take an indeterminate period of time off. I am imagining that one day I will just wake up and know it's time. But that time isn't now.

My husband is a teacher at a boarding shool. He works 70 to 80 hour weeks, and so that the teachers don't die prematurely in the classroom they give them 8 weeks off in the summer to recuperate. I want to spend that time having fun together as a couple. You know, going on dates and stuff like that. Eating icecream in the sun.

We've an Open Day to attend at our local NHS hospital on Thursday this week, and I don't want to go, even though we've been on the waiting list for more than a year. For almost all that time I was yearning to come to the top of the list. I phoned the department monthly to check my name hadn't miraculously fallen off the list (like it did once, adding another 4 months to our wait), and writing to our local MP, the chairman of the health authority etc to complain about the waiting time and lack of funding. Now I just want them to leave me alone. (They're on at me to redo all the blood tests I've had done about 5 times already. La la la - hands over my ears and singing - I'm not listening la la la). I am hoping that they will let us postpone until the end of the year. But you never know with the NHS. They're a law unto themselves.  

So despite having a birthday soon, still getting my period every month, still hoping colleagues' " good news" isn't another pregnancy in the building, and still turning away from babies in buggies,  I will be trying hard to forget my unhappiness. I find that writing this blog makes me remember. There will be a time to come back to all of this. I'll be keeping up my subscription so that it doesn't disappear. I'll post again when the time comes.

Thank you to all of you for your support, and wishing you strength to carry on through your experiences of infertility.

Life's picnic

Yesterday I spent time with my  best friend. I am so proud of everything she has achieved. More than ten years ago she dropped out of an art degree. Several years later she discovered she was severely dyslexic, which explained why she had such a difficult time keeping up with the written work involved with her course. Recently she gave up her job to go back to University, and has been using her savings to fund her studies. She's received additional support for her dyslexia, and is now one of the top students in her year.

After we'd talked about her final degree portfolio, and she had showed me some of her work, we went to a deli and bought about ten times more food than we needed for a picnic. It was the first truly warm and sunny day we've had this year, and so we sat on the grass in a local park. We chatted a bit, and ate a lot, but mainly we watched the world go by - students playing Frisbee, students pretending to revise, sunbathers, ice-cream eaters, tourists...

We watched a man ride up on a bicycle. His baby was strapped into a seat at the back. He spread out a blanket, took the baby down, and then started to play with her. The baby was about ten months old, not walking yet but a confident crawler. It was just the two of them, enjoying the sunshine and each other's company.

My friend and I both turned our backs. We didn't need to say anything to each other. We both just knew.

Six months after starting University for the second time, my friend accidentally became pregnant and had an abortion. At the time, I already knew that I couldn't conceive naturally. It could have destroyed our friendship, but it's brought us closer together. We both have a hidden pain. She wants the baby back she didn't have - I want the one I've never had.

We sat on the grass in silence for a few moments, and then we carried on with our picnic.

I am a duck

When I was at school, we read the book Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. I was probably about 12 at the time. We used to read passages in class, and then be set extra reading and other tasks for homework.

We reached the part where, after many years of hardship, Jane is appointed governess at Thornfield Hall. For the first time, it seems like she may have an opportunity to escape her tragic circumstances. She meets the owner of Thornfield Hall, Mr. Rochester, and is both attracted and repelled by his passionate character. Our homework was to write a letter to a friend in the character of Jane, describing our adventures since leaving the school where she was formerly a pupil and later a teacher.

I couldn't wait to get home so that I could make a start. I soaked sheets of paper in tea, dried them on the radiator, and burnt them at the edges to make them look like 'authentic' aged manuscript. I used a gold pen to add swirly lines around the edges, and made a special effort to write in an affected Ye Olde Style, which I imagined was becoming of the young Jane. I worked on this homework for hours, a dictionary and thesaurus by my side. I thought it was perfect, and handed it in with pride.

The teacher gave me an A minus. I was extremely peeved, not just at the mark but at the red writing she left on my artwork. They didn't have biro in the nineteenth century and it spoilt the whole effect. The reason for the dropped mark? I had misused the thesaurus. I was trying to find a more elaborate Olde Englishe sounding word for happy, and settled on complacent. The letter therefore began:

My dearest friend

Now that I have arrived at Thornfield Hall, I almost dare to be complacent with my lot.

Oops.

The problem is, I think I still confuse smug with happy. Reading back through the old posts on this blog, I don't like the sound of the person writing here. I sound self-satisfied. I want to sound like I am generally doing okay, but instead it seems to come out as:  Hey, I'm infertile, but I have a relaxed life and I love my job and do loads of gardening and fun stuff like that - I'm not like the rest of you stressed out saddos.

If this is the impression you have, I am truly sorry. I hope you will believe me when I tell you that nothing could be further than the truth. I count my blessings daily, it's true, but beneath it all I am miserable. My husband, who loves football, would say that I talk a good game. I prefer to think of myself as a duck - serene on the surface but paddling like mad underneath to stay afloat.

There are some really bad things going on right now, which I wish I could share, but I fear offending anyone close to me who accidentally comes across this site. I recently discovered a famous blogger is actually a cousin of my husband's. Before I realised she's a relation, I read all kinds of things about her - including secret thoughts she has about people in our family - that I bet she wishes I didn't know about. I don't read her blog anymore - it doesn't seem fair.

I still can't bring myself to write fully about what the two different clinics recommend should be our next step, not because I worry about being discovered but because we still don't know which way we'll go.  One clinic has recommended radical 3 month long downregulation, again using Zoladex, and accompanied by Metformin, followed by far less stimulation. The other says do the same thing as before (ie a normal IVF protocol) but to go on the pill for three months in preparation. If anyone reading this has PCO, and previously was overstimulated, what route did you take? The complication is that I have also grow a mega-thick (20mm plus) polypoidal endometrium. Is there anybody else out there like me?

Our decision may well be made for us, as very unexpectedly our local NHS hospital has written to us offering one cycle of free treatment. We had been told the waiting list was 18 months, but we have come to the top in under a year. Perhaps it's all the letters of complaint I have been writing to them and our local MP recently about the waiting time and they want rid of me asap? Who knows. Anyway, the NHS have their own way of doing this, so that will be something else thrown into the mix.

I have to stop writing about this now. I actually can't bear to think of it. I can feel the panic starting to rise. I am going to go outside, bury the badness and stare happily/ complacently* (delete as you feel is applicable) at the flowers in my garden.

You can't scare me

It takes me about ten minutes to walk to work. If I've left in plenty of time, and it's not raining or snowing or windy, I wear heels. They make me feel like a proper grown up lady. If it's a heels day, and I am not running down the hill out of breath and desperate to make it on time, I dawdle. I might buy a hot chocolate, and look in the shop windows. Every day, whether I am rushing or dawdling, I pass a little shop that prints t-shirts. It's the kind of place you can go to have 12 matching shirts made for your stag do, featuring a photo of the groom wearing plastic titties and vomiting in the gutter. Hilarious. For those lacking inspiration, they also do t-shirts with ready made slogans.

Today was a slow, heels day, so for once I stopped and read some of the slogans. I would never actually wear one of these t-shirts, but, much to my surprise, some of them made me laugh. Here's a flavour:

***

I'm not bossy - I'm just always right

I'm in shape - round is a shape

I want it all - and I want it delivered

You might think I'm difficult - but with a little effort I can be impossible

***

At least three of the above apply to me, but I am not saying which ones.

So, all was going swimmingly and I was having a lovely walk to work. The sun was shining. I was chuckling to myself and feeling life was good. Then I read another slogan:

***

You can't scare me - I'm a parent

***

I had to go over this several times. I just didn't get it. I am still not sure I get it. What is it supposed to mean? The implication is that once you survive the full horrors of having children, you become invincible. Is that supposed to be funny? An amusing father's day gift? I can only suppose that it's intended for the kind of person who, when you reveal to them that you're infertile, gaily suggests that you take one of their kids because they're sick to death of them.  Am I missing something here?

I'll write soon about the two consultations we had recently at two local clinics. They had very different suggestions for what our protocol should be next time. I am still assimilating the information. If I was wearing a t-shirt, it would definitely be saying: Dazed and Confused.

Is anybody out there?

I sometimes wonder who reads this blog. I know from the very convenient statistics compiled by Typepad how many people visit each day. I know what time you dropped by, and whether you found me via a Google search, or if you came over from another site. I know where you live, or at least where your server lives. (I find that part a bit creepy).

I imagine exciting lives for you all. I know from the site data that you're mostly Americans. I see you working in tall glass buildings in cool urban locations, sipping a latte and planning your next lunch rendez-vous. (I've probably been watching too much Sex and the City.) Or you're wholesome mid-West types, working at a computer overlooking your garden. Beyond the white picket fence, a field of yellow corn is swimming beneath an endless sea of sky. (And now I've been reading too much Little House on the Prairie). I don't recall reading many books or seeing many films set on the West Coast, apart from Bay Watch, so I don't have a clear fantasy about you guys. It vaguely involves oranges, and surfboards, and emaciated women wearing enormous sunglasses and carrying little fluffy dogs (that's what you're all like, right?) but that's about it.   

Until recently, I assumed you are all, or have been, infertile.Through correspondence with someone who reads this blog, I've found out this isn't necessarily so. She told me that she's attracted to infertility blogs for the passion with which women write, for the honesty, and for the strength they give to each other - total strangers except on the page.

So now I also have a confession to make. I too read blogs written by people from a community different to my own. I read women's Christian Fundamentalist blogs from the US (I am not a fundamentalist), and the blogs of women from Saudi Arabia and other Middle Eastern countries (I am not a Muslim). The blogs are by women of the same age of me. Like me, they are middle class and have had a good education. On the surface we have quite a lot in common. But their experiences and beliefs are radically different to mine. (My favourite US fundamentalist is younger than me with 6 children, and her family is still growing). They represent extremes of social life, far removed from my own world. They inspire me, but probably in ways not originally intended by the authors. They make me think about who I really am, and why I make the choices I do.

Whatever brings you to this blog, and whoever you are, I hope you enjoy reading it.

Warm sun and gentle breeze

I've been working in the garden this morning - planting some summer bulbs, tieing in new growth, sweeping up. Mostly, I've been just standing there looking at the garden coming back to life. When I came inside I realised I hadn't thought about infertility for at least a couple of hours. I am starting to believe that I can bear to go through with IVF again.

We haven't made a plan for our next treatment - not yet. Part of me is wishing that I am now miraculously going to become pregnant. I am not sure how I expect this to happen given that both my tubes are blocked. Perhaps if I throw enough lucky coins in enough lucky wishing wells? Perhaps if I root around in the garden for a four leaf clover? Perhaps if I commune with nature long enough for some of the spring rejuvination to rub off and impregnate me. (What would I give birth to - a lamb?) Perhaps not.

When my father died unexpectedly 25 years ago, my mother chose the following words for his headstone: Warm sun and gentle breeze linger here a while. I still find the inscription moving. The words are very ambiguous. They seem to be both a plea (don't go yet! please stay a while longer!), and a statement. But what is the statement? The words imply that happiness is shortlived, and should be cherished, but they also seem to be saying that pleasure can be found in the smallest things in life. I often ponder what she was thinking of when she came up with this inscription, a young widow with two small children.

I feel like I need to just sit on a bench for a while with the sun at my back and the wind in my hair. I need to take stock. I want my body to be free of all the drugs I've been taking for the last five months. I need to just be. Then I think I'll be ready for a new plan.

Please remember Luna, who like me received a FET in March. She won't be making a new IVF plan. This was her last chance to try for a baby, and tragically the treatment failed.

Think in Pink

I used to like looking at children's clothes, planning which outfits I'd choose. I imagined bright red ribbons in a little girl's plaited hair. The girl's hair was dark, like mine. Her eyes were blue, like my husband's. She was shy, and needed encouragement. I thought of buckling her navy blue shoes, and going out to play. I imagined this scene in autumn, crashing through a carpet of fallen leaves, and in winter with snow on the ground. I imagined playing with water on a hot sunny day, filling a paddling pool and rubbing on suncream. I imagined children's laughter in my garden.

I don't do this anymore. I don't try to make babies laugh. I don't play on the floor with toddlers' crayons and toy cars. I don't quiz friends with newborns for tips on coping. In the supermarket, I don't scan the racks of parent and baby magazines from the corner of my eye. I don't look in prams. The room next to our bedroom that was set aside for a nursery, and painted in a hopeful shade of soft yellow, has been turned into a sewing room. I don't try to imagine where the cot would go.

Yet in spite of myself I still wonder what kind of mother I'd be. I read an article in the newspaper last weekend about the tyranny of the colour pink. It discussed the ways in which even the youngest girls are being groomed by marketers for a lifetime of sexualised consumption, gorgeousness and glamour. As well as "princess" and "angel", the slogans on girls' t-shirts include "born to party" and "porn star". This reminded me how much I hate to see little girls aspiring to be sexy - bumping and grinding their way through dance moves they've seen on the television, wearing sparkly pink versions of clothes that wouldn't look out of place on a hooker.

I'd want my child to ask questions, and have the courage to find their own answers, but to grow up respecting other people's ideas and values. I'd want my child to grow up with a sense of independence and adventure, but still know that he or she was protected and loved.

I guess that I am still thinking of that little girl with the red ribbons in her hair.

My husband and I are going away for a few days to recuperate. I'll write again when we're home.

Would you want to know?

I sometimes think that if I could see into the future, I'd be happy. If my time travelling revealed I'd never be a mother, then I imagine I'd find it easier. Think of all the time and money I'd save. Think of the heartache I'd avoid. I could get my crying done now, and spend the rest of my thirties making a new plan. I could blossom in different ways.

Of course, this assumes that the future is a fixed certainty. But what if it is a constantly changing possibilty, shifting according to our current actions? What if nothing is pre-determined at all? Undoubtedly, any successful crystal ball gazing would tempt me to make different decisions, which in turn could lead to different outcomes. And then trying/ trying harder/trying less hard/not trying at all for a baby now might mean the future I glimpsed never happened at all.   

I am not sure I am explaining this properly. Let me give you a practical example.

Last year, I discovered that I had actually been infertile since the age of 11.

During our first visit to an infertility specialist, he asked if I'd ever had any health problems or operations. I told him I'd always been in excellent health. While examining me, he asked about a three inch horizontal scar on my lower abdomen.

"Oh", I said, "that's nothing. I just had peritonitis when I was a child. My appendix ruptured and it was a while before I had any treatment, so things got quite messy in there."

I could see the thought bubble coming out of his head saying, "Uh-oh."

It turns out peritonitis can cause tubal damage and pelvic adhesions. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. Only a further investigation can show the full extent of any damage. I had the op. It was bad news.

For a while, I was furious this had never been mentioned to me or my family as a possibility. I'd carried these problems around with me for twenty years without knowing anything about them. As it turns out, I have other hormone-related problems as well. I suppose you could say that I'd been carrying those around for years as well, without knowing about them. Somehow, they don't feel the same as that single, disastrous illness.

I often turn this over in my mind. How might my life have been different if I'd known all this time that conceiving would be so difficult? Would I have frightened off potential partners? Would I have started trying for a baby earlier? Would I have tried at all?

More recently I have come to the conclusion that I'm glad I didn't know. Knowing would have complicated too many important decisions. So for now, I'll say thanks but no thanks to the genie. You can put your magic lamp away. I don't want to see the future. It's proving very hard simply to live in the present, but perhaps it's better this way.

Do you wish you could see into your future? Would you want to know?

FET#1 The finale

I am officially not pregnant. My husband took the call. I'd forewarned him that he should ask for the number as well as the result. He asked what kind of number he should expect.

"I don't know," I said. "Anything between about 0 and 1000."

Let's just say that it veered towards the lower end of this scale. It was 0.08. So really very not pregnant.

FET#1 Part eight: the result

As I suspected, it's bad news.

We did two home pregnancy tests this morning, and they were both negative. It's day 14, so they'll be accurate. I'll let you know if the clinic says anything different after the blood test on Friday, but unless you hear otherwise, assume it's game over.

I am so tired of all this.