On the eve of IVF

It has been a long two months as I sit here on the eve of my first IVF cycle.

This month’s cycle is at an end. Clomid gave me migraine headaches, bloating, and some random sobbing, but unfortunately only one follicle. The previous month there were two follicles, and elation with a positive pregnancy test. That quickly turned to sheer disbelief and heartache as a week later I felt my underpants were wet and after quickly taking myself to the bathroom realised that it was blood. Lots of blood. Perhaps it was a chemical pregnancy, who knows. I felt myself drift into the familiar territory of grief and numbness, but the shortness of the pregnancy seems to have been mirrored in the shortness of my grief for loss #5.

The loss of another pregnancy hardened my resolve. I wasn’t prepared to let matters take their own course and wander on, and on, and on. I’m now 34 and we’ve been trying to have our second baby for two and a half years now. I’m sick of my relationship with my husband taking a back seat. The last two months we have had to wait for the hollow text message saying “it’s a good time to have intercourse for the next four days”. It’s been long enough.

Tonight I am completing consent forms. The questions ask, “do you want to dispose of any embryo with inconclusive pre-genetic screening results” and the like. It turns your mind to the possibility that we may have some difficult decisions ahead of us, or horrible things may happen to us again. It talks about CVS. I instantly think of my one and only CVS that led to a diagnosis of T21. I am doing my best to be positive. It is the best chance we have of conceiving a healthy baby.

On the bench sits a turquoise green cooler bag. Inside there are information sheets, a specimen collection jar for my husband, and two injection pens. I will need to inject myself in the stomach with two drugs, one to stimulate follicle development, the other to prevent ovulation. That’s what is making me the most nervous at this point. Stabbing my own stomach with a fine needle. Each injection costs around $300. What if I botch it up? Will it hurt a lot?

My poor husband has to deposit a specimen for semen analysis tomorrow. He said his voice quivered on the phone as he tried to say the words. I had to laugh at the sheer awkwardness of the situation, but I also feel genuinely sorry for him that he is now part of the medical hoop-jumping circus that I feel so familiar with.

Despite our history, my gynaecologist calls us his, ‘positive prognosis”, and he is confident we will get there. Fingers crossed that he’s right.

 

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