IVF part 4: the transfer and the wait

The day before we found out the result of our frozen egg transfer was one of the most anxious days I can remember. It was as if my heart rate had dialled up to 140bpm. Like I’d had ten coffees, no food and watched a horror movie, only I hadn’t. t couldn’t concentrate. I was so worried.

That was around eight days after our transfer. On the day of our transfer I’d have seven blood tests in the build up. I was convinced I had a UTI, but a test suggested otherwise. I was so nervous. The procedure itself went well enough, apart from my bladder nearly exploding. We’d had to wait an extra fifteen minutes or so than expected. By the time we got into the transfer room I had to wriggle my feet to stop myself from bursting. It wasn’t ideal. The staff double checked our details on the test tube. That made sense. It was rather important. And the transfer itself went well, it seemed. We went home with a little photo of our guy, a blastocyst, “hatching” out of his shell and ready to stick. We hoped.

I felt a certain relief after the transfer was successful. I had hugged the gynaecologist in tears, and he didn’t know how to react. But soon the stress flooded back. I was sure I had a UTI. I went to my GP who diagnosed it immediately. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a UTI diagnosed. It could affect the embryo. I flipped out. Then our three year old started vomiting in the early hours of the morning, for the first time probably in a year. If I caught a tummy bug it could affect the embryo. WTF. Why was this happening?! The more I tried to calm myself down, the more stressed I seemed to become.

It was the day we found out the result that I reached a tipping point. I had barely slept. I woke early and stared at the ceiling. I was sure I should be able to get a result on a pregnancy test. Maybe I should just do one. But I only had another two days to wait. My boobs didn’t feel sore any more. That always happens right before I get a period. That was the final straw. I bawled. I couldn’t go to work. I bawled some more.

My gut feeling was right. The next morning, the day before our official test, I got my period. The anxiety fell away almost instantly and in its place a blanket of numbness and sadness shrouded me. I was transported back to some of my darkest days in this process. I didn’t want to see anyone. I was no longer hungry. I didn’t want to talk. I had my first beer in ages and it was good and bad – all the pain came gushing out and I sobbed on the couch by myself. While I felt like an utter failure as a woman I was at least thankful that the anxiety had left me.

It’s now a couple of days later. I don’t really know where to from here. We have one more chance. I am terrified of what it means if we don’t succeed. I’ve adjusted my expectations so many times that I feel we may be reaching the end of all of this.

Ah, Clomid, I’ve heard a lot about you

I visited my gynaecologist today. I should really have scheduled to see him last month, but in my mind I was going to be able to call him and tell him that I was pregnant and that I didn’t need to see him after all. Well, that didn’t happen.

Ten minutes before I was due to drive to the clinic I was with a friend. It had taken her a couple of years to get pregnant and she’d had to have surgery due to some severe endometriosis. We had common ground in our struggle to conceive. We see each other at least once a week, have a coffee and let our kids run amok together in the playground.

As we were leaving she told me – she was 14 weeks pregnant. Fourteen! I saw her every week, often twice a week. She had known for such a long time and hadn’t said anything. Presumably because it was just too awkward. It made me feel really let down. And shit. And upset. Was it really so hard to tell me?

I was happy that she had become pregnant so easily. And I tried not to let it bother me that she hadn’t told me sooner. But I cried all the way home to our place before getting in the car and driving to the gynaecologist. I wish she’d told me sooner. Before today.

My gynaecologist asked about how everything had been since my surgery in November to correct the Asherman’s. I said it all seemed OK, perhaps my cycles were a bit shorter than usual, but that was about it. He said I should start on Clomid. Ah, Clomid, I was wondering when that might pop into conversation. It seemed that every infertility thread I read mentions Clomid.

Alright, well what do we need to do? He explained I need to take the drug on certain days of my cycle, have a scan on day 10, and then they advise you when to try and conceive. The last step in normalcy of our already regimented sex life was about to be removed.

He advised me that it could increase the likelihood of twins, as though that was a bad thing. I understand that there are greater risks in pregnancy with twins but TWINS! I would be so extraordinarily happy if we had twins.

And he wanted my husband to have a sperm count test. I had to have a giggle at the thought – my husband was having a laugh with a friend a few weeks ago about being asked to perform into a plastic container, presumably giving him some grief about it. How awkward.

The realisation hit me: more tests, more drugs, more appointments, more tests, more drugs, more appointments. I was like a long-term medical experiment. My son wasn’t going to get a sibling until he was at least four. I would have been absolutely crushed had I known that at the time he was born. Now I am just numb with disappointment and a weak positivity that one day things will happen for us.

I took the fertility booklet, the scripts, the blood test forms, and cried. My son asked me what was wrong and gave me a pen and paper and said if I drew with him I would be happy again. What a cute guy. No wonder I want another one so badly.

 

A new journey: peeing on a stick

I didn’t think when I started writing this blog that I would be writing about peeing on a stick. I also didn’t think I’d have another two losses after our first miscarriage (well, three if you count the fact we were having twins on one of those occasions). But here I am.

Peeing on a stick. Not terribly graceful. Not something you’d discuss over the water cooler at work. Initially, peeing on a stick for me meant using a pregnancy test. It’s ludicrous what I put myself through. I get myself a FRER (or First Response Early Result) test, so that I can test at the earliest possible time. Never mind the fact that when I have had a positive result (so, five times before) I’ve never got a positive test before my period is due. I tell my illogical and somewhat deranged self, “maybe you could get an early result! Why would you want to wait if you could find out early!” And so it goes on.

The worst part though is waiting for a non-existent positive result. I sit there in the bathroom. I squint. I move the test into the light. I tilt it.  I throw it in the bin. I get it out again. I repeat the charade for what feels like a squillion times until I have given myself a headache from focussing so hard and trying to make something exist that doesn’t: that elusive second line. Sigh. Not this month.

Last month we tried an ovulation predictor kit for the first time. I didn’t even know what OPK meant on my Fertility Friend app until last month. I’m not sure why, but I decided to go top shelf. We got a Clearblue digital test. It promised to give us our four most fertile days for optimal “love making”. My poor husband. “Love making” at the moment is more like a scheduled requirement than a recreational activity.

My period came and went. So I opened the Clearblue test. Yikes, it looked complicated. The instructions suggested I should have started testing the day before. Not a great start. I told myself I would start the next day. And then I turned to my old favourite Google and asked some questions: when to test, how long do you need to hold on before testing, morning, afternoon or evening… so many questions! I decided that I would aim to be consistent at least and test in the middle of the day, after holding on for a couple of hours each time.

First day of the OPK… nothing. Second day flashing smiley! I looked at the instructions and it meant… high fertility! It was early in the piece, only day 11. I was pretty sure I usually ovulated after day 14 so didn’t pay too much attention. The next day another flashing smiley. We were at a music festival all day and all night long. Maybe I’d done the test wrong I thought. It did say to use first morning urine and I’d ignored that.  In any case, we were absolutely exhausted, I hoped that we would have more opportunities.

On day 14 I was at work. I wondered how many other women have to attempt to smuggle an ovulation test into the cubicle at work. It wasn’t exactly discreet, I had to shove the test up my jacket sleeve and then walk to the bathroom. I hoped my boss didn’t call me into his office. My arm was abnormally rigid.  I took the test. The results take a good five minutes to show, so I decided I would go back to my desk and then surreptitiously look at the test in my desk drawer.

Thankfully no-one cottoned on to my bizarre behaviour. The elusive solid smiley appeared! According to Clearblue that meant ovulation was imminent. It was like receiving the call to arms. Turns out that two years of trying for your second child can make you pretty determined to conceive.

The next two weeks were spent wondering if I’d stuffed up the test. I don’t think I did, my period arrived exactly two weeks after the test claimed I ovulated. Sigh. Back to peeing on a stick again.

 

 

Another year on

I got my period today. In a moment our chances for conceiving this month evaporated. I felt myself slump and fade into a moment of sadness.

That moment was nothing thought compared to the meltdown I had yesterday when I took a pregnancy test and, even with the strongest squint, there was no hint of that big fat positive. I cried so much. I felt myself being dragged back to the lows that followed our termination. So much pain, and anger, and sadness, and helplessness. It sucked. I thought we were doing so well and then, bam.

I could feel myself having an angry imaginary conversation with a friend. Yelling at them that they had no idea what it was like to nearly lose your job because your mind is elsewhere for months on end, to feel physical pain in your heart every time you saw a woman walk past with a perfectly round baby bump, to sit alone with your thoughts for hours trying to guess whether this month might be the month that the nightmare comes to an end. I felt so angry. So trapped in an endless shitty nightmare.

I did my best to imagine all the people in the world who are in a shittier place than us. To be grateful to live in a beautiful country, in a nice house, with a wonderful and supportive husband, and to have a gorgeous son. I feel guilty sometimes how self-absorbing this journey to pregnancy is. I know it frustrates my husband. I can understand why.

Today, though, I am resigned to the fact that 2016 holds no hope for us. I’ve changed my focus to that arbitrary line in the sand that is 1 January 2017. A new year.

A year ago I thought the same thing about 2015. My husband and I sat down beside the river at my in-laws holiday house and wept quietly on New Year’s Eve, knowing that the end of the year meant the closure of a chapter of our lives, but also meant that our little ones were gone and drifting further away from us.

Come on powers that be, haven’t we been through enough? Please give us a leg up and let 2017 be the year that we welcome our second perfect baby. I’m not ready to give up!

 

 

 

You think you’re ok. Then…

It has been nearly six months since we ended our last pregnancy. I can’t quite believe it. Yesterday, I messaged a friend to say that I think I have come to accept our situation and have adjusted my expectations. Today, I broke down like a deranged mess in front of a whole toddler gym class when someone asked me how I was.

You see, today is our (latest) baby’s due date.

Today is also the day that I think I have got my period again, after trying so hard to get pregnant last month. This was the first month we have been able to try and get pregnant since we ended our pregnancy. I’ll explain why.

For a few months I had little to no periods, with horrendous abdominal pain. I’d never really experienced period pain before, so I visited a gynaecologist. He wanted to run a few tests to make sure I didn’t have Asherman’s.

We started with a HSG. It’s when a radiologist puts a catheter in your cervix and into your uterus and squirts dye in there that should flow around and show up on a screen. It was at the same hospital that we went to when we ended our pregnancy. That alone was enough to set me off. Then I had to take a pregnancy test. It felt cruel. Then I was back in a hospital gown again. Lying on a table in a brightly lit room again. This time there was no anaesthetic. The pain was excruciating. I honestly can’t remember ever being in so much pain. It was painful because the dye wasn’t going where it was supposed to. It was stuck in the neck of the uterus. I cried so much that day that the radiologist put a note on my report that she thought I needed psychological help. I had Asherman’s.

It was in December last year that I feared I had Asherman’s. I never thought I would be in the same situation again nearly a year later. This time I arrived at a private hospital. I was dressed in a gown again. I was given misoprostol again. I was led into the brightly lit theatre room again. The anaesthetist was there, she held my hand. The operation was a “success” if you put aside the fact I had bad scarring in the neck of my uterus. The gynaecologist said he had divided the scar tissue and we could start trying again immediately. We were so optimistic. It was a rare win for us in the crap of the last two years that we have plodded through.

Now though, as I sit on our couch writing this, I feel like I’ve come down to earth with a thud. We are still on a long road. We’re not even pregnant. If we get pregnant we and our little baby then have 39 weeks to survive, well, 35 if you minus out the first four weeks that you don’t know you’re pregnant. It’s hard to stay positive sometimes.

 

 

 

 

The days after we ended our pregnancy

It has been over three months since I ended my pregnancy. I can say now with hindsight that I have more or less made it through.

The first week was bloody hard. We chose to escape the city and headed to a remote beach a few hours away. During the day we skimmed stones, dawdled on the beach, visited walking tracks and touristy places. In the evenings my husband and I sat with a glass of wine in our hands, often quiet, often upset, talking about how shit life can be across the dinner table. It was a surreal time, it was as though everything slowed down so we could marinate in our sadness.

Being back at work was hard. I went back a week and a day after surgery. The first person I saw from work was in the lift, she asked, “is everything OK with you?” I’d been out of the office for nearly three weeks without much explanation. I thought I would cry then and there. I looked away and said, “yes, fine thanks.” For the first couple of weeks, I was OK maybe one day in three. By OK I mean that I was able to do some work. The other days I stared at the screen, thinking constantly of what had happened. Trying not to cry.

Then I had a meltdown. I was sitting at my desk one Monday and for some reason I was fixated on our loss. I couldn’t think of anything else. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I achieved nothing at work. My anxiety grew. I couldn’t continue like this, I had billable hours to meet. My boss would lose his patience and eventually I’d get fired. Surely. I panicked. I decided I needed time out. I didn’t know how much time.

I talked to my husband and my close friends, they told me to be brave and to talk to my boss. So I did. And he was fine with my taking some time out. But then I faltered. It was as though the fact of telling my boss lifted an immense weight off my shoulders and all of a sudden I felt like I was able to keep working. What a mess I was.

And so here I am. I didn’t take any time off after all. I have terrible days filled with anxiety and sadness, and then great days where I feel a bit like the old me. It’s a process  I suppose.

The day of the surgery

We were asked to be at the hospital by 8.30am. We dropped our son at daycare and drove there with the music turned up loud and ragey, each putting on a brave face for the other. We sat in the waiting room and waited for an eternity, well, one and half long hours. It was not the best start to what you anticipate to be one of the worst days of your life. The explanation given to us for the wait was that I was right at the end of the surgery list of 14 women. It seemed to escape the staff that perhaps they could schedule patients to arrive at different times depending on their position in the list. My mind still boggles at how the hospital was prepared to leave  someone about to undergo a significantly traumatic procedure to sit in a waiting room for one and a half hours.

I met the charge nurse. She was short, probably in her 50s, with red coloured hair and matching lipstick. She apologised for the delay. She asked if I had been advised to bring in an urn or box. I cracked at this, “why does no-one ever tell you anything around here!!” I exploded and cried. “No, no-one told me that.” “Didn’t the social worker talk to you about taking the remains?” “No, but I’ve done it twice before. Can we take the remains?” I explained that the first miscarriage we had left me calling a blood test laboratory trying to find my miscarried remains after being given the wrong number by the hospital. “yes, you can take the remains home with you.”

The nurse then said something quite shocking. “Believe me, this is as hard for you as it is for me.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME! I was incredulous. My husband was incredulous. I told her that I doubted that very much and set about disliking her for the rest of our stay. I was flabbergasted that she was the front-facing nurse of the ward. She then gave me misoprostol. I told her I knew what it was and swallowed it. It was a thousand times easier this time compared to my second D&C.

I then had to get changed into the standard issue backless blue hospital gown with underwear that they can cut off. So undignified. It made me cry. I felt like a nobody in that gown. The nurse came in to check that I was OK. She asked if she could give me a hug. That was nice of her. She said, “I don’t have any children either.” I told her, “actually I have a son, he’s at daycare today, he’s two.” Not knowing when to just shut up the nurse advised, “well you should be grateful that you have him.” I don’t know how I was so relaxed about that. Rather than punching her in the face, I let it roll off me. I had enough to deal with today. I was barely holding it together. I could chose not to let her get to me.

We were then ushered into a private room to wait for the misoprostol to take effect. All that really happened is that I began to shake uncontrollably from the cold, or from the drugs, I’m not sure. I ended up smothered in a hot air blanket. I listened to the clock tick away. My poor husband didn’t really know what to do with himself.

Finally it was time. I was wheeled up to theatre. I asked the theatre nurse to please hold my hand. She did. The anaesthetist was there. There was a man holding the blood pressure monitor. I thought to myself, “how can anyone perform this procedure? Doesn’t it break their hearts as much as mine is breaking? Don’t they feel as sick and guilty?” At that moment I completely lost it. I started sobbing uncontrollably and vaguely remember trying to sit up and protest something, although I don’t know what exactly. I felt the theatre staff quickly grab my arms and shoulders and I was almost immediately unconscious. I’m glad the anaesthetist put me out of my miserable state.

As I came to I wanted someone to hold my hand. I was eventually allowed to leave my bed to use the bathroom. And we waited to be discharged  in a small cubicle with another two couples. It didn’t seem the right place to be following such a traumatic event. That said, the anti-anxiety drugs were keeping me relatively calm. The anaesthetist must have really dialled up the dose, as I don’t remember feeling so at ease after my previous two surgeries. The nurse advised I was not to drive, to sign any legal documents, or drink alcohol in the next 24 hours. I had no intention of complying with the alcohol ban.