Starting a second round of IVF was always going to involve a comparison to our first round. The first time around we’d had around 26 eggs, 23 fertilised, and 13 tested by PGS. Knowing we only came out with 2 normal embryos made me anxious.
My first scan (with what another IVF sufferer has hilariously referred to as “dildo cam”) revealed that we were looking at around 15 eggs. Had I been told that on our first round I would have been over the moon. But with the knowledge of our previous round fresh in my mind, 15 didn’t seem many. 15 seemed too few. I went and saw the nurse and couldn’t help becoming upset. The nurse tried to reassure me but she didn’t know what I knew.
My second scan was more positive. My gynaecologist did it himself. We were looking at around 20 follicles. He said he felt positive about our progress and so did I. I took my trigger injection the next evening at 11.30pm and my egg collection was scheduled exactly 36 hours later.
I was nervous heading into the egg collection. Last time it had hurt quite a lot, and I’d keeled over in the car park afterwards amongst dead leaves and cigarette butts. I really hoped that this time would be better. I became teary going into the surgery. It’s bloody hard going through this stuff sometimes. In my gown my legs were popped into the horrendously unattractive stirrups. I was given oxygen and an intravenous line of drugs. Sweet sedatives. I relaxed.
It hurt a lot. Each time my gynaecologist inserted the needle through the vaginal wall and extracted the eggs from my ovary was like having a very painful injection. The worst pain only lasted momentarily though, and it was bearable. We’d come away with 23 eggs. I felt really happy with that number. To me, that was about what we needed to get one or two embryos at the end of all of this.
I recovered for an hour or so and was sent on my way. My abdomen was really tender and I felt a bit dizzy, but OK. About half way home I knew that we had to pull over and fast. My husband nipped down a side street and I basically jumped out onto the berm while the car was still coming to a stop. One quick spew on the grass. A lot of sweat. But instantly I felt a lot better. OK, let’s keep going.
Within minutes back in the car I realised I wasn’t OK. I grabbed a handbag ready to spew again and shrieked at my husband to please pull into a side street. I jumped out again, straight to the berm. Spewed on the grass. Spewed again. Hot, sweaty, dizzy… It was not my finest moment. A concerned looking cable guy asked if I needed some water. I said I was fine. Hopefully my hospital tag on my wrist and sticky plaster over my IV site was enough to let him know I had been admitted in the clinic.
We finally made it home on the third attempt, although again I needed to crawl and lay on the grass for a while. Phew. I spent the rest of the day in bed, in and out of sleep, with a sore tummy but glad it was all over. When I finally got up I wondered briefly why there was so much grass in my bed.