Too Tired to Think of a Title

Re-hydration has finally been achieved in Hairy Farmer Household. We are all officially, as from midday today, free from nausea. Hurrah! Harry’s euphoria was unfortunately short lived, as he came down with runny snots and a hacking cough yesterday morning – and I have just had a phone call from the mother of one of his little pals, announcing probable Pox. Of the Chicken variety! Hey ho.

Enough about him. Lets talk about me. ME! ME! ME!

In order to lay groundwork for my witterings, I need to tell you that my maternal grandfather – a dedicated chain-smoker – died of a massive heart attack in his mid 50s. As did the elder of my maternal uncles – a contented pipe puffer. The younger – a fit chap, but also a smoker – survived his first and second major heart attacks, but not the third, which got him at the ripe old age of 49, whilst awaiting a triple bypass. His post mortem report stated that he had the heart of ‘a very old man’. In short, no male on my mother’s side has lived to see retirement. My mother and her sister – both smokers for years in their youth – have had ECG tests, with no abnormalities detected. All my male cousins are regularly checked for heart disease, as it seems possible that this is a chaps-only thing.  I was a devoted smoker of Marlboro Lights from the age of 18 to 28, with a two year gap in the middle.

Are you all nice and contextualised and sitting comfily? Excellent!

In 2005, I started my first round of IVF, and duly commenced the initial Synarel downregulation. After a day or so snorting the hormone-killer nasal spray, I began to have simply enormous heart palpitations. My heart seemed to be about to burst out of my sterum on the catch-up beat. I worried. I worried a lot. I did not tell my mother. I looked at the side effects of the drug. I spoke to my consultant (who, despite seeming rather a cold fish and not above dropping the odd clanger, is fairly prestigious) who said he couldn’t see why the drug would be causing palpitations. At any rate, my baseline scan soon showed that I was satisfactorily dead in the hormone department, so I stopped the spray and started jabbing myself with vials (Oh, so many, many vials! Grow, you bastard follicles, grow!) of gonadotrophins – and the palpitations gradually disappeared. 

On my second round of IVF, I had note-book and pen ready to hand before starting the nasal spray. I was going to Log My Palpitations! Oh Yes, Mr Consultant! I will Prove My Point! I have RARE AND DANGEROUS SIDE EFFECTS! And… nothing. I sniffed like a Glasgow solvent-addict, and experienced nary a single errant flip-flop of my ticker. I went in for my baseline scan completely crestfallen, before waving Hello! to the burgeoning 22mm follicle emerging from an ovary that should have been sound asleep and snoring, and a lush and juicy endometrium that Should Not Have Been. 

Ah. Righty-ho! So I’m officially a hormonal freak. But perhaps the palpitations make sense… I was instructed to ‘go around again’ and keep sniffing. After a week or so of mighty inhaling, my heart once again began to crash about in my chest, and, Yes indeed! My next baseline scan was all absent and correct. The nasal spray was exonerated, and my own silly hormones placed squarely in the frame as cardiac agitators. During my pregnancy with Harry I did vaguely notice a upturn in palpitations, but I had no more of the real breathtakingly hard thumps. 

None at all, in fact, until sometime on Friday, when I became aware that my heart was boom-bitty-booming big styley. Knock-my-breath-away big styley. I lost track of the new frenzied jungle rhythm amongst all the dreadful wretching, but it was still jumping about madly on Saturday, before quietly returning to (what I hope is) normal.

And there’s more. Whilst desperately trying to replace some of my rapidly ebbing fluids in the early hours of Saturday, I couldn’t help but notice that I was onto a complete loser: not only was I geysering my valued remaining liquid (And my pizza! That’s £7 I won’t see again! Ok, I did see it again, but that’s not the point.) out of the two obvious orifices, but I also became awfully aware that the clear ‘Screw Me Now‘ mucus situation had gone… mad. Quite mad! I was virtually awash with the stuff. Seriously, on two occasions I even thought I’d wet myself. Badly.

Now, even the most ivory-skulled individual could not have overlooked the fact that Something Was Occurring this weekend. Whether this cycle – for it seems that I am actually having one, all on my very own – is properly ovulatory or not, God alone knows. But there seems little chance of me actually overlooking conception opportunities in future if my creaking hormone system is now going to make this sort of fuss every time one of my ovaries lethargically decides to think about popping one out.

Of course, upon hearing about the mucus and the palpitations, Hubby was dead keen to send in more swimmers to make sure that the unscheduled first lot were OK, and still had their maps held the right way up. I carefully explained to him – again – that A) we are actually supposed to be waiting a few more months B) I’m still vacillating between wanting-another and being-too-scared-of-prem-birth to try again anyway, actually and C) I was still feeling sufficiently queasy to repel any advances of a hubby-nature with a big fat pointy stick. 

Of course, I now wonder if I let a golden opportunity go by.


And I return to you 12 hours later, as I didn’t get as far as the ‘Publish’ button last night, courtesy of my hacking, barking, unhappy child. He was coughing so much last night that he vomited copiously again – scoring direct hits on my clothing, and Hubby’s bare (and exceedingly hairy) chest and feet.

It has been a long night. I can’t cope with the one I have, let alone another. What am I thinking?

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