Mine Goes Up To Eleven

S’gone 11pm. I think, as a consequence, we’re on bullet points.

  • The weather has been delightful. I have spent this week making a wedding cake. The very-wondrous-indeed TwangyPearl sent me a picture she had drawn. Harry has been a chatterbox. I have not felt overly hormonal this week. All these things are excellent, and I have been Cheerful.
  • I have had a sore throat, followed by a chest infection, for well over a month. I am so used to my GP telling me that things’ll get better by themselves in a few days, that for the first fortnight I didn’t even think of consulting him. The third week I began to get exceeedingly cross, and mutter about taking absurdly expensive prenatal vitamins in order to get myself into the peak of reproductive health when I am also unable to swallow without groaning, and so utterly wiped out by the collateral germ burden that I am unable to function past 9pm at night. The fourth week it sank into my chest, and I have coughed up things that really belong back in the primordial swamp. I have seriously considered antibiotics this last few days, but really, I asked myself, how much longer can it last before my white blood cells pony up and recognise the goddamn villain, FFS? They can spot an embryo as an imposter the moment the poor thing lights onto my endometrium like a worried butterfly, it seems, but can they spot galloping plague when they encounter it? No! Bloody things. Anyway, I was convinced yesterday that I was feeling a tiny tad better. Which lasted until about 8pm last night, when John, Harry and I all fell victim to an entirely NEW germ, which has left us all feeling bleurgh.
  • It is our 7th wedding anniversary today. We have cancelled our looked-forward to lunch at posh restaurant, because John was hot and achey and I was cold and achey, and also: my nose is now the never-ending porridge pot of mucus production. Booooo.
  • I have interviews for full-time jobs later this week. I do not want full-time work, really, but I can’t work from home a moment longer, either, so something has to give. There’s too much else going on all the time for me to work productively, plus the work I was doing for an old outfit of mine has come to a natural hiatus. So, I have still been pottering about happily selling my cards, and although I enjoy having my own business project, I just can’t maintain the drive and application that you need to make a significant sales success. Time was: I could do it, liked it, and was manically busy enough to stay thin into the bargain. I was single then. Now, everything is… harder. Shinier. More distracting. Consequently, I have been looking for Something Different that A) I will enjoy, B) will not tax the aforementioned drive and application too hard and C) that stays at work when I come home. These jobs tend not to come in family-friendly hours, nor do they overly pay well, but I am in a compromising mood currently. IVF bills do that to a girl.
  • This afternoon, while feeling grotty, I also began to lose mood-(hormonal?)altitude. I then burnt my fingers on the oven, and I have blisters and feel sorry for myself, AND my mouth is all swollen and ulcered for some reason AND my tongue has a sore on the very tip of it. Wahhhh!
  • Apropos, it is time for me to learn how to stop continually swearing like a pirate. This week, Harry has parrotted both ‘shit’ and ‘bloody’. Eeep.
  • IVF is going stonkingly, except that when I went for a day 6 scan yesterday morning, the new-to-ultrasounding-my-innards sister on duty couldn’t find my left ovary at all. Vamoosed. Lord Lucaned. Dissolved. My right ovary, on the other hand, had eleven follicles on it, so I have been told to reduce my dose a little to avoid over-stimming. (ME! Over-stimulating! Jesus H Christ.) At least, I think I have eleven. The ultrasound machine had a Funny and there was a little confusion regarding precisely whose print-out of follicle measurements I was given, but I’m going back tomorrow for a planned search party to locate my left ovary and perform a re-count in any event. I have no problem in believing that it is currently concealed so well because it is dead as a doornail and producing nada.
  • I wonder if having one duff ovary and one sprightly one would give me a weird AMH result?
  • As I was completing my first pituitary-coshing stomach injection today, John wandered into the kitchen. A brief expostulation in re: men-have-it-easy ensued. John demurred. ‘We have to wank into a pot under very difficult circumstances!’ (Untested for several years, John was recently obliged to comply with their demand to double-check that things à la testes were still Going Swimmingly. He complained feelingly about the diminished quality of the in-house porn, saying that the magazines were all FHM/Maxim-type publications. ‘It’s all very well having a girl on one page, but there’s usually a bloody footballer on the other!’) I enquired frostily whether poor-quality porn was the entire tally of his reproductive troubles, and he replied roundly that it was not: apparently the only chair in the room is ridiculously, absurdly and unstoppably squeaky. I suggested he take in some WD40 on egg retrieval day and repair it, before it struck me that the waiting room at large might put a rather different interpretation on a chap sauntering into Andrology carrying industrial lubricant under his arm.
  • Speaking of injections: the Gonal F is the usual tiny needle and, although the pre-filled drug cartridge is fiddly to dose-load, it’s a straightforward enough jab into the leg. The Cetrotide is a traditional syringe-and-separate-vial arrangement, although the needle provided is an off-putting inch and a half long, wider-bore, goes right into the belly, and itches like a proper bugger afterwards. Dissolving the powdered drug into the solution is not a task for the impatient, either.
  • Specialist in recurrent miscarriage I saw a couple of weeks back – the Professor – was a delightful lady whom I took to enormously. She said hello, told me she’d been reading my file – and promptly face-planted her desk in wry despair and said that she wasn’t sure how much help she could be. Ahh, lady! You’re a realist! She agreed that, in my recalcitrant case, just throwing everything they have at me (although no mention of steroids: I obviously don’t fit her research model) is the way forward. Aspirin and heparin remain our weapons of choice, with lots of added progesterone in the first trimester.  She heard my tale of under-supported stress, worry and woe from my pregnancy with Harry sympathetically, and offered to be my obstetrician for any subsequent pregnancies. I nodded keenly. So: I have a Professor to hold my hand. That will probably do.

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