Which Would You Like First?

The good news: 14 eggs. 11 fertilised normally, with one further one showing ‘faint’ partial indicators of fertilisation. They are Pleased, and going for blastocyst culture.  

The bad news: I have developed OHSS (Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome) and have spent an exceptionally wretched half-day and night, before recovering significantly this morning. I didn’t realise you could develop OHSS after retrieval, and so spent the night wondering fearfully what the hell was wrong with my innards, and just what on earth this whole can’t-breathe-properly thing was about.

I managed to faint after staggering to the bog yesterday afternoon, coming round – damply – on the floor of our ensuite, which I subsequently made a promise to myself to clean far, far more often. It was an elbows-and-knees trip to the bedroom phone to summon assistance back into bed – where John had installed me earlier in the day, rather less ill, and sleeping off what we supposed was sedation-after-effects, before trotting off with Poxy (who was very poorly indeed over the weekend, now greatly improved) to farm.

I have to confess, whilst lying on the bedroom floor struggling to dial for help, I wondered if my time had come. I did feel so awfully, awfully wretched. ‘You’ve only fainted, you fool!’ roared the sensible half of me in disdainful contempt, whilst the other half merely whimpered and worried what the funeral director would think of me for being lightly urine-soaked and wearing only my oldest, most moth-chewed Wallace and Gromit t-shirt. It’s not quite how I pictured myself going, somehow.

John supervised my return to bed, medicated me with pain-killers, attempted to hydrate me – which I neglected to drink, purely because it hurt to extend my arm as far as the bedside table, and then proceeded to twiddle his thumbs while looking nonplussed. Although meaning as well as the next husband, John can’t really be bothered with nursing poorly people; he evidently feels quite sorry for the Wifey plight, but these feelings are battling against his fundamental belief that pain is simply weakness leaving the body, and a decent bracing jog up and down our hill would do me no end of good. Having googled OHSS, and realising that one could – and probably had – develop it post-retrieval, he became a little worried over my breathing difficulties, and proceeded to exhort me to Drink Water and Walk About; I am obediently trying to comply.

When my clinic got around to ringing me back from my message this morning (you have to leave a message. My clinic Does Not Answer telephones, the under-funded, infuriating buggers) the nurse told me that lots of ladies have these symptoms after retrieval, and I shouldn’t assume I have OHSS, and how many eggs had I produced, and how did I really feel now? I was irritatingly reminded of the midwife who told me I was mistaking Harry’s skipped heartbeats for my own abdominal sounds (yes, yes, she really did say that) and I weakly huffed stroppily at her (which I had no right to do, because I knew I was ill almost as soon as I came round from yesterday’s sedation, and should totally have either not left the unit at all, or re-admitted myself last night to the emergency gynae ward, but the thought of another sat-upright jolty 30-mile car-ride was utterly unthinkable, and I was absolutely buggered if I was calling an ambulance) that I was/had been in acute pain, producing brown urine, extremely short of breath, ribs were being forced outwards by the pressure of my incredibly distended abdomen, and my shoulders both hurt like billy-o.

She conceded that I did, indeed, have classic-sounding OHSS, which satisfied me, and said she would like to have me looked at. However, as I would far rather be ill at home than hospital, and as I am feeling decidedly more human this morning, and as I can now move around in/out of bed without fainting/screaming, we finally agreed that I should admit myself only if my discomfort and breathing fails to improve further by this afternoon. My mother, who understands John’s disposition towards invalids, has arrived to mind both Poxy and I (not only did she buy me, her spoilt middle-class brat treasured only child, an iPhone 4 on Sunday, but she is currently busy washing the crocks from the Mothering Sunday roast dinner I cooked her…!) and I am off to drink more water and shuffle about the place looking rotund, pale and interesting.

Oh, and have a small triumphant crow, too, for my eleven fertilised + one maybe.

Cock-a-doodle-cluck! Or something.

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