Barren Mare

Give 'em the ole razzle dazzle

Ahhhhh! I have a million things to do to get ready to go on our trip tomorrow. It's funny how, when you want to look to your best, you suddenly realise how far you've let yourself go. I only have a couple of hours to remedy that before I have to get back on the bus to the Other City again. Legs to shave! Nail polish to paint on! Eyebrows to pluck! Fake tan to apply (just a light shimmer, girls, none of that nasty orange stuff)! Outfit to select- and that is causing me some difficulty, since it is suddenly turned bitterly cold again, ruining my carefully laid out wardobe plans. Instead of my "springtime frock with smart thin coat and strappy sandals", I am half wondering if I can get away with fur-lined muumuu to hide menstrual bloat, and matching mukluks.

But I didn't want to leave you in suspense about the consultation yesterday at the O.C.

We met with the doctor as planned. In terms of manner, he could not have been more different from Dr Percent. Within thirty seconds of us sitting down, he was jesting in a friendly, avuncular way, making off-colour jokes, and calling me things like "pet" and "lovey" and "hen".

There was, throughout the entire course of our meeting, a certain amount of bluster and showmanship about his abilities to "get women pregnant" and to "work miracles." I looked over at E. at one point, and knew he was thinking what I was. To a degree, our strings were being pulled, as he told us exactly what we want so badly to hear- that this will work. That this will not bankrupt us emotionally, physically and financially. That we are in good hands.

Of course, it came out sounding something more like: "Pretty young thing like you, with your sweet little FSH of only 8.5! Only 34 years of age! Hell, I get women in here over 40 all the time! Anything under 12 is fine! You're just a spring chicken! Tubes clear? Good girl! I've got a good feeling about you two, oh yes I have!"

It was sort of like a consultation with the Billy Flynn of doctors. Give 'em the ole razzle dazzle. Stick with me kid, I can make you a star! A pregnant STAR! I could barely hear what he was saying over the sound of the tapdancing.

*Jazz hands.*

In terms of our options, he said exactly the same thing as Dr Percent, only with less stupid diagramming and number crunching. That we could do an IUI if we wanted, but an injectible cycle was going to be relatively expensive, and probably not worth our time or money.

"Look," he said, "we'll do one IVF. That tells us a lot of what we need to know. Among other things, it will tell us if there is any point in carrying on with treatment. I know it may seem an expensive diagnostic tool, but the main thing we have on our side is your age- so let's get in there, let's do it, and LET'S GET YOU A BABY THIS SUMMER."

And that was that. We then all linked arms to high-kick our way down the hall to the nurses' station, top hats tipping and canes a-'twirling. There we made an appointment at the next available opening toward the end of June. That will be our shots class, and all that jazz. Thereafter we can start the IVF process immediately.

With that, Dr Billy Flynn disappeared stage left with a last firm handshake and puff of smoke. We spoke to the nurse for a bit. She seemed all right, and I didn't cry this time. Oh, and we got shiny gold stars for having all our blood work done already.

Afterwards, E. and I sat in the car, slightly dazed, trying to collect ourselves.

"I think we were sort of played in there," I said.

"Oh, I know we were," E. replied. "But it doesn't change things. It doesn't matter whose office we sit in, or which city. We're still apparently unable to get pregnant, and we still have to make a decision about what we want to do about it."

So we went to have dinner. Over a large glass of wine, we concluded the following: neither of us is absolutely in love with Dr Billy Flynn and all his blustering bullshit. But his bedside manner is a considerable improvement on Dr Percent, whom we both loathed. Leaving all the stage-managing aside, and despite his propensity to calling me things like "pet", Dr Flynn was not condescending, or rude, or dismissive.

We do want to do something. And having thought about it, if we are going to incur hassle and expense, well, perhaps moving on to IVF is our best bet at this point. It's a big scary leap, but there are undeniable advantages to just getting on with it.

The success rates are exactly the same in both places. The cost is roughly equivalent, too. But things seem a lot more straightforward at the OC and a lot more organized. The clinic has excellent opening hours, designed to bear in mind the schedules of working people like ourselves. And E. is an awful lot happier about the location, as it is much handier for him. Not for me, of course, but it's always easier for me to take time off for appointments than it is for him.

And so that, dear friends and fellow castaways, is the plan. IVF at the O.C. End of June. The taking-action part of my brain is purring like a happy kitty while the other part is freaking the fuck out. But maybe in two months I will, er, have gotten more used to the idea, as much as I ever can.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pack and do my nails. I may be infertile, but at least I'll be petal-fresh and party-pretty.

In which I doth gently jest

It's shaping up to be a busy week here. We have our consult at the O.C. on Thursday, and then on Saturday we have to drive half the length of Great Britain to go to a wedding. I hope we can manage to hear the happy couple reciting their vows over the sound of shotguns cocking. The bride, of course, is pregnant.

Speaking of weddings, I was cheered up no end by the recent arrival of what has got to be the most absurd wedding invitation in the history of the world. I would stress that in the normal run of things, I would not stoop to snark on someone's nuptial invites. But in this case, Ye Who Invites Only One Half of a Long-Term and Very Committed Despite not Being Married Themselves Couple, Without So Much as Acknowledging the Existence of the Other Half, Deserves Ye to Be Mocked Forthwith.

I wasn't invited, therefore I can mock. Please note, if you are especially fond of Tudor themed costume weddings, or indeed have held such an event yourself, you will probably be offended by what follows and should look away now.

The wedding invitation arrived in a sealing cardboard mailing tube. Upon wresting it forth, E. and I were immediately doused in some sort of patchouli scent. Rose petals flew out all over our clothes and the floor (which by the way, I had just swept). The invitation (FOR E. ONLY) was printed on an elaborate parchment scroll, letters penned in swirling calligraphy.

"The theme of the wedding is Tudor Henry (circa 1536)".

I just love that level of precision. It's not just Tudor, people, it's circa 1536. The year Henry VIII wooed and wed Jane Seymour! Also the year he executed Anne Boleyn so that he could marry Miss Seymour a mere 11 days after the sword falling on his former wife's neck. But let us not mention that little trifling unpleasantness. Nor let us dwell on the fact that, notwithstanding all the little ups and downs of 1536, Henry was not exactly what I would call a role model for marital bliss. No, let us move swiftly on to a happier topic- guest's attire.

"Guests are requested to wear attire ranging from an old monk's habit to elaborate titled gentry costumes. Please note, this is not a fancy dress party. Anyone wearing modern clothes will be the ODD one out". And no doubt pelted with tomatoes, or summarily beheaded for treason.

The bride-to-be kindly supplied a second scroll with some, um, suggested ideas for costumes. I particularly like the one labeled "waffles", supposedly meant to illustrate a scene of cozy medieval domesticity, but which will hopefully inspire someone to go dressed as a breakfast pastry.

."Entertainment will be typical of the period." What, public executions? Jousting? Groping of comely wenchs?

"Remember, it is probably not a good idea to wear your best, as there will be no napkins or tablecloths. Or plates." In other words, don your second-best Tudor frock, girls. We wouldn't want any unsightly stains down the front of our favourite ball gowns, would we? I am sure the monks in their old habits will be OK though.

This marvel of Tudor madness then concludes:

"We hope you will join us on our happy day blah blah, which is so many years in coming. Look foward to seeing you blah blah blah. The theme is to have fun blah blah blah. For those of you who were at my last wedding, it's 21 years and one day later."

Now, call me crazy, but I am sure somewhere in Emily Post's etiquette book, there is a rule about how one should refrain from sending wedding invitations which casually mention one's previous wedding. Just a hunch.

Sadly, E.'s suit of armour is at the drycleaners, so he'll just have to pass on the happy event. Of course, he is devastated to be missing out on the chance to partake of wine or beer served in his "very own souvenir tankard or goblet".

On the upside, in blogging about this, I came across a handy quiz to help ascertain which wife of Henry the Eighth I am, I am. According to the quiz results, the answer to this burning question is that I am Katherine Parr, a well-bred bookworm with a passion for handsome rogues.

You?

Update: For those of you who clicked the link earlier and thought to yourselves, "But where is the quiz? Yon quizzeth is not before mine eyes!" Well, I had the link slightly wrong. Pray forgive me. 'Tis fixed now. Proceedeth.

Pregnancy Announcement Ambush

It's been an emotionally low weekend here at the Barn. Both E. and I are experiencing siege mentality, having been subjected to the unexpected mortar fire of not one, but two 'Pregnancy Announcement Ambushes'- also known as a "PAA".

[Editor's note: For the avoidance of doubt, I am not talking about announcements on infertility/adoption blogs when I speak of PAAs.]

I know pretty much anyone who has struggled with infertility has at some point encountered such an ambush. Athough relatively common, it is never a fun experience. There you are trundling patiently along the treatment trail, doing the best you can and minding your own business, when WHAM! All of a sudden, out of the clear blue sky, there is a grenade from a friend or relative, chortling "Guess what? We have NEWS! WE'RE going to have a BABY!"

Perhaps in some cases that would not be so bad, except that inevitably this type of "news" oftens seems to come at the worst possible moment. The day you get your period, or a BFN. The day you have experienced yet another setback, or are feeling especially vulnerable. Or, if the timing is not so problematic, then the attack counter-balances that by ensuring there are other reasons why the announcement sucks.

From what I have read, sister-in-laws usually specialise in this type of guerilla warfare. Neither E. or I suffer from SIL-itis. But lately I've noticed that my circle of friends and colleagues have formed their own little SWAT team of pregnancy-related torment, and have been doling out the blows to my solar plexus with frighteningly regularity.

The first PAA came on Friday, at work, when I learned from our secretary (herself the proud grandmother of a new "oops baby") that the Big Boss and his wife are expecting in late summer. This was on top of the chirpy e-mail sent round that morning to announce the delightful news of the birth of another colleague's daughter (also an "oops baby" and her second child in the space of about eighteen months.) Great. That's just fucking great. So, combined with facing Team Leader's ever-growing bump, going to work at the moment is like having my heart scraped with sandpaper.

But worse still was yesterday's ambush. I am still trying to excise the shrapnel from my sternum.

After much deliberation, I have decided that much as I would like to, I can't really go into the details. In any event, there is finely shaded and long-running history which a simple blog post could never fully convey. Let's just say that the source of the ambush is a friend of E.'s. This friend has steadfastly asserted over the years that he didn't want to get married, and that he never wanted children. Hated kids, in fact.

So we were more than a little surprised when he recently met and married someone with dazzling haste- literally within the short space of a few months. And surprise would not even begin to cover my reaction to finding out yesterday that she is also three months pregnant. Apparently, it happened the first month after she came off the Pill (which would have been about, oh, five minutes after they met). The Friend has bought and read a whole load of pregnancy books, and he tells her all the information, because she can't be bothered to read any of it herself.

I've tried all weekend to rationalise my way out this one, and I can't. I know that their easily achieved pregnancy doesn't make the chances of our having baby any less. I know that life is not fair. I know I'm in no position to judge someone else's life. I know it might have been a simple case of meeting the right person to make him realise that he did want kids after all. But frankly, I don't give a shit. Everything about this one upsets me to the core. When E. told me, I couldn't speak. I put the phone down and howled like a wounded animal. I can't remember the last time I felt this angry. It enrages me that this has happened for them and not for us.

It's as if a rescue plane has flown straight past our SOS sign, written large in the sand and ignored our frantic waves for help without so much as dipping its wings. We're left standing on the beach, gawping in disbelief at being overlooked yet again.

Well, fuck it. I'm getting out my machete, and if anyone is looking for me, I'll be over yon shubbery hacking down some vines to build a life raft.

All things considered

Firstly, thank you to everyone who has offered insight into my big question of going straight to doing IVF without doing IUI. I should probably clarify, since some of the comments relate to cost considerations, that we are paying for everything from here on in. No NHS, no insurance- it's all of out of pocket from now on. So yes, cost is an issue, especially from the standpoint that I would rather be spending any spare cash on frivolities like a trip to Las Vegas or a Marc Jacobs handbag (or both!) instead of fertility treatments which may be unnecessary, or which may not work.

Of course, the crux of the matter is that it is going to be hard to predict. That said, I think I am leaning toward doing one IUI. And if we go somewhere other than Ass Con, it could be an injectible IUI cycle, which would hopefully give me some idea about responding to medication, yadda yadda. Plus, it would give us all a fun little sneak preview as to how big a weenie I am about things like needles and shots- before we come to the Main Event.

Underpinning all this decision-making are a couple of things I have learned about myself in the last year spent staring down the barrel of our particular ART shotgun.

Firstly, I need to give myself time with this process. A few days ago I was berating myself for not pushing earlier to make enquiries about the IUI back in December, when Dr Ticktock first offered me Clomid. Not that I am sure it would have made any difference if I had- but the scorecard in my brain informs me in blunt tones that we just lost three months there, while I dithered. Or perhaps, more accurately, while I remained that amusing land, Denial.

However. I also realised today that one of the things that is enabling me to function- to get out bed in the morning, to deal with the demands of my job, to hold it together and keep FROM FREAKING OUT ENTIRELY is that I still do have some choices. In the big scheme of things, the outcome may be out of my hands. But I want to feel as if I do have one small leaky life-raft of control left. So as much as possible, whenever possible, I want this treatment process to happen on my terms.

And you know, I'm OK with the fact that I am not completely emotionally or psychologically ready to leap cooter-first into IVF without having tested the IUI waters. I don't feel the need to apologize to myself (or anyone else for that matter) for taking things one step at a time. Yes, my hesitation in December may have cost us some time, but I honestly think I am slightly saner for it, and now more certain about what we need to do. Plus, we did what felt right at the time and were kind to ourselves in the process- what's to regret? Besides, I frankly don't see the point in going through all this shit if I become a complete basket case by second-guessing every step and beating myself up about it at every turn.

So, even if IUI doesn't work, even it would be better/quicker/smarter/cheaper in the long run to go straight to IVF as soon as possible- well, I don't think I can underestimate my urge to follow my gut instinct and do what just feels right for me and for us, in our situation.

Of course that may all change when we talk to the consultant in the O.C next week. Because paradoxically, the other thing I have learned is that I feel a whole lot better when we are doing something and taking action. It's just a question of making those two inner jigsaw pieces come together, without forcing a fit or breaking off one of the stubby cardboard ends.

So. Plan B. Well, actually it's sort of Plan C, or possibly B and a half. Confused? Just to keep everybody up to speed, here is a helpful summation of my current Plan List.

PLAN A- IUI with Clomid at Ass Con Centre
PLAN B- IVF at Ass Con Centre, if timescales remotely reasonable (and if the doctor is not a complete dickhead)
PLAN C- Consult at hospital in the Other City (The O.C.) next week with a view to doing IUI (possibly with injectables) as soon as possible, and/or IVF thereafter.
PLAN D- IVF in Florida in the autumn (post hurricane season) at clinic near my parents.
PLAN E- IVF in Barcelona.
PLAN F- Have nervous breakdown and squat under the kitchen table, crying and cramming slices of floor cake into mouth.