Barren Mare

I am the horse

I like my emotional upheavals to be brisk and snappy in their resolution, so I am pleased to note that I appear to have moved on to the next step. If we were to apply a Kubler-Ross model to my current emotional roadmap, I think I would now fall firmly into the "Angry" bracket. (Incidentally, I notice there is no bracket set aside in that model for the "Swilling Booze and Eating Cake while Lying on the sofa watching Crap Telly". Which, as any sensible infertile person knows, is a key stage in the grief process.)

Harumph. Yes. Having dispensed with the floor-crying for the time being, I find myself in a state of rabid pissiness, a sort of volcanic irritation with the world. It's to be expected, I suppose- when the universe sticks its tongue out at you saying "Neener neener neener!", a little anger is normal. I suspect my annoyance with the latest turn of events is on a grand scale, but it's the minor things that bugging me. For example, who was the fuckwit who left the bag of rubbish outside the door of the flats, so the foxes and other urban vermin could come and strew it everywhere in the middle of the night? Thanks, jerkwad. And you there, the person in the queue behind me. Yeah, you. Do you have to stand RIGHT BEHIND me, breathing your fumes over my shoulder, pressing the wire shopping basket into my lower back? This is my dance space, asshole, that is your dance space. Back the fuck off, Jack.

That kind of thing.

Plus, it doesn't help that subsequent to my recent IVF shipwreck, I have been subjected to more assvice than a clamped buttock. What I want to know is: when did people become so emotionally backwards? Why is it that everyone seems to think the correct response is to offer up endless unsolicited solutions? Whatever happened to a good old fashioned, "I'm sorry- would a soothing cup of tea help?"

Disclaimer: I should stress that I am not referring, in this post, to fellow bloggers and kind friends. I have had some preliminary solution-oriented discussions with a few people, much of it at my instigation. To a woman, everyone has been unstintingly helpful, supportive and unassuming. For which again, my thanks. No, rather I am referring to the insta-platitude dished out in a "careless shoot from the hip while shooting off the mouth" kind of comments from the seemingly oblivious hoards around me.

For example:

"Oh well, at least you can go on holiday now and drink lots of booze.". Why, yes. Yes, we can, and indeed we plan on doing just that very soon. I'm not stupid, I know that a holiday with the prospect of copious amounts of doing nothing at all while around drinking wine is a definite plus. But while I am grateful that we are able to have a nice break, the main reason we're taking a vacation is because we both feel like we have been dragged backwards though a hedge of emotional and psychological thorns. Because we're tired and still more than a little lost as to what to do next. But believe me, I would have happily foregone holidays for some time coming if it meant things could have turned out differently.

"Maybe you could work part time. You know, so you can relax?" There was a near throttling at this one. Leaving aside the other implications of the "R word", why do people automatically assume that working part time will equate to complete relaxation? As if during the days you are not in the office, you have nothing better to do than lie on the sofa engaging in the aforesaid "Crap Telly and Cupcake Fest". For me, working part time equals less salary, equals less money for treatment. Any advantage of having the time to sit at home freaking out about our options would be offset by the attendant freaking out that we no longer have enough resources to pay for those options. Erm, no.

"Will you try again?" Ah. While this no doubt is an interesting and relevant question, it's not something that should be pitched casually. The first time I was asked this was on the day after shipwreck, as I sat in a hysterical ball, trying to pull it together enough to speak the words "I can't come in today". Timing= bad. Also, the speaker's well meaning but offhand tone made it sound like it was just that I had had a complicated cheescake recipe turn out badly. As if it was simply a matter of whipping of a fresh batch, pop it in the oven and away you go! Tone=bad.

And lastly, my personal favourite, spoken by a person with three kids. "Well, you just have to stay positive. Get right back on the horse.". To which I say, oh please do shut the fuck up, sunshine. I am the horse.

Spring cleaning

The move went surprisingly smoothly in the end. In fact, I didn't have to lift a finger- well, maybe half a finger- namely, making cups of tea for the movers. Hardly arduous. However, we may never be able to get into our garage again, it is so crammed to the gunnels.

Look, see:

Despite the relative lack of chaos, I decided this morning that giving the bathroom a good clean would be a soothing sort of exercise. Toward the end of the cycle, I pretty much lost interest in keeping the house tidy, (which, if you know me, is like my saying that I decided to forego the regular intake of oxygen). So now that things are ostensibly "back to normal", I figured a cathartic loo scrubbing was just what was required.

You see, the bathroom feels so much like the scene of the crime. I did all my shots in there, including the momentous first one, with sweaty trembling hands. I weighed myself on the bathroom scale to monitor possible OHSS, not to mention the side effects of excessive ice cream consumption. After transfer, I stared in the mirror, as if there was something to see- did I look like a pregnant woman? Was that a new blue vein on my left breast- oooh, not seen that one before! Etcetera.

The bathroom was also where I did the early morning pregnancy tests, nervously pacing between sink, shower and back again waiting in vain for a second line to appear. And of course, it was the place where I finally realised, beyond all denial, that the treatment had failed, as I stood in the shower, watching the water swirling at my feet, turning red.

So I cleaned. I cleaned like a mad thing. I scrubbed the sink, the toilet, the shower. I polished the glass of the mirror, and the taps. I vacuumed the carpet (cursing the person with the stupid idea of putting this particular floor covering down in the first place). I dusted the perfume bottles. I wiped down the scales. I hung fluffy fresh towels. I emptied the wastebasket of every last trace of sanitary products, and hosed it down. I put away the bright yellow sharps container, sealing off the hatch at the top. Lastly, I lit a beautiful, expensive scented candle, which I had been saving for a special occasion.

Then I sat down on the floor, and I cried and cried and cried.

I wish I could say I felt all better afterwards. And honestly, truly, I am trying so hard not to feel sorry for myself. I know it's going to take a bit more time. But...I really wish this would start to get easier soon. Because so far, it just hasn't.

Lock, stock and mancrap

Remember when I mentioned that E. had sold his flat in the OC ? And that I was a little worried about it, because it looked like the timing of said move would be right in the middle of the IVF cycle? Well, actually, I got that part of it wrong. The move is happening tomorrow.

Now, I can tell you, there are many, many things I would rather be doing tomorrow. Near the top of the list would be lying on the sofa in my jimjams watching crap telly and crying me a river while drowning my sorrows in a vat of whiskey. Going to work comes a bit further down the list, perhaps somewhere in between having a colonic cleansing and scrubbing the mildew off the wall of the shower. Moving house- well...not so much even a candidate for the list. I am so seriously not in the mood.

I realise it has been a year since I blogcapped what we fondly refer to as "our living situation". So for those of you just joining in: ever since we met, E. and I have always worked in different towns, some distance apart. Moving jobs has not hitherto been an option. And, the midweek commute being too hellish, over the years we each a kept a flat in our respective cities as a weekday bolthole. When we decided to start a family, we bought a place together in my town, to treat as "Barn Central". But E. also hung on to a small pied-a-terre in his town, figuring there was no point committing to full time commuter hell until we had a baby on the way. I found I couldn't really argue with that, particularly as we still managed to ensure it didn't really interfere too much with conception attempts.

And it turns out it was a good decision, actually, since two years later we are no further forward with that "having a baby thing". It was also rather handy having the OC flat during the IVF cycle since otherwise I would have had to trudge back and forth on the bus (grim beyond description).

But for no apparent reason, seemingly on a whim, E. decided to sell the OC flat this summer. I didn't really think that was ideal timing but as usual had no energy to argue about it. He didn't have a plan for buying another one, but nor was he planning on moving here, either. He muttered vaguely about not wanting to have our money tied up in another flat, that he would rent. He's never said so, but I think at the back of his mind he may have been working on the basis that if the IVF was successful, he would want to be spending more time at Barn Central despite the commute. But, well...yeah.

Turns out that entirely by coinkydink, right around the time that the flat sale was going through, he was offered another job. A job that turns out to be based within walking distance of Barn Central. Under normal circumstances I would have been thrilled, but it since it all happened (with a bit of drama) during the IVF cycle, it was actually just another heap o'stress on my already steaming pile.

So, he's moving in for good tomorrow, lock, stock and mancrap. Big changes. Big adjustment. It will be very lovely indeed to have him here full time, for extended smooshy hugs and all that good stuff. But I'm just trying so hard to catch my breath right now. To re-establish equilibrium. Somehow I don't think all the moving chaos and tripping over boxes of his stuff strewn everywhere is, um, going to be very soothing for my raised hackles.

Just a hunch.

The Pee Sample is in the Mail

Much as I would like to assure you that all is OK here, I have to also confess that the failure of our IVF attempt hit me much harder than expected.

That almost seems an absurd thing to type- I mean, what did I expect? That would I simply shrug, and accept it? That I would cry a little but would quickly "look on the bright side"? No, of course not. But I did underestimate the enemy. I somehow convinced myself that it would be more like a slap in the face, instead of this agonising blow to the solar plexus.

And I didn't count on feeling this sort of raw grief. It seems self indulgent to describe it as a bereavement. After all, there was no fetus, no baby- nothing beyond those two four and five celled embryos. And yet, that is the closest E. and I have ever come to parenthood, after waiting for so long. I'm not an especially sentimental person, but it was so hard not to treat the transfer as the start of...well... something more. I keep thinking of the ultrasound picture they printed out for us- the white blob in my uterus where the embryos had landed. Gone. Those two particular possibilities are gone- taking something of me, of us- with it.

Also, I think part of my stunned shock stems from the way the end panned out so horribly. You see, I was so intensely focused on the test day. I had all the different scenarios worked out in my head, playing on a repeating loop as we came toward the end of the two week wait. That I would get a positive on the HPT, and the nurse would hug me, smiling in confirmation. That the home tests would be negative, and I would go in braced for the bad news, which I would duly receive, then weep in the car on the way home. Or that the clinic pee test would be borderline and I would have to have a blood test after all. That we would then wait anxiously for ambiguous news, which in some cases is just bad news waiting to happen.

What I didn't count on was that I wouldn't even make it to test day- that I would fall so hard, with the finish line in my sight. I feel like an idiot- it never even dawned on me that my period would arrive when it did. In retrospect, it seems obvious. Sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, I bleed thirteen days past ovulation. And this time was no different, even with the twice daily progesterone suppositories supposedly holding the fort.

However, there is one other last absurd twist regarding the test day. I don't think I have properly explained is that the main reason the clinic requires a sample is because they have to formally report an outcome, one way or another. But E. and I agreed during the wreckage on Thursday night that there was no way in hell I was going to be subjected to making a special trip all the way to the OC on Saturday morning just for that, and it could surely wait until we could make more convenient arrangements.

So I phoned the clinic to discuss this. Given that I was a gibbering mess, I actually begged E. to do it, and he kept saying "But you can describe your symptoms so much better than I can." My symptoms, dear heart, were that I was menstruating, which is usually indicative of NOT BEING PREGNANT. But I didn't have the energy to fight, so I called them myself. I sobbed down the phone while they found my file, and I explained what happened. And then I requested that instead of me trudging to the OC, that E. be allowed to bring in the sample on Monday morning when he drove through for work. What the nurse said next almost made me fall off my chair with overwrought laughter.

"No problem. But if you want, you can just post it to us," she said.

"Excuse me? Did you just say I could mail in my sample? Um, how do I do that?" I asked.

And she said, '"Just put the lid on real tight."

Bwhahahahah! Pee tests by post! So accurate and reliable after two days in a hot sorting room and mail van! She didn't even say to send it first class or in a special envelope or anything. Just put the lid on real tight! Days later, I am still laughing about it. Even more so because E. ended up having to head back to the OC last night, and I forgot to give him the sample to take with him. So I may just go ahead and mail it after all. There's something so ridiculous about the notion that it seems a fitting conclusion to this whole unfortunate episode.

I'm not sure where we go from here- there are some difficult decisions to be made, and I'll post about it as and when things develop. In the meantime, I do feel that at least I am safely back on the Island. Waterlogged, tearstained and sad, yes- but among friends. The rapidity and generosity of your collective rescue mission has warmed and sustained me through the worst of the initial pain. I know there will be bad days ahead, but I also know now that I can, and I will, survive.

And for that my heartfelt thanks go out to all of you- more than I can possibly ever convey.

Because the sea is so great and my boat is so small

I clung on to the life raft of "late implantation bleeding" for nearly twenty four hours. It seemed like a real possibility at one point. In fact, it sustained me through the choppy seas of another day at work. Until once again, just before heading home, I visited my favourite bathroom cubicle. That stall has been the port in so many storms over the last couple years, so at least I was in familiar waters.

It became apparent that the life raft had sprung a fatal leak. I am now having what is undeniably the most expensive period of my life. There are sharks in this part of the ocean, and no doubt drawn by the smell of the blood, they moved in for the kill. The life raft went down, taking me with it. It's over.

I somehow managed to get to a small atoll, known locally in these parts as "Youarefucked." And there I sit now, with my heart breaking and my tears mixing with the salt spray. I can still see the lights from the campfires on the beach at Infertility Island not too far in the distance. When I feel a little stronger, I'll try to swim back. Because there's nothing else except a vast expanse of blue of the great, cruel sea in the other direction.

There is nowhere else for me to go.

So, how was your day?

9dp3dt

6.02 am. Wake up from lovely sleep, feeling calm and peaceful. Debate with self whether to test again.

6.03. Decide "oh what the hell, why not" and proceed to the bathroom. Do test.

6.05. Stand with peestick at window, watching the beautiful sunrise. What is that saying again? Oh yes, red sky in the morning, shepherds take warning. Find self repeating this in a kind of glazed trance.

6.07. Negative. Don't even bother with the squinting and tilting. It's negative. Take deep breath. Remind self we promised not to read anything into these early tests. Suddenly feel like it might be quite hard to keep that promise.

6.08. Insert progesterone suppository.

6.09 Go back to bed, reset alarm. Cry for a little while. Feel a migraine headache coming on.

6.10. Try to sleep for a bit, feel headache getting worse. And worse. And worse.

6.46. Throw up. Cry some more.

7.30. Lie in bed, wondering what is the point of getting up.

7.45. Get up anyway.

7.50. Lie back down again. Think how nice it would be to lie there all day, staring at the ceiling.

7.55. Realise I might as well get paid for sitting at my desk, staring out the window.

8.45. Arrive at work to begin sitting and staring out window. Find work actually quite helpful in taking mind off "things". Intersperse that with sitting and staring out window.

11.45. Visit favourite bathroom cubicle. Notice very slight brownish spotting.

11.46. Take deep breath and go back to sitting and staring out window.

12.45 pm. Rush home to let in the guy to see about the leaking roof.

12.47. Guy confirms roof is indeed leaking. Will send someone tomorrow.

12.48. Guy leaves.

12.56. Eat some salad. Check emails. Feel warm glow at lovely, supportive Internet. Thank you, Internet.

1.08 Rush back to work. Important sitting and staring out window to be getting on with. Do more soothing work, then sit and stare. Do that for the rest of afternoon.

5.16. Visit favourite bathroom cubicle. Cramping. Discover some dark red bleeding. Start to hyperventilate. Rush back to desk, grab bag, rush home. Start crying uncontrollably while putting key in door.

5.28. Crying, sit Googling "9dp3dt, bleeding". Feel like a fuckwit.

5.57. Notice bleeding has stopped completely.

6.00 pm. Insert progesterone suppository. Contemplate calling clinic. Decide there is no point. Quell immediate desire for a very stiff drink. Work on breathing in and out.

So, how was your day?

Bluebeard's castle

OK, so I confess. I did it. I tested.

I hear the wise and valued words of those of you who say, "No! NO! Whatever you do, for the sake of your sanity and the love of floor cake, refrain from the peestick!" But I have to be honest with you here, I was getting more than a little frayed around the edges with the waiting, and the serene bubble of "not knowing" just wasn't doing it for me. At all. I am not, ah, good at waiting, really. So even with the spectre of Bluebeard's castle hanging over me, I tested.

I did promise myself I wouldn't read anything into the result one or another, it still being a bit early and all.

As another grasping at the straw of justification for testing- I know I explained that the clinic doesn't offer a beta- instead, I am to bring a pee bottle with sample in on Saturday morning. But did I mention they apparently tell you the result right there and then? Within about four minutes? Yeah. I don't know about you, but I would rather have some distance between me and potentially bad news- so that when the blow falls, I am sitting somewhere safe and private, preferably with a large bottle of stiff liquor by my side. Can you imagine the horror of waiting with absolutely no idea of the outcome, only to have Nurse Fraulein stomp out and deliver the crushing blow, blinking her cold reptilian lids? Ah, no. Thanks but no. I suppose I could always hand over the pee bottle, run away and phone them later from higher ground!

Oh, and did I mention the other potential nightmare looming on the horizon? Well, some months ago, E. got it into his head that it would be fun to have a sort of party thing with a group of friends. Drinks here first and then tickets for a late night show. We did this last summer, and admittedly, a very good and drunken time was had by all. I did gently point out to E. that the timing of this event may prove problematic. But with a wave of the wrist and a stirring proclamation that Life Must Go On!, the tickets were booked and complicated, uncancellable arrangements were made. FOR SATURDAY. It's ironic, really- I could count the number of times on one hand that we actually ever get around to seeing friends and making plans in any given summer. What were the chances it would be on the Formal Pee Bottle of Doom Day? OK, arguably there are worse things than hosting a party on the day that you have had your heart gouged out with a blunt instrument, but mmm. The timing could have been, shall we say, a bit better.

What's that you say? It might not turn out badly? Well, yes. Maybe. But the test this morning was negative. No sign of a second line whatsoever, except with the Goggles of the Deluded. I swear I held that fucking thing up to the strongest light in the house for about half an hour afterwards. Wait! Was that the ghost of a line? Or just the glare off the control line? Maybe if I tilt it that way. I see it! Or, ah, not. Actually, not.

I know, I know, I know, I know. I promised not to read anything into it, and I'm not. It could still be OK, right? Right. Right. Lalalalala, just whistle a happy tune.

Not yet

By the way, I haven't, yet. Tested, that is.

I'll be 8dp3dt tomorrow (I'll translate, because I never knew what that abbreviation meant until a week ago- eight days past three day transfer). So I was considering going for it, sort of...soon. None of this waiting around until non-beta day for me. I always was a "slowly ease into the frozen lake, limb by anguished limb, while clinging on to the ladder" kind of girl- instead of jumping straight off the dock. Also, that feeling of being cocooned in the bubble of hopeful possibilities? Um, not so much, at this point.

The dilemma is, though, that I only have three tests in the house. So do I test for the next three days, which would take up me to 10dp3dt, and assume if I haven't struck lucky by then that it's a negative, barring any cosmic re-alignment of the planets ? Or should I wait until Wednesday and test from 9dp3dt onwards? That would take me right up until the day before the "formal pee test" at the clinic.

I know some of you peestick fanatics are thinking, for crying out loud, why not just go BUY another HPT if necessary. Well, the main reason is that the only convenient place to buy said instruments of doom is in rather close proximity to my place of work. So the chances of bumping into someone I know is statistically higher than the chances of my being pregnant. I did nip in there this evening, thinking it might be a bit quieter, but sure enough I ran into someone I knew. Albeit she knew what I was doing there, so it was cool.

However, to make matters worse, the drugstore in question stocks the pregnancy tests on the shelf just below all the condoms. Oh, this does make me laugh- it's like they are saying, "HERE. If THIS failed, you'll surely be needing THIS." But it does add slightly to the scope for embarrassment factor.

Also, good grief, but these things are expensive! Not to come across as totally tightfisted, but I felt a bit put out as I handed over my credit card- surely for that price I should get a cupcake or a fluffy toy, or something. I mean, I couldn't help but notice that the condoms aren't cheap either, but at least when you buy those there's a fighting chance of having a bit of fun in the bargain, no? I suggest they instigate some sort of HPT loyalty scheme- like at the nearby Large Coffee Conglomerate where you get a little punch card to chalk up all your grande mocha lattes, and the tenth one is free. Think of the marketing possibilities- Buy Ten and Pee for Free! That sort of thing. HPT obsessives everywhere would be all over it, probably buying extras (as if any inducement was ever really needed) just to get the free one.

Can you tell I'm getting a little antsy over here? Well, yeah.

Is that a pessary in your panties, or are you just happy to see me?

In keeping with the "no scary needle" theme that is the O.C.'s IVF Lite programme, instead of PIO shotes my post-transfer drug regime comprises the insertion of progesterone pessaries (or suppositories, if you prefer) twice a day, morning and night.

I'd had the heads up from Suz that this treatment option could entail a certain amount of yuckiness below. However, I am an ideal candidate for pessary action. Aside from my extreme distaste for needles, I have one of the world's largest collection of skanky underpants. I've been hoarding all these gray, shapeless fraying knickers for so many years, without really consciously knowing why. Clearly, there was a higher purpose to it all (other than just annoying E, who exclaims with disgust every time he sees one of these specimens on the drying rack.)

My main trick to avoiding the inevitable slippage and, um, ooze is to set the alarm for quarter to six, pop in one of those puppies, and go back to sleep for two hours. By the time I get up, the leakage is minimal. I take the next one at six in the evening when I get home from work- and to be honest, a little more oobleck on my old Gap "tracky bottoms" (as they tend to call sweatpants here) is no big deal. E. has promised to take me out to buy new undies when this is all over (note: take me out to buy them, not buy them for me). I think he is secretly relieved to have a compelling reason for a bonfire of the skanky panties.

Ooh, and in other news, my boobs have returned from wherever it was they took off to during the stim part of the cycle. My best guess is they were off doing some sort of extreme sport holiday, like rock-climbing in the Alps, or perhaps trampolining in Nepal, because they are sore as billy-o. However, let us not get too excited about this. Traditionally, I get a certain amount of soreness every month anyway, and let's not fool ourselves that it doesn't have everything to do with the aforesaid pessary, rather than, er, symptoms.

Unfortunately my boobs seem to have brought along a companion in the form of belly bloat. It really is the weirdest thing- being rather a small girl, it is all rather freakish and wrong to have this disproportionately huge pooch. Oh, and the cruel irony is that it is exactly how I would imagine myself to look were I actually, you know, pregnant. I keep thinking it will go away, and then as soon as I eat or drink anything, it is like being pumped full of air, inflated by a giant bellows. Mmm. Attractive. Perhaps eventually the Oompa-Loompas will come and roll me away.

Unless they catch sight of my scary knickers, which I think is enough to frighten off even the most courageous Oompa-Loompa.

They could dish it out but they couldn't take it

I was assured by the clinic staff that as long as I didn't engage in anything rash, like bungee-jumping, I could resume normal activities pretty much immediately. And, much as I would have dearly loved to spend the next two weeks lying on the sofa with my feet up and the ice cream spoon in my mouth, duty calls. So it was back to work for me yesterday.

I hadn't even gotten as far as taking my coat off before being bombarded with the news that the boss's wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl that very morning. Well, yippy-ay-yay for them. Nice to know the relentless March of the Fertile Co-Worker continues unabated. Fortunately, his absence on paternity leave meant that I could have a moment's privacy in his office (an actual office! with four walls and a whole door!) to phone the lab to find out how our remaining two embryos were doing. As I explained previously, on Monday they were still slightly sluggish little four cells, so we were going give it a few days to let them try to become juicy blastocysts before freezing.

Verdict: bad. Neither of the embryos made it. According to the embryologist, one stopped growing on Monday afternoon, and the other one staggered on for a bit, but then expired in a small *whoof* of pre-blastocyst exhaustion. So, that's it. If the souffles in the oven fail to rise, there is no back-up pizza delivery on the way. No embryonic doggie bag for us. None for the road.

The embryologist said to me that the fate of the fallen two was no indicator of the possible chances of success for the transfered two. But she also conveyed to me that transferred two (which she said were "very good", making me wonder what the fuck happened to "excellent"?) were four and five celled, respectively. Since that meant nothing to me at the time, I of course had no choice but to consult the Oracle of Google on my arrival home. And then promptly wished I had not. What I read filled me with some dismay-you know, blah blah blah "ideally eight cells are seen by day three in the best embryos" blah blah blah. I ended up bursting into tears over the keyboard, crying uncontrollably for several minutes.

Then I decided this certainly couldn't be healthy for the "very good" four and five cells on board, pulled myself together, gave Google the finger, and ate half an avocado while reading trashy gossip blogs.

Some people have said to me that the two week wait is the worst part, the hardest part. Others have asked me, gently, how am I holding up. But apart from self-induced hysteria like yesterday, I've been...well... sort of... happy, I guess. In two long years of trying, this feels like the closest I have come to being pregnant. And for the next few days, I can dream and hope a little. There's nothing to say this is going to work. I'm slowly coming to accept that all things considered, let's face it, I was not the IVF superstar that I hoped I would be.

But there's nothing to say it won't work either. And in the relatively short space of time between not knowing and knowing, I am taking comfort in the idea that, for now at least, there are some tiny glimmers of beautiful possibilities. That and the fact that if even if I have nothing else in the freezer, there is a large tub of ice cream.