Barren Mare

Why do birds suddenly appear every time embryos are near

Yesterday, on a glorious sunny summer morning, with the little bluebirds swaying gently in the tree branches, and to the tinkling of tiny fairy harps, we transferred two "excellent" embryos.

OK, I jest, but as far as transfers go, according to Dr Billy Flynn, it was "beautiful." I miraculously managed to drink exactly the right amount of water to have a full enough bladder without being uncomfortable. Everyone was in a very good mood, and my favourite nurse was there, giving me gentle and encouraging pats on the leg. Afterwards, Dr Flynn took my hand and E.'s in his, and clenched them tightly, wishing us the best of luck. To be honest, I wish he had done a tad more handholding earlier in the treatment process, but it was sort of a nice sentiment and it added to the rose tinted glow to the proceedings.

Interestingly, we could actually see the white blob of fluid containing the embryos on the ultrasound, plunked into my uterus. They printed out the pictures for us to take home, to add to my collection of the snaps of my ovaries. Perhaps I could do a slide show of how I spent my summer vacation.

The other two embryos are apparently a little less perky in their growth, so the clinic decided to give it a couple days, to see if they could be grown into blastocysts. Under HFEA regulations, we are only allowed to transfer two at a time (three in exceptional circumstances), so there was never any question of using the extras at this point anyway. If the pair make it, we'll have something to freeze, which is a plus. Apart from the assessment of "excellent", I didn't get any further information about the ones we put back, and Dr Flynn wasn't forthcoming when I pressed. I kind of got the impression they don't really want you to know, and that's OK with me. Obsessing about the embryo grading is not something I intend to do at this point.

Over the weekend, I'd had a HUGE fight with E. about his attending the transfer. He swore blind I had told him on Friday that he didn't have to be there. What, during my drug induced stupor? Yes, of course he should be there, goddamnit. I mean, strictly speaking he was not required to attend, but it agitated me considerably that he thought he would just skip it. So we had a "full and frank" about a number of things that had happened during the treatment cycle. Considering my behaviour throughout consisted of a series of shiny gold stars on my chart, he had to concede that I had put up with a lot, with good grace. Afterwards, he drove me home, stopping off to buy lots of healthy food, which is his primary way of showing affection. Bless.

So, that's it. Yay! Treatment cycle complete, all but for the waiting and the test. Get this- the clinic don't do a beta. I repeat, no beta. Instead, I have to bring in an early morning pee sample on the morning of 20 August, and they will tell me the results. I have no idea why they do it this way- certainly they have not been coy about taking blood from me at every available opportunity up until now. Even with my love of instant gratification, I can't say I am exactly thrilled. But I always knew this would be the case, and already cleared it with my GP Dr Best Friend for an immediate and proper beta thereafter as a back-up measure. In any event, I think it is safe to say I will be producing a fair few pee samples of my own at home long before the test date.

And won't that be exciting?! Oh yes, it will.

We few, we happy few

Not to violate all sorts of narrative conventions (i.e. leave your reader in gripped suspense to the end)- but I'll tell you straight out. I phoned the clinic this morning, and we have four embryos. Typically, I was unable to get any information whatsoever as to how they were doing, or for that matter, anything else. But at least it's something. Transfer will be scheduled for Monday morning, assuming that at least one of the intrepid foursome survives the weekend.

Just to rewind a little to give you a bit more backstory- Wednesday's scan revealed approximately fourteen follicles, mostly on the left. There was one ginormous follicle on the right, so much bigger than the others that it prompted me to mutter under my breath, "Jeez. Who ate all the pies?"

But given that there were though to be enough above 17 mm to bring me within the retrieval range, I was dispatched with instructions to trigger at 7pm. Which I did, after phoning that evening to confirm that my E2 had shot up to 17,000 (4,600 American). E. sat in the bath watching me while I stuck the needle in my beleagued tummy, the shot being another simple sub-cutaneous job. One thing I will say about doing an IVF cycle at this particular clinic, it's relatively scary-needle free. It's like "IVF Lite".

I felt a bit unpleasant afterwards, as if someone had pumped my abdomen full of air. Fortunately, as I had taken a couple days off work, the waddling about could be kept to a minimum. Oh, and before I forget, I have to tell you about the other major side effect I noticed throughout the Gonal-F fest- extreme absent-mindedness. I would perform some task, and then fifteen minutes later be totally unable to remember what I had done (or not done). It got so bad toward the end that I actually had to leave myself notes around the house to do certain things- such as turning off the lights and locking the door on my way out to the OC.

Friday morning we trundled into the OC for retrieval at 7.30 am- me completely barefaced (as per instructions) in my fat pants and big furry wooly socks (thanks for the tip, Jen Vintage- absolutely essential item). There were two other retrievals before us, the clinic suddenly having become busier than the Heathrow airport runway, so after having a quick chat with the rather dishy anesthestist, we were sent upstairs to a room to wait. I was handed an attractive paper gown, furry pink robe, and a pair of strange plastic slippers to change into, and E. was handed his sample cup. Fun for all. We ended up waiting for over an hour, mindlessly watching early morning talk shows while I tried not to gnaw off my left hand in impatience.

Dr Billy Flynn popped in for a chat. Nice of him to drop in, considering this was the first time I had seen or spoken with him since our initial consultation. He patted me on the shoulder a few times and wittered on endlessly about what a great roll he was on these days, knocking up countless women one after another. I don't know about you, but hearing how successful others have been recently doesn't really uplift me, somehow- rather, it scares the beejesus that I am going to be the one to jinx it. The proverbial Jonah on board. Undeterred, he continued talking about what would happen at transfer on Monday, assuming we made it that far.

I asked about bed rest after transfer, and he assured me that I should take it easy but could carry on normally.

"Just don't go off climbing mountains or anything," Dr Flynn guffawed. "Some people do, though- more fool them- like a woman I had the other week. Transfer on Friday, up three hills on Sunday. What a stupid bitch."

I sat there in my furry pink robe, trying to prop my jaw up with my left hand. Did he actually just say what I think he said? Yes. He had. He had just called one of his patients a "stupid bitch".

AAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHH!

He then proceeded to tell us that the reason we were delayed was because the couple before us had been hindered by the husband's inability to hold up his end of the bargain.

"Though holding UP might not be the right word for it. HAHAHAHA," Dr Flynn laughed. I saw E. eye his own sample cup in horror. Good grief, whatever happened to putting your patients at ease.

At this point it was a little too late to flee the building, and I was summarily marched downstairs to the theatre. As an aside, one thing I do love about living here is how they call operating rooms "theatres". It makes it sound rather glamorous, dahlink. There was a brief skirmish about whether I was allowed to keep on my fuzzy socks (I was) before my legs were fastened to the stirrups with some sort of soft slip on elasticated bands. Meanwhile, the lovely anesthestist gently put the IV into my hand after giving me a local to minimise the pain. As he was doing this, he asked me about my job, and when I told him, he proceeded to ask me a very bizarre question. I can't tell you what it is he asked without giving my profession away. But let's just say that if I was an accountant by trade, he wanted to know about the rate of income tax payable in Papua New Guinea. I can only assume he was doing it to distract me, because otherwise, EH?!

Last thing I remember is the feeling of the fan blowing a gentle breeze over my nethers, and Dr Billy Flynn leaning over me. Then, nothing. I dimly recall waking up in a bed being wheeled back up to the room, and the nurse telling me that we got seven eggs. Then there is another big gap in my memory banks for a time. Dr Flynn came by again, to explain that despite great hopes, the left ovary had only yielded four eggs in the end, the ultrasound being very "hazy". Whatever that means.

I felt distinctly yucky for a large portion of yesterday, and my innards felt exactly as if someone had wrung my ovaries like a dishcloth. Sedation usually tends to make me maudlin, and as you know, the outcome was not quite as I had hoped. I know it is quality over quantity, and I am so grateful to those of you who reminded me of that fact. The nice thing about quantity though is that, at least on the face of it, it provides a margin for error. And right now, a slightly bigger buffer zone between me and total failure would be a considerable comfort.

Still, four. Four is something. Now we just have to wait it out until Monday morning, and hope at that point there is still something to put back. I wish I may, I wish I might.

Seven

I'm just home from the OC. Retrieval went ahead as scheduled this morning. I'm tired, a little bloated, more than a little sore, and my head is really not in a good place. So I think I will leave the full update until tomorrow, when I have the time and energy to post about all the highs, lows and considerable absurdities in between.

I should also know by tomorrow morning how many of the seven eggs have fertilised. I would be lying if I said I wasn't very disappointed not to have more than seven, after all that. But seven, good or bad, is what we have to work with at this moment in time, so that is what I will pin my hopes on. So be it.

As we were driving home, E. said to me, "It's weird to think of a piece of you and a piece of me left behind in a petri dish in another city."

Yes. Yes, it is weird. Please think some good thoughts for us that the dish is a happy, friendly, getting-busy-with-the-embryo-making kind of place. Please let me have some good news tomorrow.

Baker's dozen

Day Ten of Stims

You'll notice I am posting, which means I am home. Turns out I may have jumped the gun a little in terms of when to expect the trigger shot. Oh, how I love these little Human Chorionic Gonadotropin puns, ha ha ha.

I'll get on to all that in a minute, but first! At the risk of attracting all the internet weirdos, I must mention what I can only assume is a somewhat unexpected side effects of all the drugs- my incredible shrinking bosoms. Even E. noticed, even though he is generally more of an ass man, and does not tend to concern himself overly with the state of my rack. He tactfully waited until I brought it up at dinner the other night, but then immediately agreed there was something of a decrease. Actually, the way he put it was more like, "Yes, sweetie, I was wondering where have your tits have gone," before adding an extra helping of potatoes to my plate- as if that might help restore them to their former glory.

Anyway, deflated breasts aside- I toodled in for my next meeting with the πίθηκος ράβδων*. I had a few spare minutes alone in the wanding chamber, and made sure to wheak the stirrups inward ever so slightly to prevent a repeat of the Svetlana incident. There were more nurses around, which meant I was spared having to endure clipboard duty again. Also Nurse Fraulein was also absent. So all in all, the wanding was a considerably happier experience this time, in those respects.

The good news is that my lining is now a much plushier 8.4. However, there were only thirteen follicles, only one more than last time. A baker's dozen. I confess I found this disappointing, as I was sort of hoping for more at this point. Measurement wise, there was:

Right side: 18, 12, 12, 11, 10, 10, 8
Left: 17, 15, 14, 13, 12, 12.

Musn't grumble, I suppose, as the ones that are there seem to be coming along decently enough. But I worry they might suddenly change their minds, and stop growing- or worse, fuck off altogether to a more exotic locale, perhaps meeting up with my missing boobs on the way. Oh well. At the risk of sounding all negative, I'm not exactly expecting a particularly dazzling yield at this rate. Which leaves me feeling sort of mediocre and, well...bleh. Just all over bleh.

I find out the E2 number later as usual, but we're looking at trigger shot Wednesday night, with retrieval on Friday. I really do expect to be pretty much disappearing as of tomorrow night for the OC, since the back and forthing is now becoming decidely tiresome, but you know the drill- I will update you when I can, I promise.

*Greek for "wand monkey"

Update: E2 is at about 9,000 UK (translation= approx 2,450 American. I think.). The nurse said I was "doing well", and seemed surprised when I asked for confirmation as to the dosage.

"Did someone say to change it?" she asked

What I wanted to say was that NO, no one has said fuck all about the dosage, one way or another, ever. Not to mention I have not even had a whiff of Dr Billy Flynn, he of the Jazz Hands, since this all began. I can only assume (!) he has some idea what is going on, but I mean- who knows? All I ask is that they throw me a frickin' bone here! Answer: yes, stay on 225 ius of the delicious, delectable Gonal-F. OK then.