Barren Mare

When is a door not a door

Hi! Hello! I am alive- or at least not dead- after my bout with gastro-whatsis.  I feel much better now, the symptoms and attendant unpleasantness having just gone away on its own eventually. But fun while it lasted, uh huh.

Unfortunately I am still struggling to find time to blog in the style to which I was once accustomed. Much of that is attributable to Little Guy; supervising him during his waking hours is a full time job. He's into everything, chewing, bounding, playing. He loves most of all to romp in the pile of pillows on our bed which he treats as his own special den. Fun! for! little! dogs! where! is! my! toy?! aha! there! it! is!

By the time he finally goes to sleep, I need to catch up on all that life stuff in the half hour or so before my own energy levels go *wumpf* and I fall asleep myself. Also, there was a time when he would happily curl up in my lap while I sat at the computer; now he is big enough (and clever enough) to jump up onto the chair itself before scaling the dining room table and jumping on the keyboard with his tiny furry paws.

So my posts end up looking like this: shadiafhlpishdfaidhiDHIwhfihncCNSIHLOIchHIHISHIhishdihisdhipa 

Ahem. We're working on the "down" and "no" commands.

On the upside, we have (touch wood) more or less mastered the housbreaking thing, as eventually he cottoned on to the fact that the bell on the door was for multi-purpose potty activities. Huzzah!  It's been five days now with no accidents in the house (unless of course he's wheaked one out someplace I haven't yet discovered, like the back of my closet.)   

In other news, I made an appointment to go see Dr. Best Friend in a couple of weeks- a sort of speculative re-con exercise, if you will. Not to mention the fact that I have not seen in her in about a year, and I remain rather fond of her and miss her in the way in which you miss people who you don't really know but for whom you harbour the friend-crush.  We'll see. I have no doubt the existing waiting lists for any of the Scottish clinics are still as absurdly long as always, and I have not quite mustered the will or enthusiasm to seriously consider going abroad. 

But I figure, what the hell. There's really no harm in at least getting a foot in there- since after all, you know that old chestnut. When is a door not a door? 

When it's ajar. 

Letting sleeping dogs lie

So, this long post which I was referring to earlier, the one I didn't have time to finish?  Meh.  Scrapped it.

In truth, it was not very interesting.  It was a long, vaguely disjointed rambling without any meaningful conclusions, and can effectively be summed up thusly:  I used to have a lot of time to spend mooching around online, researching stuff and talking to nice women about the shared crisis of infertility. Then about a year ago, we did IVF, it failed, and everything went completely pear-shaped with E. and I for awhile. When I emerged from the smoking wreckage, I discovered that suddenly my life was full of things other than the state of barren-ness which had hitherto preoccupied me. So much so that I had no time to deal with being infertile any more. Tra la la, the end.

There, that was it. You should be glad I spared you.

In fact, what I realised is that I was pretty much bullshitting myself with all this thrashing and complaining about being too busy to deal. OK, so rolling around on the floor tickling the puppy now seems to eat up the couple hours a day that I used to spend doing stuff like plucking my eyebrows or rearranging my back copies of Vogue magazine in chronological order. But the reality is, I'm not that busy- and even if I was, let's cut the crap. Fact is, people simply do find the time for things that motivate them.

I am not motivated by IVF. I am not motivated by the twinkling illusion that there might, just might, one day be a baby somewhere down the road. Sure, it bugs me we don't have a child, but if I really wanted to do something about it, then I would.  Evidently I do not. And I think it's not that the IVF in and of itself is all that much of an ordeal- it's just that everytime I reach up to the top shelf of the closet to look at the box in which I stored the whole particular problem, I find myself thinking: oh, yawn. I'd rather join the puppy in licking the paint off the walls than go there again. Who wants to stir up that hornet's nest of sadness, anger, frustration and pain again?  Nah. But what I haven't quite worked out yet is whether I'm just being a bit passive and lazy, or if there is something deeper sapping my will to even try.  I suspect a bit of both.

Better make up my mind soon, though. The waiting lists for treatment haven't gotten any shorter in this country, and I am not getting any younger. Tick fucking tock.

What I believe will invariably propel my ass into gear one day is that I can face up to the idea of not having kids because I wasn't able to get pregnant- what I don't think I can live with is the idea that the I was just too idle to even try.

Fishing for FSH

I had a bit of a minor epiphany yesterday when it came time to phone the GP's office to get my FSH result.  Some of you may recall that I have in times past- ( for example here) -whined about the open-plan arrangements at my office and the difficulties of trying to make or receive assisted reproduction related phone calls from my desk.  Yesterday was typical in that I spent most of the morning waiting for the coast to clear, but every time I went to lift the handset, someone would magically materialise at my elbow. And then they would stand there for a quarter of an hour, discussing something tedious and work-related. Imagine! This happens AT WORK! Damn them.

Heh. Finally after the third or thirteenth attempt, my eye happened upon my handbag lying on the floor by my feet and suddenly it was like a gigantico lightbulb going off in my tiny, pointy head. Eureka!  I could call using my mobile phone!

In case you are rolling your eyes, saying to yourself, "well DUH, Mare. What took you so long," I should point out that it was only recently that I acquired said mobile phone (or cell, if you prefer, which I do but when in Rome...). Previously  I always had one of these tickytacky pay-as-you-go plastic brick thingies. Ugly as hell, but fine in an emergency, or to receive calls; however, also subject to perishingly expensive call rates if used regularly and hence not exactly the right tool for long spells of spelunking into the telephonic abyss.  And as anyone who has even remotely dabbled in the world of fertility treatment will know, frequent expeditions into that abyss are the norm. 

I don't know why for the love of Wensleydale cheese it never before occured to me before now to get a contract phone, where I could gab for hours, send text messages and balance on one leg  while waiting on hold for 20 minutes- without taking out a second mortgage to pay for it. But it didn't. I suppose I am a bit, uh, prim about spending money on things which my inner skinflint convinces me I don't really need. And it was only of late that crappy pay-as-you-go mode became pretty much untenable; plus the phone that I loved and that matched my handbag was only available as a contract. Heh. Are you marveling at the apparent contradiction of frivolity and prim there?  I am.

Anyway, I realised I have a phone, and I can use it. OK, so perhaps not much of an epiphany as far as these things go but it reminded me of the need to continually apply lateral thinking to these situations. Instead of calling from under my desk, I snuck out to the empty photocopy room, hid behind a plant, and rang from there. Oh blissful relative privacy.

Of course the nurse wanted to fob me off with a hasty "normal", but she hadn't reckoned on the might of the tenacious infertile. THE NUMBER.  GIVE ME THE NUMBER. And she did. It was 6.1 which is actually lower than before. Yay!

Yes, dear friends, I know the numbers are not the be-all-end-all and I am wary of placing too much stock in these things. I guess I was looking for more of a possible barometer- I mean, if it had shot up to above a certain level, then the fact of the matter is that there are certain clinics who simply won't even consider treating me.  Whereas now they might.

So the question is... now what?

Just once more

Never fear my friends, when the puppa-lorum makes it way here, I will post pictures.  I was a bit hesitant about discussing the breed in depth, since it is a relatively small community of this type of doggie owners in the UK, some of whom I may have to encounter again, and I was trying to avoid anything that might overtly link to my blog.  Still, I know I will not want to deprive the internets of that much cute and furry deliciousness, so wait & see.

In other news, I went earlier in the week to have my FSH checked.  I had to opt for an appointment with a different GP, since Dr Best Friend was "away"- for how long, I know not.  I suspect she may be some time, since afterwards I registered for the online self-booking appointment thingie, and she was not listed for the whole of the month of August.  It occured to me, for the first time, that I have been remarkably spoilt in having such consistently good treatment from the same GP for the whole of my infertility saga. But there we are.

As it happens, they didn't want to give me a doctor appointment at all, insisting that the practice nurse could do the necessary.  It was only when I explained in one long breathless monologue that this was not exactly routine blood work and oh by the way it had to be done on a certain day of the cycle, which incidentally if we missed this month would be another two or so before I could get in again because we are going to be traveling and really, how mightily inconvenient that would be, so could we just schedule me in with the first available appointment of the day with anybody qualified to wield the needle and be done with it. Ta.

And that is how it came to pass that I found myself in that oh-so-familiar scenario. Waiting room, condensing an explanation of a year's worth of emotional upheaval into a ten minute consultation, baring my flesh, the needle going in, the small sad bruise on my arm afterwards.  Dr Not-Quite-Best-Friend listened patiently, and efficiently did as I asked.  I just want to know the FSH, I said.  It all seems kind of pointless to even spend one more iota of energy contemplating another round of IVF unless I have some inkling of what's shaking in Ovary Land.

As we wrapped it up, She did ask me, "What do you plan to do with this information, once you have it?"

To which I was tempted to say all manner of cheeky things. I dunno, Doctor.  Tattoo it on my abdomen?  Plaster it on a billboard, offer it as a headline: "HORMONES SAY: STILL SORT OF POSSIBLY FERTILE!"  Write it in a sweet scented love note: "Dearest clinic, if nothing else, my FSH is still reasonable. Be mine?"   

Instead, I mumbled something about making another appointment to discuss it further once I had the result. Because that's what happens, isn't it? There's always another appointment, isn't there? Once you get a whiff of a possibility, you're off, like a hound on the trail. Before you know it, you're strapping yourself into the rollercoaster you swore you would never board again. It's like the IVF crack pipe! 

Why is it so damn hard to let it go once and for all?  Why is always just once more, let's think about it just once more?  Maybe, maybe, maybe, just once more.

Because, because, because

I'm not ignoring you, honestly. It's just that my parents are visiting. Which means that all my spare time is consumed in an attempt to cram in as much familial togetherness as we can stand in the space of ten days.

I thought perhaps the quickest and easiest way to sum up some my feelings about why, perhaps, I am not sure doing IVF is such a good idea is to write a little list. It is as follows:

Because I'm not sure we've actually dealt with all the fallout from the last go-round. You know, the relationship crap that left me curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor around Christmas time? Yeah. That stuff. Time is a great healer, but some issues need more than just time to sort out.

Because even though E. might be willing, the reality is, I'm still the one who will have do all the planning, research, co-ordinating, compiling of paperwork, phone calls, emails, the bulk of the appointments and the taking of time off work.

Because frankly, I hate the whole fucking palaver of IVF. The scheduling, the shots, the hormonal rollercoaster, the invasiveness. The waiting: for an appointment, for a test result, for a call from the lab, for a line on the peestick.

Because at the moment, I think I would rather just get a dog.

Because in a lot of ways, I'm happier with the way things are. I've moved on a lot in a year. I've dreamt up other plans. I'm not beating my head against the wall, searching for answers, driving myself crazy with anxiety and sadness over something which I can't seem to have.

Because I'm more "relaxed" than I've ever been, so who is to say I won't just get pregnant the good old fashioned way? We just bought a much bigger car- I'm sure I could arrange to get drunk and have sex in the back seat.

I know all this sounds like I've made up my mind against it- in fact, I really haven't. I guess what I am driving at is that I'm in a much better place than I was before, and I'm not sure I want to do something to set myself back. But then again....

Must go. At my urging, my dad has discovered the joys of text messaging. He is now giving me hourly updates from their rented cottage as to the progress of their doing the laundry. I fear I have created a monster.

The deer path

I've had a couple of interesting emails since that last post, including one which I have been mulling over for some days. The kind writer gently questioned: was I sure, perhaps in light of the feelings I was expressing, that I was on the right path?

To digress for a second- I took some creative writing classes in college, which I loved, although my efforts hardly met with what I would call critical acclaim. For one assignment, I wrote a short story about a girl who drives up to Maine whereupon she ponders the sunset for a bit before drowning herself in the lake.  Cheery, huh?  Apart from those plot points, I don't remember much about it: though I am sure it was full of overwrought and cringeworthy metaphor. 

My instructor tactfully suggested that suicide is a tricky topic- even more so when condensed into a short story.  She sent me away to read Anna Karenina, a rather humbling demonstration that the dark complexities of killing oneself are perhaps better portrayed in novel form.  "More room to move around," is how she put it. And, after traveling with Anna over those many hundreds of pages, to the last steps of the station platform with the train approaching, I realised my instructor was right.

I've always thought (and I believe I have said on several occasions) that writing about infertility is much the same; it's complicated, it's intricate, it's emotionally charged and it doesn't always work well as short sound-byte post chunks. The problem is, it also doesn't really lend itself to long, novel-sized entries either. So, falling between those two barstools as it does, it's often very difficult to express things in a way that is both true and coherent.

This is a very long-winded way of saying that I don't know if I can articulate an answer to the question (that being, am I sure I am on the right path?) in one post, or even ten posts. Because the next time I sit down to write it, the whole landscape may have changed again, and back we are to square one in the telling.

Anyway- since I was asked, I'll try to sum up the current state of play as best I can.  My feeling on it is that I am not sure about anything. I'm not even sure there is a path, or at least not one readily identifiable as such. Have you ever been walking in the woods, and ended up diverging from the main trail, following what looks like a path but is in fact just the route the deer take from time to time? It's a kind of half-trail- not overgrown, obscuring thickets, but then not a clear blaze either.  More like a shallow groove through the forest, with no obvious markings or end points.  At any stage, you might find you are hopelessly lost, or else you will discover you have converged back onto the original trail, near the place you started.

It's like that.  I haven't made any firm decisions about anything. I haven't given up totally on the idea of doing further treatment, but at the same time, I'm not sure I want to do it, or at least not right now. And that doesn't even have anything to do with E.  Things are a lot better between us, and if I said I wanted to, I think E. would do another IVF cycle with me.  But I hesitate- for reasons for that are complicated, messy and changeable. 

I am absolutely clear that one of the consequences of delaying taking further action is that I may never have a biological child.  But I am also absolutely clear that if I choose not to do IVF again, I do not forego my right to grieve the fact that I may never have children.  Does that make sense?  I think sometimes there is this unspoken expectation that you're not allowed to bitch and moan about something unless you've at least tried your very best to make it happen. That because there will always be this lurking uncertainty of "would it work if we did it even just one more time", I should either get on with doing it, or shut up about feeling bad about it.  I think the fact that there is so much medical treatment readily available can make it very hard for infertiles to feel comfortable with the choice of stopping; especially stopping at a relatively early stage. My view on it is that just because I may have another ticket for the next rollercoaster ride doesn't automatically mean I should be buckling my seatbelt.

Anyway.  My point is: I realise that in failing to make a firm decision one way or another, I am in fact making a decision of sorts. But for now, even if at times a clearer line through the trees looks very inviting, the deer path just feels right for me. 

The Secret History

I'm sure if you are a regular reader of infertility/adoption/pregnancy blogs, you will have seen the game of "tag" making the rounds- the rules of which are simply to go into your archive, find the 23rd post, find the fifth sentence and post the text here.

Well, I've been tagged at least twice (as far as I know). I should explain that I never usually play these sorts of games, mainly because I get so confused about the rules. I mean, are we talking the twenty-third post on my current blog, or on the old site- not that I have gone so far as to check if there is a difference.

Also, in offering a summation of the rules above, have I fully complied with the rules which state that I have to post the tag game instructions? What happens if I fail to follow the rules? Will I be sent to the corner with a big "L" for LOSER on my forehead?

You see, I am far too tedious to play with. I've always been like this. This was why I had no friends as a child, and sat alone in my room reading things like Noel Streatfeild's "Shoes" books and Anne of Green Gables.

Anyway, the tag game on this occasion segues nicely into something else I wanted to write about. So here it is, the fifth sentence of the twenty-third post, (current blog version):

"Given my pathlogical inability to buy envelopes and stamps, it may be a challenge for me to meet that deadline."

I recently disproved that statement by sending off, in a remarkably expedient fashion, for my medical notes for the IVF cycle, the day before we went on holiday. My incentive was that if at all possible, I wanted the records in my hand for when we got back so that we would immediately be good to go on a consult elsewhere. I know, excuse me while I stop typing to hold my sides from the aching, ironic laughter.

Given the number of times that my notes went missing during my treatment, I had figured it would take nine million years to actually extract the copies from the OC. Perhaps rather unfairly, I also thought perhaps they might be a wee bit, um, awkward about giving me the notes in a timeous fashion. I never did manage to quite confirm the deali-o as to whether there was a legal obligation to entitle me to copies- or if they would humour because I am so cute and mailed in my pee sample like a good girl.

But I figured that in any event, I would just cut to the chase and frame the letter in a way that it could also be taken as a request from both of us under the Freedom of Information Act. Because I am a clever bear that way. I had E. sign it as well, offered to pay any relevant fee for the copies, and mailed it off with nary a pathological twitch in sight.

Would you believe the envelope was waiting on the hallway floor when we got back from our trip? They copied the notes and mailed them the next day with a nice letter. It doesn't quite make up for the pee sample fandango, but was a pleasant surprise all the same.

It's a surprisingly thin sheaf of paper. A lot of the records comprised things I already knew- results of blood work, documentation of our communicable diseases tests, what medications I had been taking during the cycle, the number of embryos transferred. Not much by way of revelation.

One small new piece of information was the number of follicles at the final ultrasound, since I was spared clipboard duty that day. By my calculations (including factoring in another day of stims), I reckon I had approximately 14-16 follicles going into retrieval. I don't know what it means that we only got seven eggs out of that, and that only four were mature. I also still don't quite know what to make of the fact that the two embryos transferred were only four and five celled, respectively, and from what I can tell, all four were sluggish in the dish.

It's the last mystery that I find so particularly maddening. What happened there? Was it us or me- poor eggs or some other abnormality? Or is it simply that our embryonic efforts might have fared better in a better lab? Right now, that's the question I want answered- it's the main driver as to why I want to try again at a clinic with a reputation for a good lab.

It's so strange, to flick through those sheets of paper, looking for clues in the illegible scribbles, seeking the key to the riddle of our particular infertility tale. And it's odd to think that the pages reveal nothing of what for me is the real essence of the story- the heartbreaking treatment decisions, the hours of Googling for information, the huge investment of time, energy and money. Of the fragility of my trembling hope and the weight of my final despair.

To realise that the notes, factual and clinical, can never tell anyone about the things that mattered most- the things that I will forever carry with me as my own secret history.

Turning the page

Well, ooooookaaay. I am feeling much, much better now- a bit battle weary but more my old self than not. I attribute that largely to two things. Firstly, we are going on vacation somewhere hot and sunny on Tuesday for two weeks, the prospect of which is undeniably cheering (despite the endless moronic commentary that I will get pregnant from all the relaxation).

Secondly, we have the preliminary makings of a Plan. Or I should say I have the makings, because at the moment E. is preoccupied with about ten million other things, all of which to his mind are considerably more pressing. Like in which box did he leave that particular piece of vital wiring and gadgetry.

I am sure he will catch up with me eventually, and that's fine. Because the plan I am formulating is so audacious, so logistically complicated and so jawdroppingly expensive that I need a chance to work up my sales pitch. There are moments when I have trouble believing myself that what I am about to propose could work- and I am not yet completely certain it will. But it is strangly soothing to me to have something to focus on-the mechanics of unfankling a hugely knotted ball of treatment fishing line.

What is clear at this juncture is that we will try again. The bottom line is, we do want to have a child. Adoption remains problematic for us for reasons discussed at length in earlier posts. So if IVF is a way to achieve having a family, then this is what we will do. True, I've done some bitter flailing and teeth gnashing in coming to accept this. Being unexplained doesn't make it easy, and up until now, it was very compelling to simply carry on secretly thinking that there was nothing really wrong with us.

However, failing to get pregnant despite undergoing IVF kind of puts a new spin on that one. Kind of hard to ignore that as Exhibit A in the ongoing "Truly Infertile or Just Unlucky?" inquiry.

What is also clear- to me anyway- is that I do not want to go back to the O.C. again. In retrospect, it did make sense to do our first attempt there. Because the doctors kept banging on about how we just needed to give our chances a little boost, how we were excellent candidates for IVF. And compared to the alternatives, it was relatively inexpensive. Plus at that point, we did own a place to stay in town, which made it convenient.

But it's also left me with a number of questions. Had we gone somewhere much better, with a higher success rate and standard, I might have a slightly different attitude to the aforementioned Exhibit A. As it is, I am still thinking, "OK, I didn't get pregnant. But the clinic was crap."

I mean, I was mentally trying not to slate them too much when I was doing the cycle, because I didn't want to bite the hand that might impregnate me, so to speak. And they weren't entirely without good points- for example, some of the nurses were quite sweet and the process itself was fairly straightforward. But taking a step back, there was a lot wrong. I mean, I basically chose my own protocol, for fucks' sake. And Dr Billy Fynn was an arse. In particular it annoys me that he managed to find the time to phone E. to chortle over those "outstanding semen analysis results", but he couldn't interrupt his fucking golf game for five minutes to simply phone me to say he was sorry, and would we at least like to come in to talk it over? Not. Acceptable. Plus, pee sample in the mail. Need I say more.

So, all that remains is to extract my medical records. And then that particular chapter of our infertility chronicles will be closed- for my part, without so much as a backwards glance. Stick around though, because I think the next chapter is about to get very interesting.

Fig Stims

"I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

- Sylvia Plath- The Bell Jar

From the deafening silence that met my last post, I am guessing you are all trying to tell me something. What could it be? Either you do not like clowns, or you are sulking about my unwillingness to talk about my stim options.

Oh what the hell, I may as well go over the Stims Menu now, since I am in a midweek floppy mood, and have nothing better to talk about.

I should explain that I don't always do particularly well when presented with too much choice. I mean, just recently I had a fugue moment in *Insert Conglomerate Coffee Chain here*, where I stood for a good ten minutes, slackjawed and dazed, so overwhelmed was I by the array of beverage decisions. Too much choice and I become like that character in Plath's Bell Jar -with the damn fig tree.

OK. Let me begin by offering up a handy link to the "European to American" fertility medication brand name translator. Also to say, my main dilemma revolves around method of delivery into my trembling flesh. Namely, the relative merits of the pen versus the auto-injector, if in fact there is a difference. So that's where all you come in, my infertile comrades.

Basically, in ascending order of cost I can have:

* Menogen (urinary based product (that is, the wee of menopausal women) injected intramuscularly)
* Menopur (also wee-based, but injected sub-q using an auto-injector)
* Gonal-F (prefilled pen, injected sub-q. Comes with "free" Ovitrelle sub-q trigger shot, also by pen)
* Gonal F Multidose (injected sub-q using an auto-injector. Again with the "free" sub-q trigger shot. Those drug companies are all heart, eh?).
* Puregon (cost unknown, pen or vials)

Since I expect to have to give myself all my shots, intramuscular injections are a total out. I can barely spell the word "intramuscularly", never mind cope with jabbing myself in the ass. So that narrows it down a little.

Initially, my inclination was to simply go for the Gonal-F and then thrash out the pen versus auto-injector question. But then I did a little Googling of Menopur (aka Repronex) and found this, a recent study which suggests that Menopur may work a bit better than Gonal-F. And it's slightly cheaper than the Gonal-F- not that I'm really going to start nickel and diming at this point. But you know- why pay more for something that does not work as well- if you don't need to?

The Gonal-F option is a straightforward prefilled pen or multidose auto-injector, the latter being much more expensive. So, all things considered that seems to take us to a choice between the Menopur auto-injector and the Gonal-F pen.

Hopefully, you are following all of this, dazzled and awed by my keen powers of decision-making.

My question is whether the auto-injector is what I think it is? From what I can work out, a bix of mixing up of meds is involved, then you load it up, press to the injection site and push the button. Hey, presto, Stim-U-Matic. Or is there more to it than that? My first reaction when I heard of it was "hell, yes, get me one of those!" No trembling hand, no force of will to jam a needle into quivering flesh. Just click and go, baby.

But then, weirdly, the more I thought of it, the more freaked out I became by the idea of the auto-injector. I am all about the uber-control, here, people. If I do have to plunge a needle into my abdomen, part of me thinks it would be better to be able to see it coming, and to control it. Plus, I have done so much visualisation of the injecting with the pen to get over the latent dread (not to mention watching this video over and over again). And I think I am now almost up to the job with Le Pen.

Plus, I have seen the Gonal-F pen, and it's really quite cute, as far as those things go. A nice perky red with the pleasing little dial for the dosage. I mean, one might as well opt for aesthetically pleasing gear while one is at it, right? I have read that in contast, the Menopur auto-injector is a bit bulky and well...scary. Plus all that mixing- I am one of those people who goes through life, trying to fix various fuck-ups large and small whilst muttering, "If only I had read the directions. Must. learn. to. read. directions." So I am sort of guessing that mixing of crucial meds would not be my forte.

Anyway, whadda ya think? Possibly more effective, cheaper Menopur via auto-injector, or jaunty Gonal-F in its convenient jabby pen? What would you do or what have you done? I should stress I don't mean to be overdramatic with the fig tree analogy- at the end of the day, it's probably not that big a deal.

But these things can keep a girl up at night. So your thoughts and your vice- whether assy or ad- would be much appreciated.

Day 20 awaits

Whoa there, my furry little comment monkeys! Easy, tigers! Now, I know that the subject of my stimming injection choices is such an immensely fascinating topic, one on which you are dying to opine. But let's just take this one step at a time, no need to be hasty-like. Even if that makes me...how did my friend Truculent Girl put it again? Oh yes, "a stim tease". Yes, I believe that was it. Har.

Actually, I'll tell you that one of my main reasons for holding back on that particular discussion is because in recent telephone calls, I have noted that my mother is taking a rather keen interest in the entrees on my Stimming Menu. And she is legendary amongst those that Google. I fear if I start bandying about the brand names and methods of delivery as I will inevitably do in due course, she might just accidentally googleplex her way...well, here.

Besides, before we even get to the delights of stimhood, I have to undergo my Day 20 scan. As my period arrived like a well-trained puppy to heel right on cue, this is coming up in two weeks time. As I understand it, Day 20 will involve my first date with the OC wand monkey, for a simple check for any lurking unwanted cysts or other garden produce.

One would have thought perhaps that this was the kind of thing we could be looking for, say, now as opposed to the day before starting down-regulating. But hey, what do I know? Besides, I suppose there is nothing like a little 11th hour suspense to liven up the proceedings, is there?

Another happy event on Day 20 will include the handing in the crate of consent forms. The good news is that I saw Dr Best Friend yesterday and she was perfectly content to sign the dreaded Declaration with very little fuss and bother. I realised afterwards as I left the doctor's office that up until that point I had a tight knot of tension in my shoulder which suddenly and miraculously lifted as I skipped home with a much lighter heart. Funny, because if you had asked me, I would have said I was not worried about it in the slightest- that I was operating on the presumption that of course she would sign it. These things, though, they stir in the dark recesses of the subconscious, coiled and waiting to strike.

Assuming my dalliance with le singe de baguette magique* reveals nothing untoward, my appointment will conclude with handing over my credit card for payment of the (*gulp*) full amount for the whole treatment cycle. Farewell, contents of my savings account- it was nice knowing you. Don't be a stranger, you hear?

In return for forking over vast sums of hard earned cash, I will be sent away with some nasal spray, the inhaling of which will commence the next day. And, not to obsess over this Drug Menu thing, but looking over the prices, I see there is quite a big difference in the cost between the Synarel nasal spray, and the alternative Suprecur subcutaneous injections. But not big enough to make me opt for sticking myself every day instead of snorting.

Ooh, and lastly, Day 20 will be, I hope, the day I introduce a new category to ze blog. A witticism along the lines of "IVF I". Or possibly IVF the First. IVF Round One? In vitro primus? Mmm. Something to ponder while we wait.

* I also thought it would be an amusing little diversion over the coming months to explore the phrase "wand monkey" in various languages. A girl needs something to look forward to, after all.