Barren Mare

Sunshine on my shoulder

I have big news. Big, big news.

Are you ready for this? Are you sitting down?

OK. Tonight...melodramatic pause...I ate my dinner....outside, in the sunshine, on my terrace. In a t-shirt, cropped jeans and bare feet. Not a cardigan, woolie beanie, fluffy pullover or fingerless gloves in sight. Nope. I was quite comfortable, temperature wise. I ate my dinner and drank a glass of wine, while the sun continued to shine. A light wind (note: light, as in not blasting icy arctic air) gently ruffled my hair.

Even after cleaning up my dinner debris, I keep wandering back out there, to the scene of this miraculous event. If only E. had been here to confirm that it was not all just a happy dream.

I think my system has gone into shock from the experience. Perhaps that also has something to do with the fact that the pollen count is eye-wateringly high. Ooh, and speaking of pollen- that neatly enables me to segue onto an amusing little anecdote which I forgot to share with you about our last appointment with Her Nurseness at the OC.

One of the things we discussed, in between the endless shuffling of consent forms, was our options for the various drugs in our upcoming IVF cycle. The nasal spray for suppression was a bit of a no-brainer. Basically, "Do I want to inhale mood-alterating, nostril-clogging, head-ache inducing, cooter-drying medication twice a day? Or five times a day?" Mmmm. The "five times a day" option was marginally cheaper- but we decided that life is probably going to be complicated enough for the duration, without me having to excuse myself from my desk to sneak off to the ladies' toilet cubicle for a snort. I spend enough time in there weeping and sniffling as it is.

The stimming injections, on the other hand, are proving slightly more complex in terms of working out what is best. More on that later- though suffice to say I've been gradually Googling my way through a vertitable smorgasbord of choice. For those of you who are furrowing your brows and wondering why I don't just inject what they tell me to inject, I should explain that this is crux of my dilemma. Because apart from the dosage, the OC are pretty much leaving it up to me to decide. Which is why I will shortly be needing your help.

Anyway, kids, let's not get ahead of ourselves, all in good time. For the moment, for the purposes of tthis particular tale, let's just say we touched on the issue of my general unease with the whole "stabbing myself in the gut with a pointy needle" aspect of IVF. Because, really, if you want to pinpoint (geddit- pinpoint?) my major stumbling block with the treatment process, it's this. The needles, and the self-imposed injection thereof. I feel as everything else is surmountable- the cost, the emotional upheaval, the scheduling, etc., etc.- but the injecto-tastic element has given me, shall we say, pause.

Yes, I know it's going to be fine, and that the idea is worse than the jab, and so on. I know all of that. I know when the time comes, I should hopefully be able to summon those nerves of steel (I think I have a spare set in trunk of the car, for emergencies). And somehow, I will get the job done. But in the meantime I'm just trying to explain that this is the part that, rightly or wrongly, is making me go "OH FUCKITY FUCK" right now.

I was explaining this to Her Nurseness, and you know what E. says? Do you?

"It's no big deal, sweetie. You'll be fine." he says, waving one languid hand in the air. "When I was a kid, I used to get really bad hayfever, and my mother had to give me an injection every day. And it was fine."

To which Her Nurseness and I both responded by serving up our best withering looks, before resuming our discussion about my stimming options.

Aftewards, in the car, I said to E., "Your hayfever injections? I am sure that was all very traumatising at the time, but really, I'm not sure that, ah....well, I don't see that it's strictly...what I mean to say is...your hayfever injections?!"

I'm still at a loss for words.

Perhaps I need to wander out to the terrace one more time and gaze upon the fleeting beauty that is a rare, warm summer evening in Scotland. And perhaps just see if there is a droplet more of wine left.

The Burning Question

I am feeling marginally better- or at least enough to push on with a bit more storytelling. I ask your forgiveness in advance if I spin it out a little- it's been a long dry spell in terms of actual treatment doings here, and it's nice to have something concrete to yarn about again.

OK, where were we? Oh yes, wait wait wait wait wait BIG APPOINTMENT at the OC.

I have known for some time that I was probably expecting more from the appointment than I should. Part of this may be the fact that the whole thing seemed so shrouded in enigma and mystery. Nobody seemed quite able to explain what it was for, or why exactly we needed to wait all these long weeks. However, I firmly resolved beforehand that if we were sent away to do any more testing or form-filling or waiting, I would immediately- and without prior warning- spontaneously combust all over the clinic floor.

It didn't quite come to that- although if you look closely, I am a little charred around the collar.

Having learned our lesson about leaving plenty of time to get to the clinic, we got there a bit early. It was an evening appointment, and there was no one at reception. We could hear voices down the hall, but neither of us was inclined to start sticking our heads into the examining rooms. I mean, can you imagine what you might be interrupting? Sheesh.

So we plunked ourselves down on the waiting room chairs and waited.

E. immediately become engrossed in a magazine article, which I noticed was titled "How to Survive Having an Affair". I sat and stared at all the posters on the wall. There seemed to be a great many clubs and meeting groups for the involuntarily childless. CALL 1-800-GetALife for more information. That sort of thing. How cheering and encouraging.

The minutes ticked by, and we waited.

After about 20 minutes I decided death by embarrassment was preferable to sitting there with those posters, so I got up and went down the hall to an open office. Ah ha, a clutch of nurses!

"Um, hi. Does anyone know we are here?" I asked.

"Why are you here?" one of the nurses responded.

Mmmm. Now, that is an interesting question. If only I knew, I thought.

She must have clocked the blank, confused look on my face, because she went on to suggest, as if speaking to a six year old, "Counselling? Implications Counselling?"

"Yes! That's it! That's why we're here! I have no idea what implications counselling is, or why we need to do it, but here we are!" I said.

"Oh, good. Wait outside," she told me.

I went back to my chair, where I was happy to see that E. had moved on to an article about men who love women who need IVF too much.

We were finally shown into a consulation room, where we were informed that the nurse would be with us shortly. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the nurse that we were no longer in the waiting room, and she thought we had left. Because that's what somebody who has waited 10 weeks for an appointment would do if the nurse is running 10 minutes late, right? Never mind. What a jolly and amusing laugh we all had half an hour later, when it was discovered that we had been right there under her nose the whole time.

"OK, let's get started," she said. She opened a file. She clicked her pen.

"Can I have your name and address please?" she began.

I told her.

"Date of birth?"

I told her.

"OK, how long have you been trying to get pregnant? Any previous pregnancies? Any children? Do you have any allergies? Any family illnesses? Are you taking any medication? Apart from the control freakery and the psychosis-inducing experience that it is infertility, are you in good health? Star sign? Opinion on the future of the EU Constitutional Treaty? "

Et-cet-er-a.

Then she turned to E. and asked him much the same. And so it went for the next half hour.

E. and I can sometimes (though not always) read each others' minds, and I knew we were both thinking at mental top volume, "THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THIS?". I mean, it's not as if we hadn't already been to a prior consultation with His JazzHandedNess , which incidentally did not come cheap.

The nurse was really very nice, though, and not at all condescending. And E. and I were both on our best and most charming behaviour. So we soldiered on. We got gold stars for having all our blood work and screening completed. We had a short and harmless digression regarding the results of E.'s last semen analysis. Then, at last, we were rewarded with... some shiny new consent forms to fill out! There were consent forms for me, consent forms for E., consent forms for both of us to take home so we can ponder the fate of any embroyos in the event of our mental incapacity or death (and consent to that fate), consent forms for the signing of the consent forms. Oh, and the consent form be taken home to our GPs, to enable our respective doctors to offer an opinion about our fitness to be parents.

More on that last one later- every time I start thinking about it, there is a sudden smell of singeing and ash.

Finally, finally, finally, we got on to talking about the drugs and the treatment. I'll leave the drugs chat until next time (so many options! so much Googling to do! cha cha cha!). But the really burning question topmost in our mind was when can we start?.

OK, so the answer is this: We wait until Day 1 of my next period, which by my reckoning will be sometime later this week. I then phone to make an appointment for Day 20 of that cycle, whereupon I go in for a dildo cam roto-rootering to check for cysts, etc. I return any remaining outstanding consent forms (including all the new ones that have been breeding in the back of my blue folder). Oh, and I also have to pay for the whole treatment at that point (including embryo freezing- how fiscally optimistic!).

Once I fork over the money, they hand over the down-regging/suppression drugs. Away I go to snort Synarel nasal spray with carefree abandon, eagerly anticipating my next period and the start of stims. Huzzah! Basically, if all goes to plan, I am guesstimating retrieval will be sometime the first week in August.

But don't hold me to that. E. tried to pin me down on the relevant dates yesterday, and folks, the ensuing brawl was not pretty. Things are a little frayed around the edges here, temper-wise, at the moment. Again, more on that another time.

As for the conclusion of the appointment, suffice to say that- once we had covered the basics: file notes, screening results, consent forms, treatment timetable, list of drug options- our time was up and we were dismissed. So, on the whole, perhaps not worth all that waiting and anticipation. But on the upside- comparatively speaking- it's progress.

Now, I am overcome with weariness, and feel the need for some uplifting sticky toffee pudding.

Splutter

For those of you who are wondering as to the outcome of our long awaited appointment with the nurse at the OC, I'm afraid I am going to have to leave you in suspense on the detail for just a wee bit longer.

I am busy, you see, coughing up bits of lung as I enjoy my annual summer throat infection. This has crept up on me over the last few days, until finally settling in with an energy-sapping bang yesterday. I am trying to fend off the dreaded lurgy from getting any worse, but already E. is casting malevolent glances in my direction as I try (and fail) to hack demurely. I may have to sleep in the spare room tonight at the rate we are going.

Anyway, I promise to fill you in fully, very soon. 'Til then, and by way of a sneak preview I can tell you that yes, we are now good to embark on our IVF merit badges. But- thanks to our usual excellent timing, it's going to be approximately three to four more weeks before any actual action takes place. It's actually a big relief to us, since that should just about allow us to complete the "Diagnostic Testing, Screening, Signing of Endless Consent Forms and Establishing our Fitness to be Parents" badge. Not to mention the "Sitting Around with Our Thumbs up our Asses" badge.

Mmmm, now- a hot, slightly medicinal flu-remedy-type drink awaits. De-lish.

Are we there yet?

Right, I am officially bored with this waiting around for the next appointment shit.

It was amusing for, like, a few weeks. It enabled me to swan about, pressing a pale hand to my delicate chest and fluttering my eyelashes, saying "We're *gasp* doing *IVF* in June/July," before falling in a pretty swoon, calling for smelling salts. But I have known for some time that I am more of a calloused farmhand than a drooping maid. This is our particular row to hoe, so pass me the tools and let's get on with it.

Unfortunately, the lack of treatment action makes it hard to write lively, insightful posts. The Muse, she seems to have decided this is a good opportunity to squeeze in a quick cruise to the Caribbean. Maybe she'll bump into Hope at the bar. I wish she would at least send a postcard.

Really, what I want to do is go to sleep and not wake up until the next big step, when we meet the nurse on 17 June. I don't mean switch off in terms of my whole life as such, but rather, in all things infertility. I've been feeling curiously detached about what lies ahead. I figure that until we know more about the specifics of our treatment, there is very little point in fretting myself into oblivion. But the result is I feel very disengaged with the entire process right now. It's something that will happen eventually, but not yet. How exceedingly dull that is.

Interestingly, and somewhat unsurprisingly, E. is not quite as fixated as I am on the next date on our IVF itinerary. He e-mailed me the other day, and mentioned he was going to a conference in London on 17 June.

"No, you're not," I typed back, "We're meeting the nurse at the O.C. that day."

Cue ominous silence.

"Yes, I have the appointment in my diary," he finally replied.

So I sat there trying to decipher this. Did he mean he was going to London anyway, but would try to get back in time for the appointment? Or that he was not going to London? Or that he was aware of the appointment, but he was going to London anyway? Argggggh! Failure to communicate! Failure to communicate!

He was then less than amused with my subsequent snippy e-mail demanding reassurance as to his attendance. How could I be such a nagging shrew? OF COURSE, he was coming to the appointment and not going to London. He was well aware of the need to attend this appoinment. It was uppermost in his mind!

But my dearest muffin, I pointed out, five minutes ago you were not so aware. Oh, details, details. A minor lapse.

I guess as long as he doesn't forget on the actual day, I'm not going to argue with him. I don't have the energy to focus his mind when my own is so adrift- staring out the window from the passenger seat, eyes glazed, occasionally rousing myself from my stupour to check the road map to ensure we stil on course.

Asking, are we there yet? How much longer? Are we there yet?

Archeology

The phone rang during my nap, and E. answered it. I didn't even hear it ringing, actually, as I was lying in bed at the time, burrowed far under the covers and buried beneath layers and layers of pillows.

Many pillows are a feature on our bed. I'm not quite sure how we ended up with so many- sometimes I wonder if they have been breeding in the night. Big square pillows, normal sized pillows, small cushiony decorative pillows. I like them, but E. hates them. When he gets into bed, he proceeds to divest the immediate vicinity of all pillows but the one for his head.

I, on the other hand, need at least three pillows to get to sleep- two for my head, and a "cuddle pillow" to spoon up against. Ideally, the spooning spot would be filled by E, but he likes to cocoon himself in blankets, like a mummy, which makes it hard to get ahold of him.

As a rule, I dearly love napping, and seldom need an excuse to slope away on a rainy Sunday afternoon for a snooze. I confess though that on this occasion, it was a form of depressed, escapist sleeping, designed to take my mind off the fact that my period had showed up right on cue. Which once disproves that old wheeze that impending IVF treatment gets you pregnant.

E. came bounding in the bedroom to wake me up. First, he had to excavate through the topsoil of pillows, sifting out unwanted artifacts such as discarded socks and hankies, until he found me curled up in a sleepy ball.

Dr Billy Flynn just phoned," he announced.

"That's interesting," I said, wiping the drool off my cheek. "What did he say?"

Dr Flynn was phoning to give E. the results of last week's SA. The observant among you may be aware that over the course of the last year, E. has already had two sets of swimmer scans, both of which came back with a good count, but with the morphology just a wee bitty off. This, his third, was run within the O.C.'s. own lab as a precursor in the run up to tailoring our particular course of IVF.

"He says I'm above average! The results are all better than normal," E. chortled.

Of course, when I quizzed him, he was unable to give me specifics, like numbers or percentages. I looked at the piece of paper on which E had recorded the conversation in a series of hieroglyphic-like doodles.

"What does that say?" I asked, pointing to a squiggle.

"Oh, that was the name of the person calling," E. said.

"And that?" I asked, squinting at the bottom left of the page.

"That might say 69%."

"69% good, or bad?" I queried.

"Um. I am not sure. But he said I was all above average, and good."

"Oh," I said, putting down the useless scroll of paper and thinking of my lost nap. "That's good, then."

"Yes. He said we now just have to get to work on you."

"Oh, Dr Flynn said that, did he? Did he refer to me as "pet", or perhaps "chicken", while he was at it?"

"Yes," E. said, smiling the smile of the Smug Sperm Overachiever.

Until he saw my face.

"There's nothing to indicate this is my fault, you know," I snapped. "All my results came back excellent too!"

"I know," E. said. "I know. It's another good sign, though."

And he left me to return to my slumber, piling the pillows like a cairn, back on top of my head.

Thinking about it since then, I know he's right, and I should take it as another positive indicator that our chances are good. That there is nothing obvious to stop this from working. That there is every reason to be optimistic. But unfortunately, that feeling continues to go hand in hand with an unshakeable annoyance at having to dig so deep.

All that digging to find something which, according to the map, should be right there on the surface.

Alas for the cup of joe

In the countdown to ART lift-off, I've been re-assessing the overall health and nutritional habits of both myself and E. Of course, I did this when we first started trying, and all sort of peculiar items crept into the fridge and the vitamin cabinet, such as baby carrots and bulk multi-packs of green tea. Then, after months and months of drinking grapefruit juice and religiously taking my evening primrose oil, I got tired of all that shit, and eased off. I figured it was part of the "just relax" programme- if I didn't consciously spend every waking hour priming my body for pregnancy, maybe it would just happen when I wasn't looking.

Or not.

However, in light of the impending IVF, I do think it is an opportune time to think again about whether there is anything we could do to possibly improve our chances. I'm not saying I suddenly want to become organic-only vegan or similar. Hats off to those who manage to maintain that kind of healthy eating regime, but I have enough trouble organising the eating of three squares a day without introducing any extra palaver. Besides, my life is enough of a fun-free zone at the moment as it is. But then again, I also want to make an effort to avoid anything that might actively fuck it up for us.

To that end, and with no small amount of reluctance, I have decided to make a major sacrifice and....gulp...give up coffee. As in...NO COFFEE! AIEEEEE!

This is partly due a sort of stubborn inner voice demanding that I prostrate myself before the Fertility Gods by offering up something I love in exchange for their blessings. But I'm also a pragmatist who dismisses as that as a lot of foolish nonsense- I mean, isn't going through IVF enough as it is? DO YOU HAVE TO TAKE MY SOUL AS WELL?

No, it's more down to what to what I have read about the effects of caffeine on fertility, and on IVF generally. The consensus from Dr Google seems to be that it is preferable to either limit or cut down on caffeine during treatment- that statistically, those women who drink caffeine are less likely to get pregnant, or to more likely to miscarry than women who don't.

I don't drink that much coffee- one strong one in the morning is usually all- but I love the ritual of making a cup in my red fire engine of a espresso machine. It cheers me to up when I stagger out of bed in the morning to know I have such a beautiful implement at my disposal for my coffee needs. I love the taste and smell of coffee, not to mention the restorative effects. I love the social aspects- team meetings at work are invariably held in the coffee shop so we can all partake of a cuppa joe together with a scone with the size and consistency of a concrete brick.

I love coffee enough that I know giving it up is going to give me some funky withdawal symptons. The last time I tried to detox (about five years ago) I got a headache so bad that I had to stagger down to the local pharmacy to score some extra strong headache tablets. I was so grey, pale and sweaty that the owner thought I was some sort of deranged junkie and almost wouldn't sell me the painkillers. So if it weren't for the two month interval, I probably wouldn't even be attempting to give it up completely.

You see, my plan is to wean myself off gradually by mixing decaf into what would otherwise be a fully caffeinated cup. I can control the decaf/caff ration until I am nearly detoxed, and then can switch to decaf for a bit, and then onto something even healthier like... er, hot water with lemon (bleccccch).

E. was very impressed when I told him this. So much so that he decided to help by going out and purchasing multiple bags of coffee in varying strengths. He came home over the weekend with a bag of normal strength coffee, a bag of what we call "50/50" - that is half full caffeine and half decaf, and a bag of basic decaf.

Unfortunately, what followed on led to us having a further "failure to communicate". That afternoon, I decided I really wanted a cup of coffee, but that it would be good to start the decaf program right away. So I opened the bag of decaf. Only as soon as I had done so, I saw that it looked like E. had opened the 50/50 bag the night before and had poured it into one of the tupperware tubs that we use for coffee storage. We also had a half a jar of full (espresso strength) coffee already open.

Typically, I then could not find another tupperware with a lid. What's with that? We have about a million little plastic containers sitting in the drawer, and can I ever ever find a lid when I need one? No. I could not. Nor could I manage to get the decaf bag re-sealed. So in a fit of pique, I poured the decaf onto the half filled espresso jar and stuck in back in the fridge. I told E. what I had done when he saw the decaf bag open.

"Where did you put it?" he asked warily, as if I had planted a dead rat somewhere amongst our food stores.

"In the espresso jar," I confirmed, pointing to it.

However, the next morning, I decided it was a bad idea to have the decaf on top of the full strength. The idea was to gradually mix full caff with decaf- and the full caf was now buried under a mound of the horrid decaf stuff. So in a further fit of growling, I poured out the decaf-contaminated contents into the 50/50 tub.

And then forgot to mention it to E. Who had a killer headache that day. I couldn't see why that should be the result of making coffee taken from what I thought was the 50/50 tub, and we proceeded to have the most ridiculous conversation trying to get to the bottom of how this happened.

"You see, I mixed the decaf with the full caf, then changed my mind and mixed with the half caf, " I explained.

"The full caf? Or the half caf?"

"The half caf in that tub there," I said

"That's the full caff," E. said.

"No, the full caff is there. Until I moved it."

"They are both full caf. Until you mixed it to make it into 50/50".

"It already was 50/50. I just put the decaf on top."

"But it was full caf," he said

"No, the full caf is here, but it was half full until I filled with decaf. The I filled the half caf full of decaf."

And so it went. We finally worked out between us about half an hour later, with some shouting and arm-waving for good measure, that the 50/50 bag remained unopened and we were dealing with two containers of fully caffeinated coffee, plus some decaf mixed in.

God help us if we have to mix IVF meds.

The Blue Folder

We have exactly two months until we have our appointment with the nurse at the O.C. They continue to be slightly vague as to exactly what will go on at that meeting, except that the session apparently includes something called "implications counselling". Heh. I like the sound of that. "The implications of this treatment are that it may suck ass a whole lot, or just a little bit. Oh, and you may or may not get pregnant."

Anyway. Two more months. It seems like a long time, but I am guessing that it has the potential to pass very quickly. Or at least I hope so. Having made up our minds to do this IVF lark, I am now extremely keen to get on with it. This is fairly typical of decision-making in the Mare household. Swither, swither, swither and then a bold leap into action. Or, er, possibly a timid hop into action.

In the meantime, there isn't much else to do. E. has to have yet another SA at the O.C. (where they will hopefully not be too full of BS and where I pray I will get PG, PDQ, OK?). And I have just had another FSH test, the results of which I will get sometime this week, but assuming there is nothing alarming there, we are good to go.

And then we wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Wait.

Oh, look, is that paint drying over there?

In order to make myself feel as though we continue to step in the right direction, I have been focusing on the "back office" part of treatment. Namely, the filing, bill-paying and organising of the various bits of paper that have filtered in over the last year and a half. God, I love to file. Like some other people, I am renowned for it. Filing makes me feel as if I am making some small in-roads into the chaotic soup of the uncontrollable. OK, so I may not be able to control when I get pregnant- but at least I can lay my hands on the result of my 2003 smear test in less than 3 seconds.

I spent a very pleasant afternoon hole-punching and arranging all test results for both E. and myself over these many months. Referral letters. Invoices for payment (only two of those far, but ooh, just wait.) Old charts from back when I still bothered taking my temperature. Explanations from the different clinics about their treatment policies. Letter from Ass Con advising as to our placement on NHS waiting list (HA!). Notes of key phone numbers and opening times. Hmmm. I should really get some colour coded dividers.

All of this information has now been compiled into the "Blue Folder", a medium sized ring binder with a pouch at the back for miscellaneous papers and flotsam. This folder in its fledging incarnation has already been toted into both Ass Con and the O.C. much to the amusement of one of the nurses, who cooed, "Oooh, you're organised." Lady, you have no idea. You ain't seen nothing yet.

The cover of the Blue Folder is presently a little bland though. I am considering ways to perk it up- making it less of a grim File of Doom and more like, a File of Fluffy Optimisim. In fact, I was thinking of covering it in brown paper, like we used to do at school, and drawing little pictures of eggs and sperm with a big love heart between them. "SPERMIE HEARTS EGGIE. TRU LUV 4EVAH." Only instead of a cupid's arrow through the heart, it will be a giant syringe.

What do you think? Any other ideas? All whimsy welcomed.

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.

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.

A Fool's Errand

As a special Easter Monday treat, E and I had our very long- awaited appointment with the RE at the Ass Con clinic.

It's taken me a couple of days to recover, actually. I had to fix my hair, which was badly disheveled from the emotional rollercoaster ride, and to unwad my panties- which were in such an almighty bunch, I could barely walk, never mind sit at the computer.

For starters, from the minute we left the house, the trip to the Ass Con clinic was a little....fraught. The weather was horrendous. It rained all day, a grim relentless downpour, the kind where you get soaked just running to the car. We left in plenty of time, but since it was Easter weekend, and a public holiday here, we figured there wouldn't be much traffic.

We figured wrong. So very wrong. The roads were absolutely chock-o-block with cars. Clearly everyone had had enough of sitting around the house stuffing their faces with chocolate eggs, and had decided to head out for a little spin.

Several miles before the hospital, we came around the roundabout, and saw the long stream of red tail lights, going...nowhere. E. groaned.

"That's it. We're going to miss this appointment."

Now. If we were to make a list of things that one never ever says to a grumpy infertile woman, then "We are going to miss the appointment, for which we waited four months, because of a traffic jam" would be right up there, don't you think?

I did that thing- where I roar very loudly. There might also have been some pounding of my tiny fists on the dashboard. The force of my rage must have pushed the cars out of the way, because we made it through, got parked and ran ran ran through the raindrops into the clinic BANG on TIME.

And so, we met with yet another doctor. The first thing he asked was if I had any "papers" for him. I knew what he meant, of course. He meant that fucking HFEA questionnaire, which E. and I had filled out the night before, and which so incensed me I shall have to write yet another post about it. So more on that another time.

He also, foolishly, asked me my opinion about said questionnaire, and I duly mouthed off for awhile as E. tried to kick me gently in the shins. Happily, the doctor pretty much agreed with me that it is a pile of nonsense. Unfortunately, that was about the last time we saw eye-to-eye.

We began discussing the treatment plan, and lo! the diagrams appeared. Sometimes, when all this sketching is taking place, I am convinced that rather than illustrate the reproductive cycle, they are secretly conducting some sort of Rorschach Test.

Also, a lot of percentages were quoted. In fact, this doctor was so jacked up on success rates and numbers, I shall deem him "Dr Percent". Not a very catchy name, but hopefully this post will be one of the last times I ever have to refer to him. He then began talking about the timetabling for IVF. For us, the soonest we could do IVF at the Ass Con clinic would be six or seven months from now. This was not at all unexpected, though still disappointing. As the IVF chat progressed apace, I raised my eyebrows, and interjected,

"Of course, we'll be doing an IUI first, though, right?"

Dr Percent glared at me.

"Why do you want to do an IUI?" he asked, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest in a defensive manner. You'd have thought I had just suggested sacrificing a few goats to the Hungarian Fertility Goddess Boldog.

"Well, Dr Ticktock said....he told us...that was the next step. That we could easily arrange it. You know, data gathering, less invasive than IVF, etc, " I spluttered.

"We don't do IUIs here," he said. "They don't work. The success rates are bad. The percentages are....." Scribble, scribble of numbers and figures.

WHAT? WHATWHATWHAT? He might as well have said that they had discovered the earth is actually flat. I was so stunned, I didn't know what to say. He seized that moment of hesitation to quickly segue back into talking about how all the shots I would need to do for IVF were really "no big deal." Accompanied by a disturbing repeated jabbing motion toward his left thigh.

To cut what is becoming a long story short, we agreed that we could do an IUI if we really wanted to, even though it "wouldn't work". And the waiting list for that? Three more months. Even though it wouldn't work. In case we missed that- the "wouldn't work" part.

Oh, and getting my E2 tested? Cue another dismissive wave. According to Dr Percent, I don't need that either.

Then Dr Percent, with a perfunctory farewell handshake, handed us over to the nurse, who made an appointment for us to come back in July for another chat. Oh, and she didn't think the IUI was a good idea either.

"Just have sexual intercourse!" she giggled. Gee, I thought, slapping a hand to my forehead, why the fuck didn't WE think of that? Just have us some sec-shoooo-ul innnterrrrcoooooorse. Whilst relaxing, of course.

And as she proceeded to merrily start setting out the calender for the next IVF appointment, I promptly burst into tears. They really should put some fucking Kleenex tissues in these rooms, you know- that paper towel was very scratchy on my soft peachy complexion. Afterwards, because the afternoon had not been hellish enough, we went grocery shopping, which I loathe, and the stupid cow from the pharmacy gave me the wrong prescription. And then I had a bath and cried some more.

So what do I take from all that? Having sat back and Googled on it awhile, I can sort of see Dr Percent's point about IUIs. I'm not stupid, I know the success rates are not great. But to go straight to IVF- do not pass go, do not collect IUI- just seems so... drastic. Is it just me or does that seem drastic? Also, I know there has to be some professional medical detachment, but they talk about IVF like it's ordering out for a goddamn pizza. And neither of us got a good feeling about the place. We do have other good options for clinics- and if at all possible, I'd prefer it if there was no way in this lifetime that Dr Percent gets anywhere near my cooter.

I guess what is most upsetting is that I was really hoping from the bottom of my equine heart that on this, our third trip to that clinic, we would finally, after all these months and months of waiting, see some action. I suppose deep down, I truly thought he would kindly wave his magic wand, hand me some Clomid, and away we'd skip, IUI bound this cycle. I had told myself I would surely be pregnant by May.

Instead it turned out to be yet another total waste of time. A fool's errand, the sole purpose of which was to undergo what I (belatedly) realised was the Ass Con's "Welfare of the Not-Yet-Even Conceived Child" assessment.

OK. Roll on Plan B.