Barren Mare

The Pee Sample is in the Mail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is nowhere else for me to go.

So, how was your day?

9dp3dt

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

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

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

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

6.08. Insert progesterone suppository.

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

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

6.46. Throw up. Cry some more.

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

7.45. Get up anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12.48. Guy leaves.

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

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

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

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

5.57. Notice bleeding has stopped completely.

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

So, how was your day?

Bluebeard's castle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.