I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain.

You know it's three weeks [on lucrin], I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind.

I'm sure that's not quite what Mr. Lennon had in mind, but I'm gonna put lucrin right up there with whatever demons he was battling circa 1968.

So, to manipulate my cycle to fit in with DH's work roster, I'm down regging my brains out, baby! By the time I start stimming in 10 days, it'll have been 4 weeks on the demon. Crazy.

Everything is being thrown at the Last Stim Cycle. Sceptical Mez has booked the acupuncture and the gluten/dairy/caffeine/alcohol free diet is going quite well, after some major headache withdrawal.

The Recurrent Miscarriage expert has been consulted and has added thiamine to my mega-B6/B12/folate/aspirin concoction. He has told me to ditch the prednisolone (yay!) and to up the clexane to 60mgs. Apparently, despite my FS's confident assertions that my homocysteine levels are normal, they are way too high at 8.3. A woman in her reproductive years (sick joke, but you get the drift) should be around the 4.3 mark.

The good news is that my ANA levels have reduced substantially to a titre of 1/160 and my scary borderline Rheum. Factor is negative again. My theory is that they were elevated due to pregnancy as the last round of tests was only a week after my last miscarriage. Thus the vicious cycle of pregnancy elevating auto-immune disease, which then increases miscarriage risk.

I don't have a lot to add, however I do look forward to the end of this cycle with optimism. I have devoted an entire year of my life to IVF. One way or another, I will have my closure.

Trying to taste the difference 'tween a lemon and lime.

Yup. The ol' spidey senses are certainly working overtime. I'm at that point of utter confusion. The intense, researching, Dr-sceptic Mez thinks that if I just research some more and find that secret ingredient that's holding me back from eventual success, then all will be well. The tired, laid back, fatalistic Mez thinks that what will be will be and that we have no control over this heartless process. Pregnancy isn't really a science. Millions of fat, lazy, overweight, smoking, drunken crack whores daily conceive and bring forth more spawn to fill the world.

In the past week 3 people have asked me if I have kids. Funnily enough, up until I started trying, I was never asked. Four years of TTC has aged me now to the point that even the baby/toddler assumptions have stopped and people wonder which schools my mythical children attend. Like most long-term Infertiles, I've worked on a stock response of which I'm unnervingly proud. It goes something like this:

II (that's Inquisitive Idiot): So, do you have kids?
Mez: No. (smart punters get the point here.)
II: Oh! (tone of surprise and disbelief)
Mez: Not everyone has kids.

I'll pause here to explain that if this is the end of the conversation, I go no further. However, there are those Extra-Inquisitive Extra-Idiots who need to continue to the next level....

II: Really? Why not?
Mez: Not everyone can HAVE kids. (glare)

This is where it ends. Normal, switched on folk assume at "Not everyone has kids" that a woman in her late-30s may well be childless involuntarily. Those clueless folks who assume that everyone has kids, need it spelled out. I will single out for honorable mention in the area of gross self-absorption, the woman last week who, even after the final line in my little dialogue, still went on expectantly to tell me that she had two. O-KAY! Cue Mez mumbling hmmmm and turning away quite quickly. No, I really don't want to hear the exciting tales of parenthood, and if you think I'm going to start breathlessly interrogating you about Tyler and Logan (or whatever bizarro surname-first names are trendy this year), then think again.

I guess I'd better get used to this little speech. I do feel (believe it or not) that as I prepare myself for the inevitable, the bitterness is receding somewhat. I actually stood next to a hugely pregnant woman at a party last weekend and chatted away blithely. I guess it helped that I just thought she was fat and only realised her state when someone else asked about her adventures in cot-purchasing. The baby hole will reduce in size and other things will take its place. I'm working hard on the husband to find work in Melbourne so I can have my career and life back. All this running from Infertility has to stop someday.

Unhappily yours....

Today the last negative has finally sunk in, along with the realisation that I'm less than 2 weeks away from starting my final stim. This time a year ago I reluctantly joined the AC circus, with the expectation that what my body wouldn't do naturally could be effected quickly with science. As it turns out, we were actually a whole lot more fertile before IVF, if that's even possible.

I don't really know what else to throw at this. There's nothing we need to do to improve response, quality of eggs/sperm, blasts, hormones etc etc. Each cycle chugs along swimmingly, that is until the red lady sings. We are taking steps to counteract possible clotting and inflammation issues. I am truly ruining my FC's stats.

I took my post-it list of concerns to Dr Suave on Friday with some wins and some losses.

1. I want a down reg, I got a down reg. Hard work to pull for that at my FC, AKA Antagonists R Us. Here's hoping for a good haul like the first one.
2. I thought maybe going up to 50mg prednisolone might give me an edge but he demurred. Apparently 25mg is actually quite high and they usually prescribe 10-15mg. I don't like this drug at the best of times, so I'll play ball on that one.
3. The role that being ANA+ plays....apparently it's like saying that 5% of cars outside are red, but that doesn't mean only red cars crash. Thank you, Dr Weird Analogy! So we just don't know.
4. I brought up the possibility of transferring a day 2/3 embie as obviously these perfect little blasts don't take to mama. Better in than out? No. They like blasts, they have success with blasts. They don't want to waste time transferring embies which may well have stopped dividing in the dish at day 4. It makes sense and I deferred to his greater medical knowledge on that one, but I'm still not so sure.

I'm also going gluten, dairy, caffeine, sugar and alcohol free this cycle, and I tell you what, that last one really hurts! If it takes down the inflammation in my body by even 5% extra, it might help.

I really don't know what else to do. If this is a bust, I use up my frosties, pack up my cricket set and walk off into the setting sun of childlessness.

Fixing a Hole......

but unfortunately, it didn't stop my mind from wandering......

I took a long walk today with the aim of working off some of the bloating/meds associated with failed Stim #3 (yep, you read right), as well as to practice some 'mindful walking' as recommended by Dr Alice Domar in "Conquering Infertility". Now, I have to say that if I took drugs and had any talent at all, this walk would have inspired a Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds-type lyrical explosion. Perhaps because I was attempting to walk mindfully and stay in the moment, there was instead an explosion of picaresque symbols lurking furtively around every corner. I even fully expected to see a number plate "IVF111" somewhere along the way. And so, like old Jean-Jacques, roaming around that park in Paris and staring at the tree's roots, I set forth to be Enlightened.

The bad thing about moving interstate frequently is the complete lack of familiarity with one's surrounds. This is also a positive and something I took full advantage of today, through the twisting, stone-cottage studded inner-suburbs of south-eastern Adelaide. Dear reader, I did persevere with the mindfulness, despite many intruding ruminations on more negative aspects of my life. I'm one of those people who could never meditate, and even yoga is beyond me. Just how do people turn their minds off for even a minute? Peace of this kind eludes me, instead pushing me into stressful, mental meanderings which eventually become too much, the effects of which can only be ameliorated by a fatalistically exhaled 'meh' during these existential episodes.

Walking past the first park, I was smiled at gingerly by a teenage girl with Down Syndrome and what looked like some type of palsy. Once again I was saddened and inexplicably sickened by the jolting realisation of the rarity of such scenes these days. We seem to have selectively reduced the incidence of Down's and other "imperfect" babies in our society. I don't want to get too deep here as this is a personal decision that each person needs to make. Suffice it to say that it's something simmering not too deeply below the sea-level of this late-30s, TTCer's thoughts.

Next, I spied at the end of a lane way, a virtual horde of perhaps 5-year-olds and their parents. It was a cult, you know, the Fertile People Cult, AKA, Everyone Else. Normally I would have done a swift 180 and found myself another route, however, in the interests of moving beyond being a Professional Infertile (as I have been called) and dealing with the reality that most people do indeed get to have children and I'd better start accepting that fact (girlfriend!), I charged ahead with spirit and verve. Call it some sort of masochistic Aversion therapy; I walked past and through possibly 20 children without a care.

Beyond that was a dog with a plastic neck brace. Truly.

Paying for my not-doing-IVF-so can-drink-coffee-with-impunity-coffee at the local cafe, I was bemused to see the sign on the change dish: "If you don't like change, leave it here". Not bad, Brown Dog Cafe, not bad. A change dish on many different philosophical levels is a change dish after my own heart.

What was the point of this? I really don't know. I think it's time to start accepting the inevitable. Not for me the delusional/optimistic (2 sides of the same coin, really) belief that if I stim indefinitely, I will find success. I haven't been able to find the statistics, but I'm pretty sure that the majority of people who do IVF are unsuccessful. I commit to one more stim and have a review with Dr Suave this Friday to discuss my demands/protocol.

Out of Puff.

I'm unenthused by this cycle and can't really be bothered. I tend to mentally and physically hibernate during the 2WW, particularly the last difficult week, during which time I try to put myself on the backburner, if that's even humanly possible. In reality, I'm trying not to think about the inevitable BFN and the next step. Anyone who even vaguely believes in the power of positive thinking will assume that I'm willing it to fail. Me, I'm just gearing up the defence mechanisms to avoid the crash and burn when the red lady sings.

To update, we had transfer of 2 excellent Grade 1 blasts, one of which was even double Grade 1, apparently. Both Specialist and embryologist gushed, ooohed and aaaahed appropriately at the perfection of our little blasties, clearly thinking that this is what I need to hear. Unfortunately, I'm well versed in the perfect-blast/negative result dichotomy and was in no mood. This qualifies me, in the words of the FS, as an "old-hand" AKA a cynical infertile bitch.

Additionally, we have 1 definite Grade 1 frozen and another they were watching. So all in all, despite previous fears, probably 4 good blasts out of 5 fert. Again, cold comfort when nothing seems to be working.

BT next Monday, but not I'm not expecting to get that far.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.....blast off!!!

.....or not.

So, I hear that every year after 37, fertility drops drastically. I understand that, but this is getting ridiculous!!!

The good news was that despite potentially overstimming, with an E2 of 15400 two days before my EPU, I was OK and awoke to see that lovely, double-figure of 10 biroed on my hand. After insisting that they give me the voltaren messary that they'd forgotten during the EPU (and boy can you tell they've forgotten the pain relief!), I heard the woman in the bed next to me look at her sad and solitary number 1 and say to the nurse, well, it's better than last time. So, me, I no complain.

Next day comes that previously non-dreaded call from embryology. Me, smug?

Perky Embryologist:"It's good news! You collected 10 eggs (derr) and we have fertilisation of 5."

Mez: "(in a daze, not really taking it in) err, we usually get much higher fert rates."

PE: "Well, we aim for 50% and you've got 50%, congratulations!"

Which sets my mind a-thinkin'. Last time, with 10 eggs, 8 fert, we got 3 usable blasts. Following the same process, it's possible we'll end up with nothing.

A rudimentary revision of my previous cycles shows a heinous and unheralded, highly-rapid decline in my Fertility.

Stim 1: 16 eggs, 9 fert, 5 blasts.

Stim 2: 10 eggs, 8 fert, 3 blasts.

Stim 3: 10 eggs, 5 fert........????


How does it go so far downhill in a matter of 9 months?

My problem to be overcome on this whole nightmarish treadmill to oblivion seemed to be implantation/miscarriage issues.

Throw in some age-related cruddy eggs and this could all be over much sooner than expected.

Something else to worry about. Perhaps, in a crazy way, it's a good thing. I'm telling you, all these textbook but negative cycles were doing the old head in.

I've pushed Dr Suave to prescribe Clexane and am back on the 'roids, so let's take some deep breaths and worry about what we can control, which is zero, nada, niente, rien.

No news from embryology is good news, until transfer next Wednesday, which no longer seems a cert.

Relax, go on a holiday, stop thinking about it.....

.....well, 2 out of 3 ain't bad. Guess what folks, being as fertile as a Stop sign didn't lead to a natural pregnancy whilst enjoying the balmy warmth of Port Douglas 2 weeks ago. Funny that. I even deludedly stayed on the prednisolone (and have the moonface in the photos to prove it) against the instructions of Dr Suave, on the off chance that I'm actually quite fertile but just need to keep the inflammation down for a successful implantation. Not to be. As always, stupid hope will always spring eternal in the bosom of the Infertile.

Since my last blog entry there has been some small progress in this journey.

1. I have obtained a referral to the OB who's a thrombophiliac expert and await his call for an appointment. I've stayed on the megafol/B6/B12 and aspirin for now.

2. Dr Suave wants me to stim again rather than FET, due to age....ie: he wants the old duck to build up a supply of blasts before the eggs give out. Whatever, just lead me to that general anaesthetic. Same protocol, antagonist with 100 puregon.

3. I insisted on a Clexane prescription, despite his disbelief that my MTHFR is a factor. He kept spouting the "homocysteine is normal" line, but somehow I've stumbled upon a very pro-Clexane GP who is happy to supply me, so I told him I'd be using it with or without his approval. FS is no doubt highly sick of Mez and her friend, Dr Google, however I'm now firmly of the belief that an informed infertile is a (contradiction in terms) a relatively happy infertile.

4. DH's SCSA/Tunel test came back perfect, so again, it seems that embryo quality is not the issue here.

5. This will be full stim number 3, and transfer 7+8. I'm now looking down the barrel of the business end of this fertility caper. I may or may not do that statistically significant 4th stim, it really depends on a number of factors, including where we'll be living in a few months, which could change momentarily.

Let's go!

Stupidity and the City. (warning-spoilers)

Infertility has had some unexpected side-effects. On top of everything else, my prior movie-buff persona has taken a battering. Consider the following eagerly awaited movies of the last 6 months which I found myself newly unable to consider as mere light entertainment:

1. Waitress. No, I don't want to see a movie about a pregnant teen.
2. Juno. See above. This one killed me, rave reviews AND Michael Cera and Jason Bateman from Arrested Development.
3. Then She found Me. This hurt too. Colin Firth AND Bette Midler. Oy Vey.
4. Baby Mama. Tina Fey AND Amy Poeler from the aforementioned Arrested Development, my second favorite sitcom of all time. (No-one knocks off Seinfeld, baby)
5. Sex and the City.......OK, this one ain't getting away.

I spent a goodly portion of my early 30s with these gals and found them to be highly appropriate role-models for the following reasons:

1. Only 1 out of the 4, 35+ year olds actually managed to have a child (excluding the later adoption plot). I find this more in keeping with the statistics presented by Fertility Clinics and, thus, appropriately realistic.
2. The one that managed to have a child got fat and was excluded from general fun stuff and girly shenanigans by the others. Yay!
3. Carrie did what millions of single/childless gals felt like doing in that Tatum O'Neal episode when her Manolos went missing. Sending a bridal registry for yourself to recoup years of gifts from smug married friends, genius!
4. Charlotte did not have success with IVF. (or whatever AC it is she did with Trey...looked like some sort of OI at least)
5. Samantha living and loving it Child free. Not to make any assumptions, but Kim Cattrall does seem awfully fabulous IRL and kudos to her for not going down the cliche celebrity-adoption route that seems so easy in the good old US of Adoption. (And that includes the Aussie celeb queue jumpers; yes, I'm glaring at you, Ms D-L. Furness and Mr H. Jackman)

Ok, now with hindsight and the retrospective viewing of a million Foxtel re-runs, I must say that SATC does not necessarily stand up to Positive-Infertility scrutiny in these not so innocent, darker TTC years. The subtext now does not now seem nearly as benign.

1. Miranda falling pregnant with a lazy ovary, from one night of pity sex with a man with testicular cancer. COME ON!
2. Carrie finally considering children in the Aleksandr Petrovsky relationship at the age of 38. And Charlotte telling her she still has years of fertility ahead of her. RIGHT!
3. Giving poor, old, childless, sex-bomb Samantha breast-cancer and telling her it's related to being childless, in the episode also known as, "Take that, you old childless Slut!"
4. Charlotte. Ok, now we get to the point of this here blog entry.

For a change, Mez is not happy. As much as I adored catching up with the lad-ees again, I have a rather large, barren bone to pick with the writers of our movie sequel.

IF YOU STOP TRYING AND ADOPT A BABY YOU WILL NOT MIRACULOUSLY FALL PREGNANT AT THE AGE OF 40+.

Deep breaths, deep breaths. Been holding that in since Monday.

WHY OH WHY did they choose to perpetuate 2 of the worst, infertility cliches ever in the one story arc? I myself have been known to turn to people who say "You know, so many people fall pregnant once they adopt" and earnestly enquire how many of these miracle-workers they know. Funnily enough, not so many.

Why did they do it? Why ruin a perfectly fun time with such offensive pap? I guess Charlotte finally deserved her wish-fulfillment happy-ending. The perfect Shiksa Goddess gets her perfect life after all.

Sigh.

Prognosis Negative!!

First, the good news.......









Ok, now the rant.

1. Another BFN. Despite a month of steroids and baby aspirin, my non-baby-friendly body just won't play ball. Another double blast photo thrown ceremonially into the bin.

2. Thank you Fertility Clinic for the following examples of poor service:

a) Telling me not to call to find out whether we would get any frosties, but to wait till you send me a cycle summary, which could take 2 weeks. Despite their negativity, I did get one frostie this cycle, so have 2 in the bank which will no doubt be flushed into the wide, infertile ether next month.

b) I asked for my recurrent miscarriage result print-outs at my BT so I could consult Dr. Google myself. Thank you for not telling me that I'm a compound heterozygote for the MTHFR mutation, meaning that I have a very high chance of recurrent miscarriage. What do I have to do to get some medical service, here? Why am I constantly having to do research and second guess everything? Are you just playing the numbers game until I give up?

c) Telling me in January that there probably wasn't any tissue left to test on that blighted ovum. In amongst my test results the other day was a result for this self-same miscarriage from FOUR MONTHS AGO. It was a chromosomally normal little boy. I hate my body. :-( So I walked around all day thinking of this boy.



My next steps are as follows:

To get an appointment with a well-known recurrent miscarriage specialist here at the Women's and to take in my auto-immune results. Clearly the Fertility Specialists are not Loss specialists.

To start mega doses of folate and B6, B12, C group vitamins in case this MTHFR is a factor.

To do a natural cycle in June when we go away for a week to Qld, and then a possible FET in July.

That is all.

Hubris and the ART of Random Chaos.

So we draw to the close of the interventionist aspect of Stim Cycle No 2 and enter the 2WW with trepidation and not a lot of hope.

With the continuation of various elements of Infertility-denial, I will admit to some small amount of smugness at the outcome (up to, but not including, the whole successful pregnancy thing) of completed Stim Cycle 1. I had no small expectation of at least replicating the haul and quality of blasts this time, with 2 transferred and potentially 2-3 for the freezer.

Pride did indeed come before this ACer's fall on Saturday in the chair, while the earnest young embryologist explained that we were transferring a grade 2 and a grade 3 blast, with none to freeze. Where, when, how, why, HUH??? How did I go from 5 grade 1s, to these 2 cast-offs, barely 6 months later?? If this fails, I have to stim again immediately? I get to do that statistically significant 3rd stim (the one by which if I'm to succeed with IVF, needs to be IT?) So soon? And then, assuming nothing then, go down the path of the long-term, difficult cases, slugging it out for cycle 4, 5, 6 etc, ad infinitum, ad nauseam?

And what happened to this whole antagonist thing that was meant to IMPROVE egg quality? GIVE ME BACK MY DOWN REG!!!! I'm as healthy/unhealthy as I was 6 months ago.....is 38.5 that much farther down the slippery slope of infertility, than 38?

As always with AC, there are no real answers, only platitudes: "cycles are unpredictable", "lots of factors are involved", "we just don't know", yada yada. I'm to be grateful that we even had 2 to transfer, as that's the whole purpose of stimming. Even Dr Suave choked down a metaphorical *roll-eyes gif* and told me that 50% of women don't get any to freeze. (so shut up already, you over-analytical drama-queen....he was thinking it; I know that look by now.)

I feel a step closer to the end. Which isn't such a bad thing.

Eggs-actly what I wanted to hear!!

Ok, that was so lame, I'm going to apologise and force myself to watch another episode of The Bold and the Beautiful so I can be reminded again just how fertile 47-year-olds really are. (That would be you, Brooke Logan Forrester Moroney etc etc)

So, EPU was good. E2 was 6000 3 days prior, so I was expecting maybe 12, with a few immatures. I got 10 and 8 fertilised with straight IVF, thus reinforcing the bizarre paradox of an ancient infertile hag being an excellent responder with "good eggs". I haven't heard from the clinic, but I will be in on Saturday to transfer 2 little blast-offs and I'm pretty confident there'll be at least 2. Not for this clinic the daily updates that I was used to in WA, but hey, I'm paying $3000 less per stim, so I'll wear the disinterest.....with interest!!

I'm kind of vaguely impressed by the old antagonist protocol as well. Not only did I still get a flipping good haul on a low dose of FSH, but my fert rate was 80% as opposed to 69% on the down reg. In addition, the lack of lucrin has meant that I'm feeling fine, baby. No mood swings, no fatigue, no bloating, no worries! 12 days of drugs to EPU is OK by me.

I've started my prednisolone and my skin and eyes are sparkling maniacally like the proverbial Stepford Wives, plus I've put myself on baby aspirin on the "it can't hurt" theory. Apparently being ANA+, I'm at risk of platelets rising when my body reacts to dastardly foreign invaders, so miniscule clots can affect implantation at this early stage.

I'm still extremely pessimistic. I am truly at the stage where I'm sure we are merely going through the motions so we can say that we did our best, but I'm very dubious that there'll be a take-home baby at the end of all this. I just can't even think it anymore. I'm mentally preparing for a childfree life at the end of the year, as I'm not one who will keep going and going like Everready. Perhaps I'm weak, perhaps I'm strong. All I know is, I want resolution!!

Antagonise this!

So, I guess I should update this whole IVF thing, since it's kind of the raison-d'etre of this here blog.

I'm feeling slightly antagonised by the whole experience. Ha ha, geddit, antagonist cycle? *insert roll-eyes emoticon here*. Gotta love a bit of Infertility humour in the afternoon.

Ok, so the thing is, this new clinic swears by the old antagonist cycle. They're completely mad for it. I was pretty concerned about the whole OHSS thing, being your atypical 38-year-old high responder, but they assured me that this cycle was good at suppression and led to less, but better, eggs. Without lucrin. O-Kay! "Suppress me Baby one more time!"

In my usual sceptical Mez fashion, I did indeed attempt to convince them to go down reg again as that had been so successful last time, (like, up to the having a baby part *insert roll-eyes emoticon again*) but to no avail. Looks like old clinico was correctamundo and old Mez was wrong, capeesh? (how many languages can I slaughter in one sentence?) My E2 today at the CD10 scan was 1200 and I have around 10 1cm follies so far. So it looks as though less may well be more. I'm not panicking about over-stimming now, and in the cliched vernacular of millions of teens world-wide, IT's ALL GOOD! Maaaaaaaaaaate.

Next scan/BT is set for Wednesday and we need my lining to get a wriggle on and start plumping itself out, y'all, kinda like Madonna's new face.

On another slightly optimistic note, it also turns out that the results of my hyst/endo biopsy were awesome and there's no sign of killer cells or any other murderous cellular fiends lurking nefariously behind uterine lines. Dr Suave was trying to convince me that due to his brilliant planning, (cunning like a fox, I tell you!) I had the hysteroscopy on CD 21 so that I was at the right part of my cycle for the results. I didn't bother reminding him that I actually had it 2 weeks later than initially planned due to the clinic not booking me in on time. *can I keep using the roll-eyes motif here, or would that be twee?*

So, after a chilly early response, I feel that I've warmed up to Dr Suave. His moniker is meant ironically, as in, I think he thinks he's pretty suave. You know, one of those mid-40s, silver haired dudes still in pretty good nick who tries to be in with the young'uns. I just realised that I'm deludedly allying myself with these self-same young'uns. I guess you're only as young as the man you feel. (boom boom)

So, Dr Suave is starting to listen to me a bit more, now that I'm paying his clinic the big bucks to stim, rather than using them to shoot my previously acquired, ring-in blasts into the vortex known as Infertile Mez.

Every time I leave his office, I feel like saying that I really hope I never see him again. Strangely enough, I don't feel that it's time for those words, yet.

Out, out brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

RIP Barbara.

Inconceivable!

No, it's not blog-time yet, but I wanted to put in a plug for a new website run by those with fertility issues, for those with fertility issues. Occasionally, some of us feel like a minority freak-show on the usual parenting board we play at and have been looking for a safe haven where we can discuss fertility related issues without being told that we're bitter and twisted (there's that phrase again) yada yada yada. It's still in its infancy, but check it out, you might just see some friendly faces and get the support you're looking for!

http://inconceivable.ipbfree.com/

Bitters with a twist of lemon.....

I received an interesting message this week. It went something like this:

Dear Mez,

During the day when I have nothing else to do, I frequent online forums. Occasionally I notice that people seem to say some pretty mean stuff, like, things they probably wouldn't say if they weren't sitting behind a screen. I'm not sure what to think. How do I take it? Do I take them seriously and get involved, or just assume that everything I read on the net is a pile of boredom-induced bollocks??

Yours, Confused.



Well, Confused, thanks for the note. Strangely enough, I myself have a few theories on this very topic, so with your permission, I'll humbly expand upon this phenomenon.

We live in interesting times. Everyone is a writer, everyone is a researcher. In this post-post-modern world, we don't merely exist as the sum total of our various experiences, we deliberately create whole personas with which to enter the day, to live vicariously, or to express what is not socially acceptable in real life. Like a societal safety-valve, if you will. It's all a bit Tyler Durden, except sadly, the practitioners come off more Ed Norton than Brad Pitt.

Interesting times indeed. I set to musing on this topic recently as I pondered the highly unoriginal, yet classic phrase so beloved by many, "bitter and twisted". This is one you hear a lot when you don't have the good grace to hide the grief and emotions associated with long-term Infertility. It's dropped frequently into random, anonymous conversations; sometimes I wonder indeed if the purveyors of such originality have considered the fact that they, in lowbrow parlance, are stating the bleeding obvious?

Hey, why not just tell me that I have brown eyes? That's about as far-reaching and pithy as telling someone suffering IF that they're "bitter and twisted". Here's an oldie but a goodie: you might want to consider getting some new material. Or, here's an idea. Try moving beyond the false, wannabe, Alpha-female online persona and consider your responses to such people in the real world. I'll tell you now, that not one friend/acquaintance in real life has bothered to utter such a pointless phrase. In an authentic world, people are slightly more empathic, and if not, just slightly more intelligently original.

I can see it now, groups of women draped languidly around a warm fire in the withdrawing room, dropping the phrase "Oh, you're so bitter and twisted" with all the eclat of a divertingly considered bon mot, while sipping sherry and laughing delicately. NOT.

I hope that's made some sense, Confused. To paraphrase that famous twentieth century philosopher, George Costanza, it's not you, it's them.

Do Infertiles Dream of Infertile Sheep?

Sometimes, a hidden memory crawls around the nether regions of my shrivelled, aging brain, jolting me with a blast from the past. A memory, pre-TTC, when the world was a warm, happy place. Well, at least predictable and logical in many ways.

The other night, when I was peering out the window trying to take my mind off yet another surgical procedure which was not guaranteed to bring me a baby, yet had to be done, one of these time-tendrils brushed my cheek. For some reason, I couldn't get out of my head the Tyrell corporation logo, "More human than human". Further analysis took me back around 9 years, possibly the last time I saw Blade Runner. Why was this in my head? Was it the thought of being placed on yet another operating table, to be entered, cut, scraped, violated again? Has technology gone too far? Why am I putting myself through this personal trespass? Clearly it's not something I enjoy, hell, I'd never been admitted to hospital until the age of 35 for my first M/C.

I guess the genetic engineering themes in Blade Runner were flittering through my mind with the thought of yet another procedure. I can't extrapolate much more deeply than that.

For me, very occasionally, art gives hope, a type of wish-fulfillment that the world could be a different place. Things like the simple yet blindingly poignant death speech of Roy Batty, who, in a few words, reveals his understanding of the world and empathy for man through the ages. At that moment, he is indeed more human than human.

If only human empathy were that simple.


All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain.
Time to die.

Ya got nuthin I want, ya got nuthin I need.

This is a banner week in Mez-land, a week unlike any other. My slightly melodramatic way of announcing 2 blog entries within a week.

I'm not completely clued up on this whole blogging etiquette thing. It appears that to obtain comments on your own scintillating entries, you must elicit such responses by commenting on OPBs. (that's other peeps' blogs y'all) Which presents me with the slightly problematic issue of actually having to read the aforementioned OPBs. Occasionally I do attempt this, dear reader, but oh, the banality! And the blogs of fellow childless slapper friends are becoming a wasteland of lost hopes and discarded words, ie: they seem to have stopped/diminished their blogging activities recently.

For what hope can there be, year after year of dashed dreams, disappointments, while your newbie barbie TTCer gets her magical 2 lines within a few months of trying? It seems that even IVF newbie barbies seem to be fulfilling their hopes much quicker than the rest of us.

I'm hoping, now, that we've stumbled upon the solution to our IF. No longer Unexplained, thanks to recurrent miscarriage testing, I find myself quietly hoping that this is the answer, and that the hysteroscopy/biopsy next week doesn't throw some other foul impediment to our efforts into the ring. Because I'm thinking that this is about as much as I can take.

The response to my testing ANA positive is for me to take a low dose of corticosteroids from transfer onwards. If this works, I'll definitely ditch the headfuck of AC and try for number 2 naturally, if we get that far. Being horrendously old, I personally am now a 1 child preferer, but DH and I both have issues with the idea of having a pampered, neurotic, spoilt, only child. "But ours won't be spoilt!" I cry, not even giving half-hearted credence to my own words. How on earth could this mythical child not be spoilt, after what we've been through? This child will be the prince/ss reigning over our lives, if only the mythical child would enter those emotionally-battered, yet still mildly hopeful lives at some point soon.

Where are you???

***what's with the irrelevent, Barnsey-esque title this week? No, I haven't tripped over to the bogan -side. I'm just a bit angry.

Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!

So, I'm feeling a bit Lady Macbeth today. For a number of reasons, not least the fact that she's the Queen of the crazy Infertile bitches.

I'm feeling that physical action might resolve my psychological torment, so, rather than murder the Scottish king and a bunch of inter-related thanes, I've decided to take the slightly more sane approach and start working again.

It's kind of working (ha ha). Keeps the mind off the continuing grief saga for a bit, reminds me that I am a righteous teacher whom the teens love, gives me back a sense of perspective and all that feel-good crud.

Because, dear friends, in this post-Dr Phil world, I refuse to be a victim. A victim of unfortunate circumstance I may be, but a victim of grief, NEVER! I am stronger than this, and like Colin Firth in the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, I will beat this....

blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Ok, now for the real update.

I still feel shitty that it took this long to test me for all the immune/genetic issues related to recurrent miscarriage. I requested these tests twice in the past 2 years. Have we been wasting valuable fertile years and A-grade blasts, when all it'll take is a dose of your friendly, neighbourhood steroids to stop my body rejecting our spawn? Is this it? Is this the answer to the 50 gazillion dollar question? I can scarcely dare to hope, yet I gain some relieved finality from being Unexplained no longer. A weight bigger than my fat, ever-expanding, comfort-eating arse has indeed been lifted. A modicum of hope dares to quiver in my battered heart.



I hope I don't force that next little spot out.

Good Grief.

One of my favorite expressions. Reminds me of the good old Peanuts gang. I loved that the kids ruled the world and that their interactions with an assortment of clueless, robotically-mumbling, adult automatons was a side issue. Poor old Charlie Brown, was he indeed mirroring his creator's lifelong depression?

Because the funny thing about grief, is that it's never really "good". It can be good for you, sure. I'll admit that my recent and continuing grief over my various IF issues is healthier than my previous oblivion and denial that anything was wrong. But goddamn, it's painful.

For me, the colours of grief are black and red. Black signifying the webbed veins of mascara threading down my face last week as I lay in the foetal position in bed, howling at the cruel fates over yet another failure. Red, signifying the arrival of another unwanted guest. Red will be the colour of the week after yet more surgery to inspect my bits for scarring and trauma caused by so much loss-related previous surgery. Black symbolised my mood upon the return of our Karotyping/Immunology results, showing that our perfect embies are probably being rejected by my foul, defective body.

The paradox of grieving, is that just when you need the understanding/empathy of those around you, you're mired in the most personal of raw, visceral emotion which can barely be accepted, let alone understood by others.

Sadly, other people's tolerance of your grieving leaves the room much sooner than your actual grief does.

Sending you forget me nots, to help me to remember.....

I'm a bad blogger. I've just realised this. Sometimes (not often) I'll click on a link leading to someone else's blog and be shocked to see that they're blogging every day. Good grief, what is there to talk about, every day? Certainly nothing much down my end, unless you're interested in my breakfast and my shopping adventures. I like to save entries for when I'm feeling particularly inspired. Today is one of those days.

I'm a day away from my BT for FET 2. I know it's a BFN as I took a Confirm this morning. The transfer this time was excruciating, possibly an inept Dr but most certainly due to adhesions now covering the entry of my cervix due to too many D+Cs. Fifteen minutes of poking various-sized catheters into that general direction led to him "allegedly" transferring 2 of my blasties. I say allegedly because I have my doubts.....I asked if they could end up anywhere else and he laughingly said, "the tubes". Great! Or should he have said tube? On top of that, I now have a dodgy cervix. When I reach the point that the pain of AC outdoes the pain of childlessness (which I think will be some time this year), I was thinking that, due to being unexplained, we could potentially have one of those bizarro miracle stories, you know, Mr and Mrs Such and Such, who TTC for 5 years, did AC for 2, gave up, went on a holiday and conceived! Blerch. Now, no more. In fact, I need to have more surgery, to fix the result of previous surgery, which I only had because I keep losing babies. It's a wonderful world!

So, the point of today's blog is to discuss another interesting group of people one comes across in one's IF travels. There are Fertiles, which includes the sub-set Rabid Fertiles, who don't want to be made to feel guilty for being so fertile, thank you very much! There are Infertiles and Infertility-deniers. Now, we come to what I like to call, Infertility-Forgetters.

A bloods nurse once said to me, one day when you have your kids, this will all seem like a bad dream. I hope so, and yet I hope not. I would like to remember and retain empathy for those still travelling the path. I will add here that not for me the eternal optimism that I WILL SUCCEED. I don't believe that for one minute. In fact, I'm pretty sure the FC stats are being boosted by Impatient Fertiles (that's a topic for another blog) and that people like me are the ones who end up childless at the end of the whole shebang.

However, on the off-chance, and I give myself now perhaps a 10% chance of having a successful pregnancy and that's if I persevere cycle after cycle, that I do end up with a child, I would like to hold onto every emotion of this journey. I owe it to those still cycling. I will never end up an Infertility Forgetter. They are worse than all the other categories, because now they expect you not to be bitter and twisted and to be happy for everyone. And they're allowed to express that, because they've "had their share of Infertility". Great, it must be easy to be so magnanimous once you HAVE YOUR OWN CHILD/REN.

And no, we haven't forgotten what you were like when you yourselves were suffering Infertility. We remember the emotion, the melodrama, the bitterness, the hatred. Oh yes we do. So please, do us all a favour and pull off those hypocritical angel wings. Don't betray the memory of the many women who are still going through this by telling us we need to get over it because you did. Insult me some other way.

The Obligatory Anti-assvice Rant.

Well, I have put this on hold for as long as humanly possible. It seems that every single Infertility blog (ie: the 3 that I've read) comes with what I like to call the Obligatory Anti-assvice Rant. (OAR) So many people have done this so much better than I could ever imagine (you know, the old "what not to say to your infertile friend"), however I now find myself at a crossroads. As the 4 year anniversary of TTC draws ever nearer, I feel the need to draw into my hard shell, to protect myself from the slings and arrows of outrageous assvice. Where once I revelled in the discussion, AKA verbal diarrhoea of such scintillating sessions, now I cower in combined horror and fear at what the next such encounter holds. And that is only being slightly melodramatic.

The genesis of this particular blog was a particularly trying Bloods session at my local pathology clinic on the weekend. My FC was closed (being Sunday), so they sent me literally up the road (without the proverbial, mixed-metaphorical paddle) to collect that day's vampirical supply. Things started swimmingly. No other customers, score! A male nurse slumped over the desk in the 40 degree heat, hey, that means no talk of cycles, babies, pregnancy etc, double-score!

Can you say, WRONG?


Presenting, an Infertility Friends production of Mez and the Apparently Infertile Male Pathology Nurse.


Mez: wow, quiet day

AIMPN: yeah. (pause) Is this your first one?

Mez: (slightly puzzled...he can't think it's the first blood this cycle as my form says CD12) First what?

AIMPN: first child?

Mez: Umm, yes hopefully.

AIMPN: yeah, I just got back from leave, we've just had our second.

Mez: (what I wanted to say): Yeah? Well why don't you just push your hand into my chest, feel around for a while, pull out what's left of my broken, infertile heart, spit on it, stomp it underfoot, then replace it ready to break again for the next loss.

Mez: (what I actually said): Hmmmm....

AIMPN: yeah, we were told we'd never have kids.

Mez: you know, GPs really need to stop telling people that. They're not Fertility experts.

AIMPN: So what's wrong with you?

Mez: (what I wanted to say): Well, I'm sitting here with a syringe in my arm discussing my fertility with some random insensitive fucktard, Joy!

Mez: (what I actually said): We're unexplained.

AIMPN: My wife has endo, PCOS, the works.

Mez: (what I wanted to say): Yeah, that's why you've got 2 kids and I've got none. ps: you win a teapot.

Mez: (what I actually said): You've done well, then.

At this point, before things became farcical, we were happily interrupted by a passing courier, which gave me the opportunity to cunningly change the subject as soon as she left.

Mez: So this blood will be OK in my fridge overnight, then?

AIMPN: (obviously on a roll) Yeah. You know, there's all different levels of treatment.

Mez: (what I wanted to say): No shit, Sherlock Stupid.

Mez: (what I actually said): Hmmmmm.....

AIMPN: Yeah, have you heard of Clomid?


OK, I'm going to press the pause button here because this is where the ranting begins. WHAT KIND OF FUCKING MORON TELLS A WOMAN WITH A SYRINGE HANGING OUT OF HER ARM FOR HER FOURTH IVF CYCLE THAT THERE'S THIS MIRACULOUS THING CALLED CLOMID?????

Mez: (what I wanted to say): Oh My God, hurry up and take this blood already, what kind of fucking lunatic are you???

Mez: (what I actually said): We jumped the levels to IVF due to age.

etc etc etc etc......



Ok, let me just say that I understand that people think they are being helpful with this shit. I really do. But please don't compare your 'difficulties conceiving' (ie: having to try for 3 months) with what I'm going through, and please do not presume to advise me on my treatment options. THAT'S WHAT I'M PAYING $5000+ A CYCLE FOR!!!!!

This is just the tip of the iceberg of assvice I've received over the years. I haven't put in the insulting, basic models (ie: relax, go on a holiday, stop thinking about it etc) because my stock answer to those inanities now generally nips things in the bud. (ie: Oh, will that fix my dodgy tube?)

I would like to think that in a perfect world, people would not pontificate on topics on which they are completely clueless. The problem in this case is the delightful irony, that those who fall pregnant the easiest, know the least about fertility, yet have the most to say, being so successful and all. I personally have not been affected by cancer, so I will in no way think to advise you on that particularly distressing medical issue, however clearly others do not share my apprehension in highlighting ignorance on such topics.

Note also my use of the non-committal, yet highly expressive "hmmmmm....." in the above anecdote. Hmmmmm is very useful for the infertile slapper. Generally, you can lower your tone to a disinterested hum, excellent for killing off any superfluous, pending assvice. I highly recommend its use.

Over and Out.

Miscarriage Redux.

Well, it's still boring, although on the positive side, AF did arrive in full technicolour glory and I now await my second FET in about 2 weeks. I have pushed to transfer 2 blasties this time. It was not the monumental struggle I was expecting, although I had Buckley's chance with my first fresh and frozen transfers. I guess with my excellent response, they figured I'd be OK. I even recall with irony the nurse who gushed that I'd get my whole family out of my five, day 5, Grade 1 blasts. Well, sucks to you, nursey, don't be giving me such false hope at my age.

I also caught up with the Melbourne Childless Slappers again last week and much merriment was had. Truly, the only people I want to discuss my secret Infertility business with now is other Infertiles. Look! No ass-vice! No insensitive, ignorant comments! Joy!

Because I don't have much of note to add, I'm going to post a journal entry I wrote just after my first miscarriage/D+C in July 2005, all those years ago. I think I had grand plans of sending it to a women's mag, but for the life of me couldn't fathom how I would market something so depressing. No-one really wants to know, right?

I will add that the pain has indeed been magnified with subsequent losses and some of the stuff in the first paragraph is no longer true.



What does a miscarriage REALLY feel like??


No one really tells you. You expect fear, pain, overwhelming sadness. You hope you’ll survive and recover. You can’t imagine and you hope that you never have to. You hear about women who cry for months, can’t remain in contact with pregnant friends. The ones who create little ‘memory-boxes’ with ultrasound pictures, prayers and gold rings. Who even named their foetuses and now call them angels. I thought I’d be one of those devastated women. I wasn’t.

ML-1001. ML-1001. The inscription on the huge, overhead lighting monoliths in the theatre. Trying hard to squint my eyes to suppress the tears, concentrating on anything but what was about to happen. Why was I crying? Was I grieving for the finality of the procedure I had been avoiding for over a week? Did it mean that my baby would finally, even though two ultrasounds had already shown the reality, no longer exist? No. I was just scared.

This story begins about fifteen months ago. At the age of 34, cluckiness made its better-late-than-never presence felt. I blame my brother for spawning the cutest little boy ever. So, we decided to try for a child. In my naïve state, I thought that the act of trying instantly qualified one for pregnancy. Month after month I wondered what was wrong. I had no gynaecological problems. I was as healthy as the proverbial horse. All I needed was the right partner, who had finally appeared 18 months earlier, after over a decade of the wrong partners. Ok, it’s baby time!

Only it wasn’t. A year passed. Friends and acquaintances with one tube, damaged ovaries/tubes, polycystic ovaries, just about every goddamn form of abnormal ovary or tube going, miraculously fell pregnant all too quickly. We talked uneasily about fertility testing. TTC (Trying to Conceive for the uninitiated) chat rooms suggested that many older women were turning to pharmaceutical help with ovulating. But no, we would do things the natural way. (i.e.: no doctors, thanks!) Then, as much as it pains me to admit it, the well meaning but irritating cliché of “stop thinking about it and it will happen”, came true. We had moved to the other side of the country and both had just started new jobs and had really important things to worry about.

Happy, happy, joy, joy! I kept the little stick as proof and did a little happy dance of disbelief. I took another one a week later and kept that too. More proof! I started getting zombie-like symptoms. Crushing fatigue, KFC cravings, waves of nausea. A few weeks of hell, really, but at least I was pregnant! I could deal with it, even when a colleague told me I smelled of spew, hey, I don’t care! I’m pregnant! I wasn’t really enjoying it, but the end result would be worth every uncomfortable moment.

Fast forward to week 8. (You count weeks religiously when you’re pregnant; every week is a step closer to that magical and safe land known as ‘Trimester 2’) Woke up, felt damn good, symptoms pretty much gone. I know my body and I know when something’s wrong. So I did what every intelligent, curious, modern woman does, yep, I googled. “Pregnancy symptoms stopped”…..well, either the baby had died at week 8 or I was one of the lucky ones. Friends and family and even the GP assured me that I was one of the lucky ones, but I knew better. I’ve never really been that lucky.

Fast forward to week 10. Spotting at work on Monday. Back to my old friend, google. Apparently 25% of pregnant women spot. Of those, half go on to miscarry, not betting odds, that’s for sure. Clean undies on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, phew! Spotting and cramping on Friday. “Be good, class, I don’t feel well today”. Kept running out of class, shaking, to check if there was any more. “I’m sure it’s nothing”, reassured my eternally optimistic partner. I knew better.

Next morning, Week 11, slight bleeding. Went to hospital. Sympathetic nurse who looked sad when I said I had period-like cramping and bleeding. She knew too. The ultrasound showed an empty sac, which had stopped growing at 8 weeks. (I knew it!) Nothing at all on the screen, no baby, nothing. Which made it so much easier to cope, in a bizarre, inexplicable way. You can’t attach if you’ve never seen your baby. I felt OK, calm and collected. I didn’t want a curette; I trusted my own body to sort itself out. Wasn’t my body the only one who had known something was wrong 3 weeks ago? I took Monday off to rest, then went back to school Tuesday.

“Wow, I’ve had a great miscarriage, no pain, no buckets of blood”, I repeated, over and over. Was I in denial and just avoiding the overwhelming, visceral pain, which would, doubtlessly, strike at any time? I’m sure colleagues were just waiting for the hysteria to strike, if the kid-glove treatment was any guide.

A week later, back at hospital for the check-up. Still mildly cramping and bleeding, my normally healthy body was letting me down. The empty sac was still there with some other bits and pieces, mocking me it seemed. I booked in for the curette and rang my partner who was working up north. We had no friends or family in this city, so he rushed home the next day.

Wednesday, back to hospital. This resilient, little, black duck was shit-scared. Never been in hospital a day in my life, if you don’t include for half an hour, 2 years ago, to get a broken leg plastered. Lots of waiting around, going from waiting rooms to change rooms to pre-op, then finally to the theatre. Finally, it was all too much and the silent tears flowed. “It’s alright to cry, it’s very emotional losing a baby”, the theatre nurse empathised. “It’s not that, I’m just scared,” I wept.

You can google miscarriage as long as you want, but you’ll never get the real story. For me, this was a strange, unreal, fifteen-month journey, which ended with nothingness. Not sadness, not hysteria, not even much pain.

Every woman is different. This was what my first miscarriage really felt like.

Boring.

Yep, the title of one of my favorite episodes of The Young Ones. Apart from reminding me of my not-so-studious past, when cleaning one's toenails held more appeal than another philosophy lecture in the Old Arts building, there was a performance in the guys' living room by Madness!!

Baggy trousers, baggy trousers....

Ok, enough of that. It's BORING being in between cycles. I swear, we have been cycling since July 2007 and I have seriously managed to only do one complete stim and one FET. Some people have done their 4 damn stims and got their sticky BFP by now. And can I just thank you once again, dear blighted ovum, for making me miss another 2 good months of FET-ing.

What is is about my life that seems to elongate every one of my life experiences? I was thinking, as I watched the kids play cricket today at school, that if I manage to pop out a human in the next couple of years, I will be around 60 when said human is doing Year 12. That part actually doesn't bother me one bit. Just like all those young mums have this fantasy that after their kids grow up, they will miraculously get that postgraduate degree, brilliant career and travel around the world, I have a fantasy that when I'm too old, decrepit and tired to have fun anymore, it'll be a great time to dag around the house with teens. After all, youth is wasted on the young (thank you Oscar Wilde).

And so we wait, dear reader, and so we wait......

(Infertility) Denial is not just a River in Egypt.....

Ok, so back to the topic at hand, after my previous self-indulgent ramblings.

An interesting exchange in the past week had me musing on the topic of Infertility: definitions thereof, and the associated condition of Infertility Denial. Essentially, someone who has been TTC for over 2 years without any luck, commented on the fact that she didn't understand what we "Infertiles" go through.

Well, knock me down, pick me up again, dust me off then knock me down again, because NEWSFLASH!!!! If you haven't managed to squeeze out a puppy in 2 years of TTC, I hate to break the bad news to you, but YOU ARE INFERTILE!!!!!

Now, this set me off on a quest, a mission if you will, to define that delicate state of Infertility. When do you start calling yourself Infertile publicly? When do you acknowledge it to yourself? Are definitions even any use in this sordid game?

I guess I found that person's position challenging due to my own case of Infertility Denial, which dragged on for 2.5 years too long. Similarly to them, once we actually started falling pregnant, then suddenly, miraculously, there was nothing wrong with us, we're normal!!! Break out the freaking hats and streamers, what a relief, PHEW!!

I detect a problem with this scenario, however. The problem being that we STILL DON'T HAVE A BABY!!!! So clearly, something was still going horribly wrong.

The medical definition of Infertility is failure to have a viable pregnancy after 12 months of active TTC. Obviously there are wild variations to this definition, linked quite closely to the intensity/impatience/tolerance level of the parties at hand. For eg, I personally know people who would have gone to their GP for a precautionary prescription of Clomid even BEFORE TTC, just in case. (In fact, I have my suspicions about someone in my inner circle with PCO and control-freak issues who fell first month and had spent the previous 3 years blabbing about how she knew she'd have problems and would probably need IVF. Hmmmmmm.)

Are you Infertile if you can get pregnant naturally but can't keep them? What about if you're OK, but your partner has Male Factor? Are you then Infertile, considering you can't procreate on your own so need the help of AC. What about a 42 year old who already has 5 kids and now things don't seem to be working? Is my 80-year old grandma Infertile? (OK, just threw that in to see if you're still awake). All the interesting questions.

My main regret is the Infertility Denial I practised for so long, as it only prolonged this torturous journey to its logical end of AC, and in the process probably wasted about 2 very valuable fertility years, now that I'm down to the business end of this whole she-bang.

For those of you who actually read this to follow my TTC path, rather than my self-indulgent musings, rest assured that I'm doing A-OK after my recent loss.

Onwards and Upwards!!!

I Heart Melbourne.

Ahhh, Melbourne. Not Melbourne Florida, but Melbourne Australia. This blog entry is my love-letter to my home town.

What's not to love? Her teeming, grimy, grey streets, streaked by the latest grafitti-artists' obscene efforts. They go up more quickly than they can be removed. My absolute favorite thing to do in Melbourne? And I promise you that this is quite possibly the lamest thing you have ever read on the WWW, and that includes you perezhilton obsessives.

As much as I hate PT in Melbourne, with the over-priced tickets, broken machines, cancelled, filthy trains, urine-soaked stations and Bracksie's Neo-Nazi ticket inspectors (I kid you not, my brother had his jacket ripped by a flotilla of these arseholes), this is my favorite thing to do in Melbourne, of all time.

Ok, so you ride a train, doesn't matter which line. The ones I'm most familiar with are the Alamein line (childhood), Belgrave/Lilydale lines (adolescence) and the .....I can't even remember, my station as a 30-something was Heidelberg....... Upwey? Epping? That's how often I used PT as an adult.

Anyhoo, the idea is, you get the train into the city, and sit next to a window. It's more effective if you can get a bunch of seats on your own. Once you get to the inner-city stations, like from Westgarth onwards.........you stare into people's backyards. That's it! No, I'm not some random psycho, stalking out the lives of my inner-city brethren. I just love, love, love those crammed- together, tiny, ancient old terraces, with their mini-yards and character seeping from every window frame and narrow, cobbled laneway. I can't explain the feeling that washes over me during this experience, warm, nostalgic, kind of like one of those dreams you have that make you feel 5 again, but happy-5, not sad, tantrumming-5.

You just don't get that anywhere else.



This blog entry is dedicated to those girls in Melbourne, you know who you are. I won't name you or even give you cutesy little Sex and the City-type descriptions, but you're all going through this hell of Infertility and I want you to know that even though we've only met once, I think of your struggles often.

One day, Melbourne, I'll be back for good.

That's me in the spotlight, I'm losing my religion....

Okay, so old Michael Stipe wasn't actually singing about religion because, as any good REM fan knows, the religious iconography in the video had nothing to do with the actual song but was one of those creative-artistic type things bound to attract interest/controversy.

The expression is a southern US idiom for being at your wit's end, or in my case, at my fucking wit's end.

Significantly, however, the continuing story of my Infertility (yeah, it deserves a capital letter, because like the song's meaning, it's also become an obsession) has made me consider the metaphysical more often than I have since those dark, depressing teenage years, you know, the ones where I agonised over the meaning of life while everyone else was getting smashed, laid etc. It does suck to be deep in a shallow world.

I'm not sure what the religious make of their Infertility. I find it difficult to reconcile any of this with anything that makes sense. I have no wish to offend those with religion, I envy you and I know that I'm in the minority in not being able to believe in a higher power.

What Infertility does to my belief system is that it gives me a sort of lite-Hinduism/Buddhism in which I wonder what the fuck I've done in another life to deserve this. I must have been one awful, child-murdering criminal to be going through this now.

Because I wouldn't wish yesterday's ultrasound on anyone, yet the news was not unexpected in the least, and it certainly hasn't been the first time I've seen that empty, barren sac on the screen, mocking me and making me look the other way before the tears well up. Could it be any more symbolic of the struggles we go through?

Some of my loyal readers (all 3 of you, lol) have wondered why I haven't blogged for a few weeks. I will admit to some false hope, despite all indications to the contrary from my FC, that I had a lazy little late implanter on my hands, who had finally latched onto mama and was now making my HCG double every 2 days or so, as it was meant to. Would we turn up to that scan yesterday, all past traumas forgotten, to be greeted by the sight of a little 7 week mini-us on the screen, allowing us to put this hell behind us? Why on earth would we get that lucky?

But that was just a dream
Try, cry, why try?
That was just a dream
Just a dream, just a dream
Dream

Waiting for the great leap forward.....

or as Cher would say in Clueless, (or was it Ty or Dionne?) can't wait till I'm riding that crimson wave!

There's a lot of waiting involved in long-term TTC. Ironically, when things go wrong, it's the only time you're willing the Red Enigma to visit. (Look! Down below! It's a HPT, it's a BFP, NO! It's the Red Enigma!)

I'm now CD39 and still no sign. Irritatingly enough, I took a HPT out of interest to see if anything was happening today, and of course, unlike last week when I actually wanted one, I obtained a BFP. So clearly my body thinks it's hilarious to fuck with me in this way.

An Infertility Friend's Production of......

Mez's Body's Revenge. (starring Mez and Mez's body....perhaps the same thing)

Mez's reproductive organs: lets fuck with this bitch some more....maybe raise her HCG a little, drag things on, you know the drill. (Cue manic laughter)

Ok, at this point I know what you're thinking. Why is this crazy woman constantly referring to herself in the third person? Isn't that the 3rd sign of madness, behind talking to yourself and playing air-keyboards to Flock of Seagulls on your Ipod while on the treadmill? (that would be check, and check)

I guess it's part of the disassociation of yourself from your body while on IVF. (yeah, that sounds good, disassociation) Sometimes the only way to cope is to switch off. I know it's old amongst those of us going through this particular form of Chinese water torture, but truly, once you embark upon this journey, your body is no longer your own. I've been gently scolded by nurses for walking to my ET without holding my gown together. Dude, some guy is gonna be putting a catheter into my cervix, inches north of my labia, both minora AND majora. The time for dignity has passed!

Funnily enough, I was one of those shy, retiring petals who put off having their first pap smear for years and years....oh the shame of a Dr seeing my privates! Ha ha ha.

I must say, however, on the extremely unlikely, improbable and downright impossible chance that this pregnancy does not miscarry, I will carry the guilt of the past week with me to my grave. After the official 2WW, I've reacquainted myself with many dear friends, including Brandy (lime and soda), sushi, soft cheese and prawns.

Whaddya gonna do?

Riddle me this: What's worse than a BFN?

Answer: a BFP with fuck-all HCG, which means essentially waiting to miscarry so the whole cycle can start again.

I do NOT want to have any more non-viable pregnancies! (are you listening, oh god of all the atheists?) I do NOT want to be sitting here now, on CD36, no sign of AF, puffed up with excess progesterone and fluid, waiting for my *huge* HCG of 41 to drop so I can get on with this bullshit again.

I do NOT want to have on my life score card any more than 4 losses.....now it's just getting ridiculous. I feel enough of a freak as it is, with my perfect hormones, DH's perfect SA, perfect fucking freezer full of grade A blasts with no baby in sight.

ENOUGH I SAY!

Right. Now that Angry Mez has had her say, cut to Rational Mez for the insight of the day.

These IVF pregnancy losses are actually much easier than the natural ones, the ones before I had a specialist, or even a GP, thought I was pregnant for ages, started spotting then ended up at the Women's Hospital once the cramps were too painful. I like my miscarriages like my men, predictable, reliable, right on time!!

The good thing is, (my rule of thumb as a life-long pessimist is to always at least try to look for the silver lining) If your HCG is below the reasonable low end on your beta day and doesn't rise much in follow up tests, you pretty much know the drill. In the interests of marking down some of this scintillating banter for posterity, may I present, An Infertilityfriend's Production of:


The Phone Call from the Fertility Clinic. (starring nurse and Mez - cue low-level, suspenseful, Hitchcockian music)

Nurse: um, hi Mez, well, the test is showing some pregnancy hormone but, um, I'm afraid it's very low....(spoken in sheepish, apologetic monotone)

Mez: Yeah, I know, I suspected a chemical due to feeling absolutely exhausted, no AF and 6 negative HPTs. (spoken confidently, in fact, almost too upbeat!)

Nurse: um, yes, it looks that way....can you come in in 2 days for a follow up?

Mez: why the hell not? It's a date! :)

Ok, that last comment was sarcastic.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.........

To P (OAS) or Not to P (OAS), that is the question....

Or, how many lame literary puns can I come up with?

Well, there comes a time in every cycle, for me around 10 DPO, when the HPT battle of the mind begins. Do I or don't I? Is it better to know early so I can go open that bottle of Rose without guilt, or to hold out a bit longer? And what about false negatives? Why do that to myself? What if there's a late implantation? Yada Yada Yada.

This time I held out till 12 DPO, and even then only caved because my FC rang to move my BT from 31/12 to 2/1. I just had to know! And as has happened for about 24 other cycles now, only that red, raw, first control line emerged, to taunt me with my barrenness. So I did what I had to do.

This involved curling up into the foetal position on the couch with my recent shipment from Amazon.co.uk, the Charles II mini-series. Four hours of period drama and comfort eating maintained my sanity for another day.

Although the irony of this particular mini-series didn't escape me. Poor old Catherine of Braganza, miscarrying constantly and robbing England of an heir, while old Charlie was porking and impregnating everything that moved. I pictured myself as old Catherine (not only because of who was playing Charles....Hottie Alert!), roaming around Whitehall, surrounded by all the royal bastards. Sounds like just about every function I attend these days, barren old Mez and the fertility brigade, with their precocious Coopers and Spencers and Tylers (the surname-firstname kids, as I like to call them) trying to attract my attention. When did kids get so confident?

But I digress. Peeing on a stick is really only fun for the fertile. It hands them their little prize after their huge 2 week wait. The rest of us live to Pee another day.