Breaking out the champers

Because that’s what I do for every failed cycle. This time, I have the Veuve in the fridge, and counting out the change jar should yield us enough shrapnel to pay for dinner at Aria – whenever we can get a booking in the what will now be a rest cycle.

I went for bloods this morning, but didn’t even make it to the phone call before I started spotting. And I just got off the call with the clinic and hcg level was only 3.5 They usually don’t mention it if it’s below 5, but dammit, I HAD a positive test. And it was still showing slightly positive the next day. I KNOW something happened. I am so pathetic I even took the three tests out with me yesterday to get some friends to analyse them IRL.

But whatthefuckever. Tonight, I am going to have a scaldingly hot bubble bath with a selection of expensive fizzy smelly stuff from Lush, I’ll drink my Veuve out of my favourite posh Riedel crystal flute, and I’ll eat a selection of expensive French cheeses. If I can find something unpasteurised, I’ll get it.

And then I’ll cry myself to sleep.

FS appointment Monday. $10 says he’ll put me on a Puregon FET after insisting on a cycle off. Thanks be to ye Gods that I have a leftover pen of Puregon from my last cycle. They aren’t cheap and apparently the clinic won’t cover them for a frozen cycle.

Stuff that makes me feel better

I know I come across as a bit up an upbeat chica with a devil-may-care attitude, but I do feel things deeply. I’m a bit manic in my behaviour. One minute up. The next I am on the floor crying into my hand knotted, pailette covered rug lugged back all the way from Fes, Morrocco.

But I have a list of things that make me feel better. And please don’t judge. I’m not perfect and I’m sure many of you may have your little addictions. It could be a kilojoule and trans-fat laden treat from McDonalds, or a block of chocolate with cocoa farmed by poorly paid indigenous Brazilians or Venezuelans. Or it could be a shopping spree on clothing from indentured slaves masquerading as Vietnamese sewers. Or well paid artisans from ateliers on Rue St Honore. Whatever, I’m not going to judge.

My feel good things surprisingly don’t include vino. It makes me feel worse, but for some reason Champagne (and I’m talking Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée, none of this “sparkling wine bullshit) does the trick.

I like massages – cheap and Chinese or expensive and luxe – I don’t care just as long as they ease my tension.

Travel. Talking about it, planning it, thinking about it. I felt so shiteous this afternoon that I suggested a short jaunt to Vietnam in early January.  To my delight, my partner agreed, so if this cycle turns out to be a failure, and depending on price and availability of flights,  we will potentially have that to look forward to. If it doesn’t work out, at least it will have been fun doing the research.

Codeine. Probably the worst feel-good, and one I have struggled to stop for a few years, but its fuzzy numb goodness just makes me feel better. See, I knew you were going to judge.

Cooking. The most complex thing I can find. Tonight’s dinner consists of no less than 30 different ingredients, involved a mortar and pestle, wok, salted duck eggs and a new variety of fish sauce recommended by the guru of Thai cooking, David Thompson.

Drawing. I love to draw. sadly, I have such a short attention span I have failed to finish anything since my uni days.

Sewing. See above.

Reading. It’s about the only thing that stop my mind from going crazy in its constant “what if” circles.

That’s all for now. Sorry for the self indulgent, melancholy mood, dear readers. I don’t know if it’s hormones, but I just don’t feel my usual wonderful self.

No, I’m not pregnant, just overstimulated.

I was reading something the other day that said weight gain can cause overstimulation in women with PCO. I have put on 10 effing KGs since I quit my job and I’m wondering if my fat arse has anything to do with the fact that I seem to be stimulating at a rather alarming rate.

30 follicles. Mind you, only eight were over 10mm, but the rest were between 8 and 10, giving them a chance to catch up before next Wednesday which is when I think egg retrieval will be – E2 was only 1180, so plenty of time to grow and hopefully will stay on the right side of 4000. Those follicle numbers are big but I’m not too worried about getting the dreaded OHSS. ( I better not be back here in a week crossing that out. Did I just jinx myself?)

But I do look pregnant. My jeans are too uncomfortable to wear, so I have resorted to dresses which are just so unflattering on a distended stomach. And I swear I got an empathy smile from a pregnant woman this morning. It’s gonna be a hot one in Sydney and she saw me fanning myself as I waited for my coffee (with my receipt for $5000 I had just paid to the clinic for this cycle. That’s enough Frequent Flyer points for a third of a return trip to Melbourne, thank you very much) and she was doing the same  – only with a copy of Famous starring KStew and RPatzz on the cover (six sleeps til New Moon. Muchisimo de excite, yes I am a sad, SAD old lady who has a thing for a sparkly 17 year old) – and I’m so sure she gave me the old “Yeah, pregnant in Summer sucks massively, doesn’t it?” look.

Actually, I was probably just imagining it, and enjoyed pretending to be pregnant because I am such a sad loser and would rather look pregnant than fat.

So yah. I predict retrieval numbers similar to last cycle. I farking hope so at least. But as I said before, one to transfer and one to freeze is the outcome I hope for. I know there are some lovely ladies out there who are having problems even getting one egg, and if I could give you some of mine, I totally would.

 

 

And the worst thing is…

That I don’t have a single friend I can call and cry to. No-one. Not my Mum, or sister, or fellow IVF friend who is now pregnant. Not even my partner understands why I was crying like a baby when he called me this afternoon – for the tears, they surely came.

I feel so fucking alone. I don’t have internet friends who I can shoot of a quick email to for some sympathy, I have no one. I know there are people out there who know what it is like, but I avoid making friendships, because sooner or later, one of us is going to get hurt. More than likely me.

Sorry for the whinge. Just having a really bad day.

A pity party in 598 words.

I have a lot of pregnant friends at the moment. It makes sense. It’s what you do in your early 30s, but after each announcement, I wonder if it will ever be my turn. Sometimes it is particularly difficult. A few months ago, I took  a day off from work to wallow in self pity, shopping, rich food and gin after a friend made the text-message announcement. Then there was the friend who didn’t tell me for months because she “didn’t want to hurt me”. I found out from her sister, and then slowly it became apparent that I was the only person out of the loop on that one. That hurts more.

The lapping, which I have earlier blogged about, continues. Since my last post, I have been lapped a few more times, and I am resigned to an announcement any day from a clomid-popping friend who is on her way to baby number 2. It took them three cycles first time, and she was pretty upset when it didn’t work first go this time. I love her, and gently make fun of her, but as much as she thinks we have a shared journey, it’s really not the same thing.

And my one real life IVF friend was lucky enough to get pregnant on her first go. It was a long journey to get there, and I am so ecstatic for her, but I’m sick of being the sole survivor. It’s one of the reasons I don’t do online buddy groups, despite membership of practically every parenting site with a decent AC section (and any recommendations are welcome!).  In my early days of TTC, I was an enthusiastic buddy but as everyone got pregnant, and it became glaringly obvious that something was wrong with me, the conversation became less relevant, and the comments in my direction became fewer. Now they are all busily pregnant (again), or at the very least planning for the next bundle of joy.

I get excited for everyone, and shopping for friends babies-to-be is the only time I will allow myself to go anywhere near the baby section of DJs or Myer (baby departments are probably the jinxiest place a sub-fertile person could go) but I kind of feel like I am going through the motions now.

I nod vaguely and look in the other direction every time my Mum points out a particularly luscious baby or toddler in the street. I avert my eyes when pregnant women walk past. I no longer ask if I can touch my friends’ baby bumps. I don’t engage in conversations about children very often, because what could I possibly add that is of interest or merit. No one care what a childless person has to say!

This was particularly evident at a meeting last week when I weighed in on the marketing strategy of a popular parenting website of which I am a member (no prizes for guessing). My opinion was completely glossed over in favour of the New Mum at the table. Never mind that I have been a member of said site for about three years, and have thousands of posts. To be fair, my client didn’t know this, but the opinion of the non-parent means nothing. At the same meeting (we were evaluating marketing strategies of grocery brands in light of the economic downturn. Excite!)) every single item of creative we looked at, consistently drove home the message of value for families. Families = Mum+Dad+kids. It’s like other people don’t buy groceries! I pretended to be the happy DINK, the child-free-by-choice, but the world at large pretends I don’t exist.