CurlySue
P.I's Mummy
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Eleven.
Number eleven. The exact number of players in a football team. The squad number of Albert Riera, of Bojan Krjic.
Eleven. The number of eggs retrieved today from this, my first IVF egg collection. Its a decent number, more than ten, just, less than fifteen. Its enough, isnt it? Out of eleven you would hope that fertilisation would be at least adequate. Even if less than half fertilise, thats still five. Five is good. Five is a nice number. We shouldnt really focus on the numbers, really, should we? Its like fixating on a bra size or, for men, its like focusing on how many inches are down there rather than what those inches can do.
Its human nature to want more though, isnt it? To want the best?
15th June 2009. My first collection done and dusted!
So, the procedure itself seemed relatively simple. My job was easy. Get there at 11.30 along with the husband. Have husband produce a sample just before leaving (easier said than done, since he became all Greta Garbo and wanted to be alone ). Arrive in good time and then just wait. Thats what fertility treatment is all about, isnt it? Waiting? Waiting is the hardest part, I find. Sitting around passing time, watching the clock tick on by
The waiting room was full, full of people perhaps there to see specialists, not there to have people see them in all their glory as I was. They were in work clothes so I assume they were heading back to the office not long after. I remember being at their stage. Seems so long ago, now. Sometimes I forget just how long its been. Id estimate around 25 people there when we arrived, some of whom looked like theyd been there for a long, long time. The looks I got when my name was called before any of them was a picture. I felt like the VIP, headed to the front of the queue. Id say it was funny but it wasnt really. I had earned the VIP treatment though, hadnt I? After all, Id waited, just like they had. Id taken my time.
(ps - the irony of IVF BLUNDER SCANDAL being on the waiting room television was not lost on me OR the OH)
11.40, we were led to this tiny private room with duck-egg walls and its only private bathroom and OHs words in relation to the same were Ive had hotel rooms worse than this. It was clean. It was pleasant, if clinical. Best of all, there was no smell. I hate that clinical smell. It makes me nauseous. The only thing missing from this room was the tiny plastic cot for baby, but Im hoping thats to come.
There was a bed. A sink. A little bedside table. After changing into a gown a lady with dyed blonde hair came to take my blood pressure, to give me that much sought-after item of hospital jewellery so personalised it even had my name on it! How special? How delightful? We even had our own voyeur and thats MORE than we expected. The hospital has a new build in the process of being finalised. There was a man on a crane who kept on floating past that window whilst I lay there, bra-less, knicker-less and looking less than my best. Lucky enough, the curtains drew. Wouldve hated for the moon to rise in the middle of the day for that poor *******!
OH and I hedged bets. How long would it be? How late would they be? He won, of course. My procedure was scheduled for 12.30. By 12.45 we were in the procedure room, OH decked out like a forensic expert and me with my legs in stirrups. Again. We looked around at gigantic needles, at little bottles, at funny green lights. The X Files, he said. This is clearly something from The X Files.
We spoke to an embryologist, who went through some questions with us. We met a lady who would be assisting and a man named Richard who would be carrying out the procedure. He shook OHs hand then did it again, fearing that his handshake had been pitiful and it reminded me so much of a pissing contest between college boys.
I hoped he was more than a college boy.
Other half got to stay whilst the anaesthetist (a man who reminded me, a little too much, of the old man from Poltergeist, so much so that I was waiting for Are you loooost, honey?) inserted that painful little needle and tube in my hand and injected the happy juice which sent me off to sleep.
As I drifted off I was left with the overwhelming desire to die of shame or sink down into myself as a man in a tigger hat disappeared between my legs, shining a light where no light should go.
That was Richard.
College boy.
Im so glad that I was on first name terms with a man who has seen more of me than perhaps any man but my husband ever should!
I dont remember anything about the procedure itself. It wasnt a general but a virtual anaesthetic where you sleep right through. I have vague memories of having my slippers put on my feet, being placed in a wheelchair and then helped back into bed when it was all done. I have even vaguer memories of being told not to fall asleep when all I wanted to do was just that. To fall asleep. To say goodnight.
Half an hour or more had passed yet it felt like only seconds before that Id lay down on that bed and smiled up at Mr Poltergeist, perhaps secretly hoping that the hospital were not built on an ancient Indian burial ground!!!!
It took me some ten minutes to wake up properly, some twenty before I was focused enough to eat the delightful chocolate chip cookie left there for my very benefit. OH was very sweet, rambling on, refusing my two favoured boys names and trying to come up with better options himself. After half an hour, Mr Tigger came into our room and asked us Whats the magic number?
I knew, in that moment, that it had to be half decent. A man would not joke to a woman who had a poor response. He would not jest with a couple about to be told that of their 12 to 16 good follicles only one egg was produced. Go on, he said. Just guess. If you guess right you get to keep them.
OH guessed eleven. He was dead right.
His eggs, Richard said. He gets to name them, then.
The man in the Tigger Hat stated that two names he found particularly amazing were Cash and Harley; we should consider those, he said. OH nodded his head enthusiastically, stating that our child would sound like a movie star. Richard smiled, and said See?
Whilst he was the man that retrieved my eggs for me, I was not inclined to agree.
So, eleven eggs. Eleven lovely eggs, he said. And, whilst Im here to tell you this good news Id like to ask you about a little trial we have going on. You might be interested in taking part after you get your positive pregnancy test in two weeks time!
Such hope. Such optimism. Should I follow suit or frown upon him for being so reckless with his words? Should I sink into this experts encouragement or should I hold back? He assumed that Id be pregnant, assumed that this would work. Were his words designed to make us feel positive, or were they just slip of the tongue utterances of serious daftness?
The test, he said, is a progesterone trial. The results, thusfar, have reduced miscarriage from 25% to 10%.
But, lets get you pregnant first, he said, perhaps trying to take back the words he had earlier uttered.
The test is something I will think about later on. The test, its something I will consider if Richard Tigger is correct and that my test IS positive in two weeks time.
I can only hope that tomorrow yields positive results, as today did!!!
i'd like to say a little something about the pain. The pain, post collection, is not exactly pain, more discomfort. It feels tight to stand, uncomfortable to walk. It's not a pain that would be killed by paracetamol but assisted by rest.
For those of you undergoing this procedure, imagine doing 2000 sit ups.
Imagine the tightness you would feel the following morning.
That's about how bad it is!
Number eleven. The exact number of players in a football team. The squad number of Albert Riera, of Bojan Krjic.
Eleven. The number of eggs retrieved today from this, my first IVF egg collection. Its a decent number, more than ten, just, less than fifteen. Its enough, isnt it? Out of eleven you would hope that fertilisation would be at least adequate. Even if less than half fertilise, thats still five. Five is good. Five is a nice number. We shouldnt really focus on the numbers, really, should we? Its like fixating on a bra size or, for men, its like focusing on how many inches are down there rather than what those inches can do.
Its human nature to want more though, isnt it? To want the best?
15th June 2009. My first collection done and dusted!
So, the procedure itself seemed relatively simple. My job was easy. Get there at 11.30 along with the husband. Have husband produce a sample just before leaving (easier said than done, since he became all Greta Garbo and wanted to be alone ). Arrive in good time and then just wait. Thats what fertility treatment is all about, isnt it? Waiting? Waiting is the hardest part, I find. Sitting around passing time, watching the clock tick on by
The waiting room was full, full of people perhaps there to see specialists, not there to have people see them in all their glory as I was. They were in work clothes so I assume they were heading back to the office not long after. I remember being at their stage. Seems so long ago, now. Sometimes I forget just how long its been. Id estimate around 25 people there when we arrived, some of whom looked like theyd been there for a long, long time. The looks I got when my name was called before any of them was a picture. I felt like the VIP, headed to the front of the queue. Id say it was funny but it wasnt really. I had earned the VIP treatment though, hadnt I? After all, Id waited, just like they had. Id taken my time.
(ps - the irony of IVF BLUNDER SCANDAL being on the waiting room television was not lost on me OR the OH)
11.40, we were led to this tiny private room with duck-egg walls and its only private bathroom and OHs words in relation to the same were Ive had hotel rooms worse than this. It was clean. It was pleasant, if clinical. Best of all, there was no smell. I hate that clinical smell. It makes me nauseous. The only thing missing from this room was the tiny plastic cot for baby, but Im hoping thats to come.
There was a bed. A sink. A little bedside table. After changing into a gown a lady with dyed blonde hair came to take my blood pressure, to give me that much sought-after item of hospital jewellery so personalised it even had my name on it! How special? How delightful? We even had our own voyeur and thats MORE than we expected. The hospital has a new build in the process of being finalised. There was a man on a crane who kept on floating past that window whilst I lay there, bra-less, knicker-less and looking less than my best. Lucky enough, the curtains drew. Wouldve hated for the moon to rise in the middle of the day for that poor *******!
OH and I hedged bets. How long would it be? How late would they be? He won, of course. My procedure was scheduled for 12.30. By 12.45 we were in the procedure room, OH decked out like a forensic expert and me with my legs in stirrups. Again. We looked around at gigantic needles, at little bottles, at funny green lights. The X Files, he said. This is clearly something from The X Files.
We spoke to an embryologist, who went through some questions with us. We met a lady who would be assisting and a man named Richard who would be carrying out the procedure. He shook OHs hand then did it again, fearing that his handshake had been pitiful and it reminded me so much of a pissing contest between college boys.
I hoped he was more than a college boy.
Other half got to stay whilst the anaesthetist (a man who reminded me, a little too much, of the old man from Poltergeist, so much so that I was waiting for Are you loooost, honey?) inserted that painful little needle and tube in my hand and injected the happy juice which sent me off to sleep.
As I drifted off I was left with the overwhelming desire to die of shame or sink down into myself as a man in a tigger hat disappeared between my legs, shining a light where no light should go.
That was Richard.
College boy.
Im so glad that I was on first name terms with a man who has seen more of me than perhaps any man but my husband ever should!
I dont remember anything about the procedure itself. It wasnt a general but a virtual anaesthetic where you sleep right through. I have vague memories of having my slippers put on my feet, being placed in a wheelchair and then helped back into bed when it was all done. I have even vaguer memories of being told not to fall asleep when all I wanted to do was just that. To fall asleep. To say goodnight.
Half an hour or more had passed yet it felt like only seconds before that Id lay down on that bed and smiled up at Mr Poltergeist, perhaps secretly hoping that the hospital were not built on an ancient Indian burial ground!!!!
It took me some ten minutes to wake up properly, some twenty before I was focused enough to eat the delightful chocolate chip cookie left there for my very benefit. OH was very sweet, rambling on, refusing my two favoured boys names and trying to come up with better options himself. After half an hour, Mr Tigger came into our room and asked us Whats the magic number?
I knew, in that moment, that it had to be half decent. A man would not joke to a woman who had a poor response. He would not jest with a couple about to be told that of their 12 to 16 good follicles only one egg was produced. Go on, he said. Just guess. If you guess right you get to keep them.
OH guessed eleven. He was dead right.
His eggs, Richard said. He gets to name them, then.
The man in the Tigger Hat stated that two names he found particularly amazing were Cash and Harley; we should consider those, he said. OH nodded his head enthusiastically, stating that our child would sound like a movie star. Richard smiled, and said See?
Whilst he was the man that retrieved my eggs for me, I was not inclined to agree.
So, eleven eggs. Eleven lovely eggs, he said. And, whilst Im here to tell you this good news Id like to ask you about a little trial we have going on. You might be interested in taking part after you get your positive pregnancy test in two weeks time!
Such hope. Such optimism. Should I follow suit or frown upon him for being so reckless with his words? Should I sink into this experts encouragement or should I hold back? He assumed that Id be pregnant, assumed that this would work. Were his words designed to make us feel positive, or were they just slip of the tongue utterances of serious daftness?
The test, he said, is a progesterone trial. The results, thusfar, have reduced miscarriage from 25% to 10%.
But, lets get you pregnant first, he said, perhaps trying to take back the words he had earlier uttered.
The test is something I will think about later on. The test, its something I will consider if Richard Tigger is correct and that my test IS positive in two weeks time.
I can only hope that tomorrow yields positive results, as today did!!!
i'd like to say a little something about the pain. The pain, post collection, is not exactly pain, more discomfort. It feels tight to stand, uncomfortable to walk. It's not a pain that would be killed by paracetamol but assisted by rest.
For those of you undergoing this procedure, imagine doing 2000 sit ups.
Imagine the tightness you would feel the following morning.
That's about how bad it is!
certainly helped my little one grow, I've eaten enough chocolate to feed an army, enjoy being pampered for a while. xxx
xxxxx
