CurlySue
P.I's Mummy
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I'm going to do these little 'articles' at 'defining points' in the IVF treatment plan, just in case anybody going through the same thing needs a 'referenec point' written stream of consciousness style.
It's just something I feel like doing. If anyone wants it deleted or moved, just let me know...
So, I suppose some things are, indeed, not meant to be pleasant. Tomorrow night I have Pep Guardiola hopefully screaming like a banshee in glee and joy within a few metres of me (lifelong ambition achieved the day after lifelong UNambition began - go Valencia, tonight. Go Valencia, indeed) but, today is a different kind of 'holiday'.
CYCLE the FIRST (and hopefully the last)
Today is Day One of Suprecur, a word which seems incredibly close to "Super Cure" yet which, undoubtedly, is nothing of the sort. It's a deceiving looking little thing, a harmless bottle, brown in colour, with a white top. An inhaler. Three times daily, for the next four or five weeks, Suprecur is my 'friend', my constant companion. It comes everywhere with me, an unwanted yet needed 'best friend'. It could've been worse. It could've been a sharp little prick one daily and, lets be honest, I work for a sharp little prick so this is, at least, the less 'painful' option.
I got in there early. A later appointment would've meant four or five weeks of injections rather than two at the end.
I'm also on a different treatment plan to 'normal women' but that is something I'm trying not to think too long and hard about.
It seems very, very frightening to me, in a sense, that this morning, I started "Down Regulating" - meaning that I am officially in the midst of my first IVF cycle.
7am. Suprecur comes out to play.
It tastes bitter. Not the IVF, the Suprecur, a physical manifestation of the way I have often felt this last Almost Two Years, and that's not even including the further year I refrained from taking that little pill yet never once got a sniff of a pregnancy scare. It's nice for it to be a physical thing, because this is two quiet little diseases I have, here, "silent killers", some might say, though not in the literal sense. I cannot die from Endometriosis. Polycystic Ovary Syndrome cannot end my life, but both have shattered my dreams. They have broken me, in a lot of ways, but the damage cannot be seen. If I had a broken leg, you would see the plaster and the crutches and you would 'know' that there was something wrong.
I probably look completely normal. Well, I'd hope so. Of course, I might look like a muppet, a pigeon, a dodgy littlle thing, but the fact remains.
My problems are on the inside, buried deep inside of me, so deep that it needed an operation last July to find them, needed tens upon tens of blood tests to identify. It's kind of cruel, the way the body can trick you into thinking that "everything is fine" when inside of you there are little battles that are going against you every single month.
But, such is life. Such is destiny, I suppose. I was supposed to fight for my child. I was supposed to 'suffer' for it, because isn't that what parents do?
I have a Suprecur inhaler, instead of injection. Lower dose. Everything I am on is 'lower dose' because 'normal dose' is something my body could not handle. My imbalances leave me vulnerable to responding TOO much, sending my body into overdrive and leading to terrible things; terrible, potentially final things. At first, I was angry when I heard this, angry, because surely low dose drugs would be less effective. I was angry, because surely it's better to respond too much than not to respond at all.
Responding too much can lead to death. Tis a dangerous game to play. I suppose I can be grateful, in a sense, that an inhaler is the lesser evil.
So, the Suprecur is designed to turn me into a fifty-five year old woman, for a short period. That ought to be fun. People speak of this Change of Life, this Menopause, as a terrible, terrible thing, riddled with side effects, mood swings, crushes on random people (can I only ask that my nauseating aversion to Zak Efron continue? If I even start to look at him in any way other than as a plastic woman, stick a fork in me!), headaches, etc. Clomid gave me headaches. Bad ones. Headaches that meant lying in a dark room and ignoring the flashing in my eyes was the only course of action that would work. But, Suprecur is my Super Cure, isn't it? Suprecur is my constant companion. I even have a letter for it, a passport, as such. "Curlysue will be carrying her Suprecur medication on her flight to Barcelona as part of her ongoing treatment."
It should be grateful that I am taking it to Spain. It should treat me nicely, only for that. But, I suppose I should treat IT nicely, because it is the least offensive part of my treatment, the least stressful, the least painful.
Or, so I say. How would I know? I've never done any of this before.
27th May 2009. That's when I find out if my New Best Friend has done its job properly. A scan should confirm it. I don't like the idea of such a scan but, again, needs must. 8am, an hour before work begins. If it's anything like last time, despite an hour to play with I will arrive at work late. It takes thirty minutes to get blood from a stone, and clearly I am a stone.
If I am nicely Down Regulated on 27th May 2009 then my second best friend comes in to play with Suprecur.
Menopur.
Men Are Pure? Are they fuck.
Menopur, in its pretty glass bottles, liquid and white powder, makes me feel like I'm mixing a bomb, a chemical reaction. Looks like Cocaine. You draw it up into a needle and you jam it right into yourself, but it's legal. Injecting is legal. Drugging yourself is sometimes beneficial, after all, and I hope to achieve the greatest benefit there is.
Men are Pure is not the chilled out 'mofo' that Suprecur is. It doesn't put your body to sleep, doesn't sedate the system but overloads it. You hope that it stimulates you, whereas Suprecur is designed to 'turn you off' completely.
Suprecur is the Dirk Kuyt. The Yossi Benayoun.
Suprecur is the ugly best friend that doesn't so much as make you twinge but turns you off completely.
So, Menopur, or Men are Pure, is the Turner Onner, the stunning headturner that makes your ovaries work in overtime. Men are Pure looks like Arbeloa, like Cannavaro. Aurelio. Casillas. Men who you long to impregnate you. Or, maybe it doesn't look like any of those sexy little numbers. Maybe it's like Little Lahm, Tiny Iniesta, Little Luis, Little Bojan, hardly sexy in any sense of the word but tiny little boys that make my ovaries hurt, for a child.
Every moment of every day, i ache for a child, so there is nothing new, there.
I have not yet been taught how to 'use' Men are Pure. That will come later. But, I'll say that I'm not particularly enjoying that part of the "junkie regime' - this sad little sequence of events that i never really wanted to participate in.
My second to last 'friend' lives in the fridge, cold, hard, tough. He's the "big Guy" and he's called Pregnyl. Sounds like a dinosaur, to me, and lives alone. He has no friends. He's the tough leader. He's the one that drags everything out of its hiding place. He's the one that shouts, loud and clear, thirty six hours before 'extraction' - the army leader who gets his troops in order before their inevitable 'release'. "Get in line", he shouts. "Be strong. Be tough. Get yourselves ready. PREPARE."
This injection is given thirty six hours before egg collection. It's there, in my fridge. It's waiting. So is the Cyclogest - Cycling Jester? Oh, it's not even funny. I won't even go INTO what that little friend is.
I wouldn't know how to describe an egg collection. I've never had one. I suppose that will be better left for another day when it's relevant, when it's meaningful, when it's happened. When I have a number to document.
I'd say that Fifteen is a good number. Twenty.
I'd say that twelve is a good number, too, Aurelio's number. Fourteen. Alonso.
Anything upwards of ten...but, only time will tell whether Super Cure or Men are Pure will do their jobs for me!!! All I know is that in twelve weeks from now I'd love to be introducting something small and wriggly, something that's pictures and not words, something that's physical, and not dream. If tossers like Drogba can pro-create every five minutes, peopling the world with sad, scumbag divers like himself, then why shouldn't I produce the next Steven Gerrard?
That'd be sweet.
That'd be cool.
Oh, and winning the league would be nice, as well.
I can still taste it in my mouth. Best Friend, yeah? Evil little *******, more like.
Ugh.
It's just something I feel like doing. If anyone wants it deleted or moved, just let me know...
So, I suppose some things are, indeed, not meant to be pleasant. Tomorrow night I have Pep Guardiola hopefully screaming like a banshee in glee and joy within a few metres of me (lifelong ambition achieved the day after lifelong UNambition began - go Valencia, tonight. Go Valencia, indeed) but, today is a different kind of 'holiday'.
CYCLE the FIRST (and hopefully the last)
Today is Day One of Suprecur, a word which seems incredibly close to "Super Cure" yet which, undoubtedly, is nothing of the sort. It's a deceiving looking little thing, a harmless bottle, brown in colour, with a white top. An inhaler. Three times daily, for the next four or five weeks, Suprecur is my 'friend', my constant companion. It comes everywhere with me, an unwanted yet needed 'best friend'. It could've been worse. It could've been a sharp little prick one daily and, lets be honest, I work for a sharp little prick so this is, at least, the less 'painful' option.
I got in there early. A later appointment would've meant four or five weeks of injections rather than two at the end.
I'm also on a different treatment plan to 'normal women' but that is something I'm trying not to think too long and hard about.
It seems very, very frightening to me, in a sense, that this morning, I started "Down Regulating" - meaning that I am officially in the midst of my first IVF cycle.
7am. Suprecur comes out to play.
It tastes bitter. Not the IVF, the Suprecur, a physical manifestation of the way I have often felt this last Almost Two Years, and that's not even including the further year I refrained from taking that little pill yet never once got a sniff of a pregnancy scare. It's nice for it to be a physical thing, because this is two quiet little diseases I have, here, "silent killers", some might say, though not in the literal sense. I cannot die from Endometriosis. Polycystic Ovary Syndrome cannot end my life, but both have shattered my dreams. They have broken me, in a lot of ways, but the damage cannot be seen. If I had a broken leg, you would see the plaster and the crutches and you would 'know' that there was something wrong.
I probably look completely normal. Well, I'd hope so. Of course, I might look like a muppet, a pigeon, a dodgy littlle thing, but the fact remains.
My problems are on the inside, buried deep inside of me, so deep that it needed an operation last July to find them, needed tens upon tens of blood tests to identify. It's kind of cruel, the way the body can trick you into thinking that "everything is fine" when inside of you there are little battles that are going against you every single month.
But, such is life. Such is destiny, I suppose. I was supposed to fight for my child. I was supposed to 'suffer' for it, because isn't that what parents do?
I have a Suprecur inhaler, instead of injection. Lower dose. Everything I am on is 'lower dose' because 'normal dose' is something my body could not handle. My imbalances leave me vulnerable to responding TOO much, sending my body into overdrive and leading to terrible things; terrible, potentially final things. At first, I was angry when I heard this, angry, because surely low dose drugs would be less effective. I was angry, because surely it's better to respond too much than not to respond at all.
Responding too much can lead to death. Tis a dangerous game to play. I suppose I can be grateful, in a sense, that an inhaler is the lesser evil.
So, the Suprecur is designed to turn me into a fifty-five year old woman, for a short period. That ought to be fun. People speak of this Change of Life, this Menopause, as a terrible, terrible thing, riddled with side effects, mood swings, crushes on random people (can I only ask that my nauseating aversion to Zak Efron continue? If I even start to look at him in any way other than as a plastic woman, stick a fork in me!), headaches, etc. Clomid gave me headaches. Bad ones. Headaches that meant lying in a dark room and ignoring the flashing in my eyes was the only course of action that would work. But, Suprecur is my Super Cure, isn't it? Suprecur is my constant companion. I even have a letter for it, a passport, as such. "Curlysue will be carrying her Suprecur medication on her flight to Barcelona as part of her ongoing treatment."
It should be grateful that I am taking it to Spain. It should treat me nicely, only for that. But, I suppose I should treat IT nicely, because it is the least offensive part of my treatment, the least stressful, the least painful.
Or, so I say. How would I know? I've never done any of this before.
27th May 2009. That's when I find out if my New Best Friend has done its job properly. A scan should confirm it. I don't like the idea of such a scan but, again, needs must. 8am, an hour before work begins. If it's anything like last time, despite an hour to play with I will arrive at work late. It takes thirty minutes to get blood from a stone, and clearly I am a stone.
If I am nicely Down Regulated on 27th May 2009 then my second best friend comes in to play with Suprecur.
Menopur.
Men Are Pure? Are they fuck.
Menopur, in its pretty glass bottles, liquid and white powder, makes me feel like I'm mixing a bomb, a chemical reaction. Looks like Cocaine. You draw it up into a needle and you jam it right into yourself, but it's legal. Injecting is legal. Drugging yourself is sometimes beneficial, after all, and I hope to achieve the greatest benefit there is.
Men are Pure is not the chilled out 'mofo' that Suprecur is. It doesn't put your body to sleep, doesn't sedate the system but overloads it. You hope that it stimulates you, whereas Suprecur is designed to 'turn you off' completely.
Suprecur is the Dirk Kuyt. The Yossi Benayoun.
Suprecur is the ugly best friend that doesn't so much as make you twinge but turns you off completely.
So, Menopur, or Men are Pure, is the Turner Onner, the stunning headturner that makes your ovaries work in overtime. Men are Pure looks like Arbeloa, like Cannavaro. Aurelio. Casillas. Men who you long to impregnate you. Or, maybe it doesn't look like any of those sexy little numbers. Maybe it's like Little Lahm, Tiny Iniesta, Little Luis, Little Bojan, hardly sexy in any sense of the word but tiny little boys that make my ovaries hurt, for a child.
Every moment of every day, i ache for a child, so there is nothing new, there.
I have not yet been taught how to 'use' Men are Pure. That will come later. But, I'll say that I'm not particularly enjoying that part of the "junkie regime' - this sad little sequence of events that i never really wanted to participate in.
My second to last 'friend' lives in the fridge, cold, hard, tough. He's the "big Guy" and he's called Pregnyl. Sounds like a dinosaur, to me, and lives alone. He has no friends. He's the tough leader. He's the one that drags everything out of its hiding place. He's the one that shouts, loud and clear, thirty six hours before 'extraction' - the army leader who gets his troops in order before their inevitable 'release'. "Get in line", he shouts. "Be strong. Be tough. Get yourselves ready. PREPARE."
This injection is given thirty six hours before egg collection. It's there, in my fridge. It's waiting. So is the Cyclogest - Cycling Jester? Oh, it's not even funny. I won't even go INTO what that little friend is.
I wouldn't know how to describe an egg collection. I've never had one. I suppose that will be better left for another day when it's relevant, when it's meaningful, when it's happened. When I have a number to document.
I'd say that Fifteen is a good number. Twenty.
I'd say that twelve is a good number, too, Aurelio's number. Fourteen. Alonso.
Anything upwards of ten...but, only time will tell whether Super Cure or Men are Pure will do their jobs for me!!! All I know is that in twelve weeks from now I'd love to be introducting something small and wriggly, something that's pictures and not words, something that's physical, and not dream. If tossers like Drogba can pro-create every five minutes, peopling the world with sad, scumbag divers like himself, then why shouldn't I produce the next Steven Gerrard?
That'd be sweet.
That'd be cool.
Oh, and winning the league would be nice, as well.
I can still taste it in my mouth. Best Friend, yeah? Evil little *******, more like.
Ugh.
I wish you every ounce of luck in the world hon. My fingers are firmly crossed for you. xxxx
love it, Arthur it is I reckon, far more likely to grow up to be a grumpy old fart.... just like his granddad!!!
for another reds fan....my lovely cat is called xabi...what a class player. FX crossed you get a big fat 
