CurlySue
P.I's Mummy
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- May 12, 2008
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...like I said, just in case anyone else needs something to 'go on'...
Moving On, Moving Up, Tentatively making steps...
I've skipped over a large part, that I acknowledge, so I shall give a brief overview of the 'goings on' these past weeks. I didn't feel the urge to write, despite what the counsellor said (yes, I saw one. She was either Dutch or French. She looked at me sympathetically and she stated the obvious. She made me feel less strange. I thank her for that.)
"Put it all in words" she said, write without thinking, but isn't that what I do every day, anyway? Freeassociation, it's called. She didn't tell me that but I know it to be true. Write from the heart, she said, not from the head. Sometimes, I think I should think with the head and not the heart but that's another matter entirely.
This isn't about my personality. This is about my situation.
My baseline Scan was perfect. 29th May 2009, first thing in the morning. I walked into that empty waiting room alone hoping above all things that Bane of my Life the previous weeks had done its job, that Super Cure had shifted itself into gear and actually did something. In some other situation, in some other context, it could've actually been funny, lying there naked from the waist down as a well spoken woman with laytex gloves slipped a condom onto that 'magic wand' and told me "just relax..." as she disappeared between my legs, as I felt the coldness of lubricant when that magic wand went in...
(I'm smiling as I write that. Please don't take it seriously)
Modesty was left at the door, kicking its feet with its hands shoved firmly into its pockets, that's a certainty. For one split second I was glad that Future Daddy was 'at work' and unable to come along for the fun. I was glad that it only had to be clinical and unpleasant for one of us.
For one split second, I held my breath.
Then, I let it go.
Perfect, the nurse said. Everything is perfect. Nice and flat. Nice and dormant.
"It's done it's job and you're ready to move on. You can start injections tonight."
I could've started the next phase there and then if not for the fact that I could not get the time off work, and so Super Cure was my constant companion for long past when it should have been. How I hated work in that minute, hated it more than I already did, lets say. At present, I feel that extra week has 'done me in' in some ways. It feels a little more dragged out than it should.
3rd June, Men are Pure came into play. Just a sting. Just a burn. It left a mark in the form of a tiny bruise where the needle went in, but other than that it was anticlimatic. It didn't hurt like it was supposed to, kind of like the Champions League final where Man United were expected to leave a mark on Barcelona yet they were the ones that ended up wounded. Bruised (note: if the outcome of my IVF mirrors the outcome of that final in Rome I will jump for joy!) If this so-called Menopause did nothing but make me tired and edgy, this potential Route to Hypersimulation did nothing whatsoever. I'm used to pain when I ovulate. In some ways, I suppose that has done me well.
Menopur didn't bloat me, didn't make me gain weight. It didn't make me irritable, didn't make me dark and grey and hideous (at least, I hope not...) I've been lucky, these past weeks, have heard of people who want to cut out their own ovaries during IVF but other than a few niggles, a few moments of pain, a few days of exhaustion and a whole lot of emotional doubt, I've been okay. Lucky. As lucky as an infertile person can be, should I say. But, sometimes I feel like I'm not a part of my own situation and I wonder if that's the reason why.
"You have successfully detached yourself to all of this to the point where it's like it's happening to somebody else."
Oh. So that's why I feel like I'm reading from a script, then?
Certainly explains alot!
On Friday, I had my final scan. The butterflies did their elaborate dances underneath my bellybutton. They tossed and turned, just as I did the night before because this was the Moment of Truth, the great reveal, the moment the screen pulls back and the Blind Date is revealed.
This was the moment that I unwrapped that odd-shaped gift and saw whether it was a 'dud' or not. I wasn't alone, this time. Future Daddy was there, sat beside me as the magic wand did its job. So were two student nurses, whilst I lay there on this bed with only a piece of blue paper to coax modesty back in from the doorway.
For a split second, I saw nothing. My heart rose, lodged in my mouth. I saw precisely nothing but one tiny small black dot on that screen. One egg? ONE follicle, totally immature?
Then, the wand turned, and all became clear.
"Beautiful," the nurse said. "Lovely."
"If only they all responded this perfectly," said one student nurse, as they measured all of those follicles, as they assessed just how these drugs had done their job. I saw them there on the screen in the same way I hope to be looking at my baby, in months to come. How I longed to see arms and legs, a head, a smile...
How I longed for that black, empty space to suddenly prove otherwise...
"Look at that one," the nurse said. "Big, isn't it?"
22mm.
Perfectly mature.
She counted perfect sized follicles, some slightly smaller. I counted in my head. All in all, my mathematics tell me 16 at least.
16 follicles, still with a day left to grow.
16 potential eggs. Potential embryos.
Inside of me, right now, my child could be waiting. Waiting to be made. Waiting to be created. Waiting to be collected, at 12.30 on Monday, replaced some time later on in that week. Wednesday, maybe Thursday. Possibly even Saturday, depending on how lazy my embryos are.
Perhaps I'll name them.
Inside of me, right now, there might be SOMETHING positive. Something pretty. Something beautiful. We talked of names, recently. He likes Chloe for a girl, Chloe the French way with that pretty little dash above the e. I'd give her the middle name Elizabeth, perhaps. I don't particularly like either name alone but together they seem to fit. I like Lucas or Leo for a boy, like Messi, like the lion, strong and brave.
It makes it more real, imagining the future.
It also makes it more daunting, because that question still remains.
What if it doesn't work?
What if this was all for nothing?
We'll see, soon enough
Moving On, Moving Up, Tentatively making steps...
I've skipped over a large part, that I acknowledge, so I shall give a brief overview of the 'goings on' these past weeks. I didn't feel the urge to write, despite what the counsellor said (yes, I saw one. She was either Dutch or French. She looked at me sympathetically and she stated the obvious. She made me feel less strange. I thank her for that.)
"Put it all in words" she said, write without thinking, but isn't that what I do every day, anyway? Freeassociation, it's called. She didn't tell me that but I know it to be true. Write from the heart, she said, not from the head. Sometimes, I think I should think with the head and not the heart but that's another matter entirely.
This isn't about my personality. This is about my situation.
My baseline Scan was perfect. 29th May 2009, first thing in the morning. I walked into that empty waiting room alone hoping above all things that Bane of my Life the previous weeks had done its job, that Super Cure had shifted itself into gear and actually did something. In some other situation, in some other context, it could've actually been funny, lying there naked from the waist down as a well spoken woman with laytex gloves slipped a condom onto that 'magic wand' and told me "just relax..." as she disappeared between my legs, as I felt the coldness of lubricant when that magic wand went in...
(I'm smiling as I write that. Please don't take it seriously)
Modesty was left at the door, kicking its feet with its hands shoved firmly into its pockets, that's a certainty. For one split second I was glad that Future Daddy was 'at work' and unable to come along for the fun. I was glad that it only had to be clinical and unpleasant for one of us.
For one split second, I held my breath.
Then, I let it go.
Perfect, the nurse said. Everything is perfect. Nice and flat. Nice and dormant.
"It's done it's job and you're ready to move on. You can start injections tonight."
I could've started the next phase there and then if not for the fact that I could not get the time off work, and so Super Cure was my constant companion for long past when it should have been. How I hated work in that minute, hated it more than I already did, lets say. At present, I feel that extra week has 'done me in' in some ways. It feels a little more dragged out than it should.
3rd June, Men are Pure came into play. Just a sting. Just a burn. It left a mark in the form of a tiny bruise where the needle went in, but other than that it was anticlimatic. It didn't hurt like it was supposed to, kind of like the Champions League final where Man United were expected to leave a mark on Barcelona yet they were the ones that ended up wounded. Bruised (note: if the outcome of my IVF mirrors the outcome of that final in Rome I will jump for joy!) If this so-called Menopause did nothing but make me tired and edgy, this potential Route to Hypersimulation did nothing whatsoever. I'm used to pain when I ovulate. In some ways, I suppose that has done me well.
Menopur didn't bloat me, didn't make me gain weight. It didn't make me irritable, didn't make me dark and grey and hideous (at least, I hope not...) I've been lucky, these past weeks, have heard of people who want to cut out their own ovaries during IVF but other than a few niggles, a few moments of pain, a few days of exhaustion and a whole lot of emotional doubt, I've been okay. Lucky. As lucky as an infertile person can be, should I say. But, sometimes I feel like I'm not a part of my own situation and I wonder if that's the reason why.
"You have successfully detached yourself to all of this to the point where it's like it's happening to somebody else."
Oh. So that's why I feel like I'm reading from a script, then?
Certainly explains alot!
On Friday, I had my final scan. The butterflies did their elaborate dances underneath my bellybutton. They tossed and turned, just as I did the night before because this was the Moment of Truth, the great reveal, the moment the screen pulls back and the Blind Date is revealed.
This was the moment that I unwrapped that odd-shaped gift and saw whether it was a 'dud' or not. I wasn't alone, this time. Future Daddy was there, sat beside me as the magic wand did its job. So were two student nurses, whilst I lay there on this bed with only a piece of blue paper to coax modesty back in from the doorway.
For a split second, I saw nothing. My heart rose, lodged in my mouth. I saw precisely nothing but one tiny small black dot on that screen. One egg? ONE follicle, totally immature?
Then, the wand turned, and all became clear.
"Beautiful," the nurse said. "Lovely."
"If only they all responded this perfectly," said one student nurse, as they measured all of those follicles, as they assessed just how these drugs had done their job. I saw them there on the screen in the same way I hope to be looking at my baby, in months to come. How I longed to see arms and legs, a head, a smile...
How I longed for that black, empty space to suddenly prove otherwise...
"Look at that one," the nurse said. "Big, isn't it?"
22mm.
Perfectly mature.
She counted perfect sized follicles, some slightly smaller. I counted in my head. All in all, my mathematics tell me 16 at least.
16 follicles, still with a day left to grow.
16 potential eggs. Potential embryos.
Inside of me, right now, my child could be waiting. Waiting to be made. Waiting to be created. Waiting to be collected, at 12.30 on Monday, replaced some time later on in that week. Wednesday, maybe Thursday. Possibly even Saturday, depending on how lazy my embryos are.
Perhaps I'll name them.
Inside of me, right now, there might be SOMETHING positive. Something pretty. Something beautiful. We talked of names, recently. He likes Chloe for a girl, Chloe the French way with that pretty little dash above the e. I'd give her the middle name Elizabeth, perhaps. I don't particularly like either name alone but together they seem to fit. I like Lucas or Leo for a boy, like Messi, like the lion, strong and brave.
It makes it more real, imagining the future.
It also makes it more daunting, because that question still remains.
What if it doesn't work?
What if this was all for nothing?
We'll see, soon enough
soon!
