Life has been pretty quiet on the dating front in the last couple of months. I discovered the hard way that dating while doing an IVF cycle is weird… keeping an eye on the clock to “just pop out to the bathroom” with an icepack surreptitiously in the handbag and stab yourself with two needles in a gross public bathroom just didn’t do it for me. It’s strange though that choosing donor sperm and being “on cycle” seemed to be a total quality date magnet, two excellent dates in four days! But no matter how many mantras of “I’m beautiful just the way I am” one repeats, it sucks feeling like a fat bloated non-drinking blob on a date. Nope.
So I’ve been keeping a low profile in preparing for Round Two. This has included weekly acupuncture for 3 months, a swathe of supplements, 3 week hard-core detox with horrible pills and potions, starting weights sessions for the first time in my life, discovering (and addressing) a weird gene mutation which has completely changed my energy levels, and ditching Dr Negative for a lovely Dr. Funny. And guess what, Dr. Negative, all my levels are normal, I’m not anywhere near peri menopause, and my FSH went down to an optimal level. F*** you. I felt like this puppy below, in between bouncing off the ceiling. I hadn’t felt so awesome in years.
I went into this cycle optimistic, but guarded. I know now that anything can happen, and while I felt I could expect a better result, I knew from experience there were no guarantees. Dr Funny started me on a mega dose from the beginning and threw in a hipster drug from the US which is all the rage. Literally. The first obstacle was trying to manage the new set of vials, small and large needles, drawing in and drawing out… I stabbed my finger on the first attempt and bled over some pristine white hotel sheets in Cairns. The next day I spilled it all the floor, before conceding no shame and having my Dr Flatmate demonstrate how to do the f***ing thing. Over sharing, but desperate times, especially as seeing the LARGE needle in the nurse’s demonstration caused complete amnesia.
Having got through that minor bump, the symptoms were pretty horrendous this round. Migraines and nausea so bad that I had to leave work early a couple of times. Again, IVF attracted some interesting guys, but RSVP hasn’t added in the “You sound interesting, but can we wait until I’ve finished my IVF cycle?” kiss option. I ended up dodging much social contact to mooch around at home with a heat pack, guzzling water and Panadol, crying at the drop of a hat. Combined with the odd spat of online therapy, including a hormone-induced teary decision that my breakfast bowls were ugly and I simply couldn’t eat of them any more. This is from someone who never buys kitchen stuff. WTF? Add in Trump’s victory, and the Zen vanished into something like this below.
So far though, things are going better than Round One. The cycle only went two days late to Day 16, versus Day 20 last time (ugh) and eight of my ten egg haul have decided they want to be embryos so far. While this doesn’t compare to a friend’s recent 58 egg heist (thanks to polycystic ovaries and a keen sense of drama), the numbers are much better this time. The waiting game begins, with a new set of horrible drugs which warn of very common symptoms including “cramping, severe depression, low sense of self worth, insomnia, weight gain, bloating, extreme fatigue, nausea” etc etc, accompanied by a flippant line that maybe none of it will happen. Here’s hoping.
Please send a thought for my little monsters on their road to Day 5 blossoming. There’s no way I want to go through this again, I’m done.