If someone asked me to choose one word to describe myself, today that word would be tired. If I could use three words? Very, very tired.
Doug is away at the moment. He’s coming home tomorrow afternoon, which is good because I rarely sleep well when he isn’t lying next to me in bed. I have always had an extremely over active imagination. If I’m alone I just lie awake listening to the noises in the night and convincing myself there’s either a serial killer outside my bedroom window or a poltergeist loose in the house. To be clear, I don’t believe in ghosts except when I’m alone and irrational, nor do I live in some kind of ghetto. In fact, I live in a quiet, middle class suburb in a city with a relatively low crime rate. But let’s not allow those things to get in the way of my 2am hysteria!
Confession time? On one occasion, back before Doug and I moved in together, I convinced myself the council workers doing night time road repairs the next street over were actually police searching for a criminal who was hiding out in the neighbourhood. Using the darkness of the night, and our leafy backyards to conceal his whereabouts. And quite obviously this criminal was most likely a murderer or rapist, otherwise why would the police be bothering to search at 3am? After pacing for an hour, I phoned my mother in a panic and convinced her that she simply had to come to my house (at the time I didn’t own a car so I couldn’t drive to her). You know you have a good mama when she’s willing to drive to your house in the early hours of the morning simply because you’ve made up some ridiculous sleep deprived story.
But Doug and I have lived together for three years now. He’s my husband shaped security blanket when he’s home. He never complains when I nudge him awake and ask him to go and check on a noise downstairs, though truthfully he rarely has to because I generally fall into a deep and easy sleep with his arm wrapped around my waist. I’ve become spoiled, and I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live alone. So today, I am tired.
Now that I’ve convinced you all I’m nuts, let’s talk about my IVF cycle………
I have an appointment with Doctor B tomorrow morning at 7am. I know she is going to cancel my cycle.
Doug wasn’t supposed to be home until Monday but he’s flying back two days early so that I won’t have to be alone. He’ll miss the appoinment, but he’ll be home by lunch time so I won’t have to stew over the outcome on my own for too long. I’m grateful for that, even though at the moment I’m feeling calm and ok. I think I am mentally prepared for the worst possible outcome at my appointment tomorrow.
I honestly, truly believe this cycle will be cancelled. Usually I’m the type to hold out hope. When someone says “there’s a 99% chance this has failed” my immediate reaction is “well there’s still that 1%!” But not this time, and here’s why:
- I have very little cramping (last time the cramping was awful!)
- I’ve only put on 2kg (last time my weight gain was much more significant)
- I am bloated but not uncomfortable (last time my pants didn’t fit once I reached day 12 and now I’m on day 17)
- I have hardly any cervical mucus (last time there was so much towards the end it was disgusting)
- I don’t have that heavy feeling under my skin near my tummy that only IVF ladies will understand.
- Women’s intuition.
In my mind, all these signs translate to no growth. No follicles, no eggies, no egg pick up, no fertilization, no embryo transfer, no pregnancy, no baby. I’m sure you get the picture.
But like I said, I’m doing ok. I do think I’ll become quite upset if Doctor B tells me I have to wait a long time before starting another cycle. I’m going to push to start again straight away, but I know she feels strongly that I need a few months break. I can hear my fertility clock ticking so loudly in my ears now that it’s almost deafening, I do not want to wait to start again.
I guess there’s no point in stressing about that now. I can’t do anything about it until I know the situation with my ovaries. I need to get through the scan tomorrow morning, sit down and talk with Doctor B about our options, and then go from there.
In the meantime, I have to get through the day at work, and then make it through one more sleepless night before my husband comes home. It doesn’t help that I have the world’s shittiest guard dog. Arnold would just roll over and beg a serial killer to scratch his belly.
He does have swagger though. You can’t fault him for that. As my parting gift, I’ll leave you with a photo of Arnold showing off his b-boy style. You’re welcome.