Monthly Archives: June 2007

So dirty… so used.

My first date with Dildocam made me feel so cheap. Where was the romance? No flowers, no wining or dining, no small talk and certainly no foreplay before he just jumped straight in and started poking about! I feel so dirty and can’t believe I’ve already agreed to a second date on Saturday.

The battery farm appears to be doing well and is suitably overcrowded as DC found 17 follicles, 12 of which are plump enough for the hens to lay their little eggs. I think this is quite a good number but the DC nurse was a sour faced cow and refused to enlighten me one way or the other. In her defense I would be sour faced too if I had to spend my whole day sticking a condom covered camera up a never ending supply of ladies hoo ha’s. I still dislike her.

I am now awaiting a call from The Stabber to confirm my results

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Don’t let the door hit your resin arse on the way out.

She had to go. It was either her or me.

I am, of course, referring to the previously mentioned Kwan Yin, my recently acquired festeringly ugly icon of fecundity.

Kwanny didn’t survive the month. I had to avert my eyes every time I saw her/him for her/his abject hideousness and vague resemblance to a Hermaphrodite Virgin Mary bothered me greatly.

And it wasn’t just me who felt this way. Our household never accepted her/him . M thought she/he  repellent, Eddie  snubbed her/him and the other icons didn’t play nice either… because she/he was ‘different’. Now before you get the wrong idea, the icons in our household are all very open minded and supportive about Kwannys sexual ambivalence but unfortunately, like their owner, they are intensely shallow and feared her/his grosse ugliness could somehow rub off and tarnish their own statuesque loveliness.

She/he has now been banished but for fear of otherworldy reprisals, has been replaced with her/his prettier self. I found the lovely Kwan Yin 2 today in an Asian Artifacts store and though still of dubious sexual orientation she is a beautiful and ethereal bronze and all the other icons fancy her greatly.

More importantly I find her simply devine and any magical conception charms she can send our way will be happily received without fear of them grotesquely deforming our future offspring by osmosis.

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Funky Chickens

It would appear that my chickens have been a little excitable. This morning I had my first bloodwork since I started the bastard injections last Friday and it seems too many chickens are trying to squeeze into the ovarian battery farm which is, it would seem, a bad thing.

A random nurse called to talk me through my results and said that apparently I have responded very well but a tad ‘too well’ to the bastard injections and they have to ensure I don’t respond too quickly as this could mean Ovarian Hyper stimulation Syndrome where, along with vomiting and abdominal pain, other niggling side effects include death.

Of course, the fabulous staff at Casa Conception are so professional and monitor their little science projectettes so closely that this is a very minor risk, similar to that of me getting hit by a bus or ever wearing pink. They have lowered my dosage accordingly to ensure this doesn’t happen as being dead would not only be rather dull but also lower my chances of falling pregnant substantially.

Thursday I have more bloodwork and my first date with the dildocam, more commonly known to normal folk as a transvaginal ultrasound which, though it sounds like somewhere a vampire with PMS should be dwelling, is just an internal ultrasound device.

My date with Dildocam is so we can count the follicles and see exactly how many funky chickens we’re dealing with in my little coup.

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Down on the Farm

The Stabber called from Casa Conception and we’re good to go. The latest bloodwork results came back with conclusive proof that I am indeed a human and my hormones have done what they should… thank Gods the stupidity hasn’t been for nothing.

On receiving the go ahead to start on the Follicle Stimulating Hormones I was so excited I did a little happy dance (not only does this mean operation Sea Monkey is well under way but it also means only another week or so of injections of stupidity drug and hopefully the return of my brain) but this morning when it came time to inject, I choked.

I had performance anxiety. Giving myself the daily stupidity drug needles has been thus far, except for some rather attractive bruising, much less unpleasant and difficult than I thought it would be and I gave myself my morning dose of that with barely a second thought and the precision of a long term junky.

The FSH injections come with a special Pen of the type that diabetic’s use that is alleged to make it easier. They do not. Firstly you have to build it each morning and the thing is so fucking huge and awkward that even though the actual needle is the same size as the one on the stupidity drug syringe it took me twenty minutes and three trips to the internet to Google instructions and make absolutely sure I had it right before I could take the plunge. I don’t go around shoving biros into my fatty tissue so why would I prefer a needle that looks like one?

Making it even more intimidating, my charming British dealer wasn’t there with a nice hot cup of tea to take make it all better so my first attempt at stereo needling was done flying solo without the aid of Ewan McGregor fantasies. The dealer was off at Casa Conception to make a ‘delivery’ which is a pretty term for a wank. His sperm are to be ‘washed’ and frozen as back up for operation Sea Monkey day.

When I think of them being ‘washed’ I imagine them all at a little sperm day spa with little towels wrapped around their little tails whilst they are being scrubbed and buffed and massaged. Clearly, such thoughts make me insane. Regardless, I hope they will all get a nice blow-dry and coiffe while they are there so they look pretty for the eggs. (just in case they are shallow like me)

After about twenty minutes of balking the FSH was eventually injected but I was so traumatised that I know tomorrow will be harder. I’m sure that after a few days it will become as easy as the stupidity drug to administer but for the moment the pen and I are locked in combat. I hate the pen. It is a bastard!

On the bright side down at the ovary farm the hens are moving in and finding themselves some nice fat follicles to lay their little eggs.

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Blood Work 2 – Return of the Vein.

How tragic that ‘bloodwork’ has so quickly gone from sounding dark and arty to sounding more like the name of a bad Steven Segal film (not that I mean in any way to imply that there is any such thing as a good Steven Segal film)

I was called back for more tests this morning as my bloodwork on Monday had ‘inconclusive results’. So further tests were required to see if I can attain human status in time to start the battery farm in my ovaries tomorrow.

My beloved nurse, The Stabber, wasn’t in this morning, which made me sad… for though it has been proven that she is shit at drawing blood, she’s a lovely lady who makes the experience as pleasant as can be and laughs uproariously at our silliness. Some of the other nurses look at us like we’re naughty children who need to take things a bit more seriously. In turn we think they can fuck right off!

If we didn’t have a little laugh during this process we would be extremely anxious, neurotic and stressed little barren bunnies ready to start freebasing Prozac as opposed to suffering a milder anxiousness and some background stress that can probably be treated simply with a topical ointment.

This morning, I met the wonderful Nurse Tell-Someone-Who-Cares. An efficient lady with a lovely accent and the personality of an undertaker , she marched me in to the bloodletting room and as I duly explained my prior issues with having no veins, shoved a needle straight in my arm and looked at me with contempt before spitting “I’ve been doing this a long time”. About 3 seconds later and with what I think was an attempt at a charming smile that nearly cracked her head open she marched out saying I’d get a call and that was that!

If I get her again I think I will hide under one of the larger Science Projectettes in the waiting room until she leaves.

Now I must wait by the phone to see if I get the go ahead to start farming the eggs. I do wonder where all the chickens will fit!

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Tea & Sympathy with Spike

I haven’t suddenly become a masochist but morning needle time has oddly become one of my favourite parts of the day.

Even though M sees the syringe as his nemesis and starts suffering convulsions at the thought of giving or receiving an injection, he is sweetly participating in this morning ritual as best he can.

My beloved has become my dashing British dealer and my morning fix is delivered with a nice cup of tea. Every morning he gets up in our freezing cold house, makes me a steaming hot cuppa and prepares the syringe ready for injection whilst I still lay snug in bed… it makes him feel involved and me able to continue, for a few extra minutes at least, with the Ewan McGregor fantasy I alluded to earlier.

As it turns out, it is a lot less difficult to give oneself an injection than I thought. At one stage when it was clear my beloved couldn’t actually be the injector I was ready to drive every morning to Darlinghurst to find any random smackhead to do it.

The first was hard. But after actually doing it I realised that, much like John Howard, it really is just a simple little prick. After that it was a cinch. Don’t get me wrong I haven’t become some kind of sociopath and it’s not actually something I’d ever choose to take up as a hobby like some kind of macabre needlepoint, but with all the tea, sympathy and cuddles surrounding something that could have been quite nasty, we’ve made it as pleasant a ritual as it can be.

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Brain like a sieve and now a body to match!

Today I had my first ‘bloodwork’ done at Casa Conception with my IVF nurse, a gorgeous woman who has been a lifeline during the confusing first stages of Operation Sea Monkey.

Bloodwork sounds so dark and arty doesn’t it? Even though it was very early in the morning it made feel very windswept and interesting as I dramatically entered the clinic with my black coat flapping devilishly in the breeze.

Being one of about 40,000 women in the waiting room made me feel less windswept and interesting but did serve to make me feel less of a freak. It is hard to acknowledge to people lucky enough to have spawned how excluded we have been feeling and how sad, lonely, pissed off and utterly fucked the last few years of infertility has been.

Looking around the room at all the scared and hopeful faces I didn’t feel so lonely or pissed off and though I didn’t speak to any of my fellow Science Projectettes I silently wished them all luck as waited for our names to be called.

Though I found myself in warm and gooey sorority…I sensed in the dagger like glares I received back from a few of the scarier Science Projectettes that rather than feeling a sisterly camaraderie they saw the other women in the room, myself included, as fierce competitors as I saw the silent scream flashing in their eyes “Which one of us will be the winning one in three?”

Though feeling a tad less exotic and uniquely faulty as I had when I walked in, I was still excited about my first bloodwork as it meant we were close to stage three of Operation Sea Monkey… the FSH injections. This is where my ovaries become a battery farm and we cultivate multiple eggs in the time and space my body would normally only produce one single free range one. Starting this all depended on what my blood tests would show.

This was where it got tricky.

The only complication to my bloodwork was that it would seem I have no blood. (Cue removal of flapping devilish coat and cease all visions of artsy gothic glory.) At this juncture there are two things I’d like to point out. First, as it appears I may not be a homosapien, this could be a contributing factor to my lack of procreating a human baby. Second, the kindly and gorgeous nurse I previously referred to, shall henceforth be known as The Stabber.

After not being able to find anything resembling a vein in my arms The Stabber valiantly plunged in regardless but the well was dry. Spotting a small vein like discolouration on the back of my hand, she went in for another fossick but again came back empty syringed.

Defeated by my bloodlessness she decided that she had to call in the big guns and Nurse Vampira was duly summoned. After attacking my arm with a heat pack that smelled like buttery popcorn and was so blisteringly hot I though they were trying to make black pudding with my veins, she hit pay dirt and went in like she was drilling for oil!

Many band-aids and a third degree burn later I was once again excited as, like a presenter at the Oscars, I was handed a glamorous gift bag full of thousands of dollars worth of shiny IVF goodies.

At first glance I though there had been some ghastly mistake for unlike the Oscars, my gift bag didn’t contain vouchers for exclusive Caribbean spa resorts, Cartier watches, state of the art flat screen TV’s, diamond studded mobile phones or other assorted sparkly baubles.

Instead it contained a freezer bag resplendent with a disposable ice pack (and perfect, my beloved pointed out, for carrying a six pack), drugs, needles, my very own sharps dispenser saucily marked ‘danger’ and a Puregon pen which, unlike the Mont Blanc pen one would undoubtedly find in the aforementioned Oscar bag, is used less for writing and more to stab oneself… which isn’t nearly as special.

After our exciting trip to Casa Conception we headed to my acupuncturist…for the call to have more needles poked into my body was impossible to resist. It is written in Google search wisdom that acupuncture when used alongside IVF increases the odds of a healthy and happy outcome and Google would never ever lie!

After an hour of impersonating a porcupine I headed off for lunch to meet up with friends where I studiously ignored all fluids less I sprang a leak and my beloved received a fine from Sydney Water for using a sprinkler.

Now we await the results of the test to see when phase three of sticking things that aren’t penises into my body to make a baby commences.


Filed under drugs, Infertility, IVF, needles, tests