Since you asked so nicely… I’ll take the room.
Say hello to dad and my big brother.
See you soon.
Since you asked so nicely… I’ll take the room.
Say hello to dad and my big brother.
See you soon.
I’m not sure if you are still in there and if you are doubt, as you are still no more than a mass of expanding cells, that you can read – but I’ll chance it. You see, if you’ll excuse the cliche, desperate times call for desperate measures.
It has been eleven days since we first met you, our perfect little cellular ice cube. Eleven marathon days since you moved out of your little frosty igloo and went to inspect my uterus and in one more sleep we’ll find out if you’ve decided to stay. Even though you are so tiny we needed a microscope to see you that first time – your dad and I fell hard. There’s something really special about you compared to those other recalcitrant embryos and you look so much like your big brother when he was your age. You have that same sophisticated shaved truffle look… just a tad icier.
If you decide to stay on and sign the lease on my uterus we’ll get to find out just how special you really are. Speaking of which, I hope the place has proved to your liking. Your big brother dug it and has assured me he left it spic and span but even so have had a bit of trouble renting out the place since. We had a few dodgy tenants passing through last year so we had the place renovated afterwards (just a polyp removed here and there to make it more roomy, nothing structural) but there have been two more since and just like those other recalcitrant embryos treated the place like a hotel and skipped out without even paying the bill. I can only hope they left everything in order – they were a bit snooty and obviously thought themselves too good for the place. In fact, tossers that they were, I wouldn’t be surprised if they redecorated the place with a load of garish faux Louis XIV furniture or some such over the top hideousness before they left. If they did, my apologies, but if you decide to stay please feel free to refurnish with anything you’d like… you know, like umbilical cords and placentas and all that malarkey. Oh, the rent is cheap, all you have to do is burrow into the wall and grow and it’s all yours for the next nine months.
I have to admit that the last eleven days have been really hard as I wait patiently to see if you’ve decided to stay. Of course by “patient” I actually mean; obsessing constantly; running back and forth to the toilet to check for spotting every ten minutes; chatting to the icons for a bit of moral support; fretting; saying a few “Hail Mary’s” even though I am not Catholic or even remotely religious – just in case; And searching Google voraciously to find a reason for every twinge.
You see there’s an awful lot riding on you. Not that I’m trying to burden you or anything but you’re our last little embryo, our lucky number seven. You’re also our last hope.
So please think about it. If you decide to sign and stay until the end of the lease, you’ll become part of a family who’ll love you very, very much. And are you ever lucky because we actually know what we’re doing now! You see, before your brother was born your dad and I weren’t so sure how we would handle this raising a child without breaking it business. Would we any good it? And if weren’t, were we talking just talking years of therapy no good or more of a call DOCS cos these two are imbeciles no good? In hindsight, we needn’t have worried as being parents has been the best, funnest thing your dad and I ever did… and it turns out that we aren’t too shabby at it!
Your big brother and your daddy are my favourite people in the world and if you stay you too will be added to that very exclusive club. Incidentally, your dad is desperate to meet you… he thinks of all the frozen embryos we’ve seen (and we’ve seen loads) that you’re the cleverest and best looking of them all. Of course, you’ve already met me but you’ll get to know me much better if you sign the lease and we can just hang out together for a while. I promise I’ll love and protect you, and that I know all the right mummy moves to make everything ok. I can get references if you need proof – your big brother can vouch for me!
Darling little Snowflake, I know it is extremely hard work doing all that thawing, expanding, hatching, implanting , cell dividing and growing and it’s a really big ask but can you please, please stay? You can do it! I have faith in you – you seem like a reliable and clever kind of blastocyst and I promise to do everything I can to help.
Please sign the lease my tiny one, we all really, really want you to stay.
Lots of love,
My fleshy needlepoint hobby has taken a rather interesting turn. And when I say interesting, I mean shithouse.
It’s taken a year and about 32,089,014 injections of every size, shape and level of bastardry imaginable but I think finally I’ve met my nemesis. This absolute prick of a medication is the latest form of infertility torture that Dr. Sickboy has come up with to entertain himself.
Clearly feeling that I haven’t been stabbed quite enough, Dr. Sickboy has decided to up the ante with a five week course of “Clexane”, a blood thinner that he suggests could be beneficial to successful implantation. And forget about a daggy old set of steak knives, this little beauty’s gift with purchase is the possibility of necrosis, osteoporosis, acute haematoma and haemorrhaging to death. Bonus! Yay!
So, obedient little sieve that I am, I have been diligently stabbing myself every night with this new and rather big bitch of a needle. And it’s beating me. Literally. At least, I’m beating me. Bizarrely, these pre-packaged individual shots appear to be blunt and virtually have to be punched in. Every shot has left a spotted bruise and my stomach is now looking like some kind of animal print/murder victim hybrid… So much so that it’s occurred to me that if Cruella de Ville really wanted a spotty coat, she could have saved herself the trouble of hunting puppies and just started injecting herself with one of these fuckers.
Not content with just being difficult to administer – the seventy five gallons of liquid that has to be injected each and every time burns like acid the whole way in, and for a good ten minutes afterwards. And I’m simply loving it! No, really Dr. Sickboy, it’s a frigging hoot.
Regardless, I’m prepared to do whatever it takes and will keep on doing battle with the blunt bastards for as long as it takes, or until I bleed to death. But then agin, at this stage I’d probably stick my head up an orangutans arse if they said it would help.
“Acupuncture can increase the chances of getting pregnant for women undergoing fertility treatment by 65%”, suggests recent academic research.
So strong is the research that even the formerly sceptical Dr. Sickboy now actively encourages his patients to use acupuncture in tandem with IVF treatments, particularly pre and post transfer. And this is something I find extremely validating.
You see, I’ve been seeing my acupuncturist, who we’ll henceforth refer to as Spike, for many years now and worship her. In fact, she’s become a trusted friend and confidant and has even taken on Aunty Spike status with Devilboy, who also gets needles each week (with a bonus added prescription of cuddles from the smelly puppy that sneaks in to play with him while mummy has hers).
I adore everything about our weekly needling. I love the treatment room, overflowing as it is with glittering Buddhist iconography. I love the gentle smells of burning oils and incense. I love the sounds of monks chanting gently on her stereo. I love the ritual. I even love the smelly puppy. Most of all, I love how relaxed and well an hour of needles makes Devilboy and I.
Some people have suggested to me that my perceived positive effects are purely psychosomatic, and of those naysayers I must ask he following, “Who gives a flying fuck?” For whatever reason it works, it works and I’m more than happy to be a human dartboard. I understand that to some people the concept of acupuncture is illogical but if something is serving my wellbeing for whatever reason then I’m happy to overlook even the most retarded gaps in reason and logic.
When I think about all the blood tests and rounds of subcutaneously injected meds I’ve been “enjoying” for the past year with little efect other than turnngme into a moody cow at great expense, I’d say there’s even less obvious logic to that. Actually, when I think about that combined with weekly sessions of acupuncture it occurs to me that I must have more holes in me than this year’s federal budget. It’s a real wonder that I haven’t sprung some kind of leak.
Anyway, my typically longwinded point is that I am a huge fan of acupuncture so needless (excuse the pun) to say, when I discovered that Spike would be away during this cycle of IVF I flipped out. Going through an IVF cycle without the support of a treatment before and after transfer was for me, unthinkable. Blind panic set in and the hunt began for a decent stand in at short notice.
I couldn’t just go anywhere, it needed to be a practitioner who was recommended and who understood infertility treatments, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds. After a search more labour intensive than the one for Bin Laden, I finally managed to procure an appointment with a Casa Conception recommended expert and prayed to gods that I’d feel comfortable with him.
The short answer to that prayer was no. Not even a little bit. You kind of expect TCM practitioners to be delicate and gentle folk, even bordering on a little airy fairy. What you don’t expect is the secret love child of Frank Zappa and a grizzly bear.
And so, I found myself in the disconcertingly prone position of having a strange hairy yeti of an individual indelicately jamming needles into my body whilst gibbering about his collection of vintage band t-shirts and waving what looked and smelled suspiciously like a burning block of hash over my bare flesh…
Even I couldn’t suspend reason or logic for this and so questioned what the fuck he was actually doing? Was he about to smoke that shit or was he just taking the piss?
Grizzly Zappa alleged that the burning hot stink-stick was moxibustion, and that by igniting a slow burning substance and holding it as near certain points on the skin as possible he could positively alter the function of my system. I, in turn, allege that he is a hairy deranged freak and if we finally do conceive this cycle, the poor kid will be born stoned.
Come back dearest Spike, I miss you.
Romance isn’t dead after all. In fact, I’ve been swept of my feet.
After years of callous and heartless behaviour, the caddish Dildocam has suddenly turned on the charm. During a routine pre-transfer ultrasound I was pleasantly surprised to find he’d pull out all the stops… none of his usual wham bam thank-you ma’am stylings, instead there was candlelight, flowers and Marvin Gaye softly playing in the background.
I shit you not. After I’d picked my jaw up off the ground I literally started crying with laughter – much to the consternation of the new ultrasound technician who was clearly trying to make what is generally a fairly unpleasant experience just a little nicer for her patients, but who obviously hadn’t thought the implications through of setting such a sexy scene for a tranvaginal ultrasound…
I was giggling so much she could barely get a decent shot of my dodgy uterus. If I’d heard a single strain of “Let’s get it on”, I’d have run screaming half naked from the room.