Category Archives: drugs

It’s not you, it’s me.

Things are weirding out in the house of Devilboy. 

I am moody and still feeling withdrawn. It’s almost like I’m not properly participating in my own life at the minute, which is most peculiar.  I expect to get a warning letter from myself to me any second saying that I am not being a team player!

The reality of the situation we once more find ourselves in is also making me feel a little detached from Devilboy, which in turn is making me feel more awful. Going through this process again should be making me thankful to have him, because making babies is clearly not our strong suit. But I think it’s causing me to put up a subconscious wall, which I am fighting, because of some irrational fear of loving him and needing him too much if he is to be our one and only. I know that I should just be leaping on him and squeezing him and loving him to bits like I normally can’t control myself from doing but instead am watching him with suspicion, knowing that he alone holds the power to truly break my heart.

I feel almost like I have to force joy right now, something that has been so very present since he was born, but that wonderful feeling seems to have vanished under a haze of medication. So dreary am I that I wonder if I shouldn’t remove myself from all social circumstances until this is over – lest I bore my friends to death with my blahness!

I guess the detached feeling must be diminishing a little as I appear to have arrived at that point of the process where the ususal  empathy I have for people has well and truly buggered off and I start sulkily resenting random pregnant women in the street. In fact, even some men boasting larger scale beer guts are starting to be on the receiving end of my covetous gaze, such is the sorry state of my infertile imagination. 

While I am not nearly self obsessed enough to expect the pregnant folk of the world to go into hiding just to make little old me feel less reproductively useless, I just wish that the twelve million that I bump into on a daily basis didn’t have to lay the proverbial boot in with such comments as “Hey guess what? I’m preggers… you know it happened on like practically our first try!” to quote this days object of my envious derision (not only for her fecundity but for her abuse of the English language and inane use of the word ‘like’).

Before pregnant folk begin collecting sticks and small rocks to fling at the silly barren chick, I have to add that I also resent myself for being such an uncharitable bitch! I confess to being a total cow, though in my meagre defence it is apparantly a very natural and common reaction to this situation.

To all my lovely friends who are currently with child, please allow me to elucidate. It’s most definitely not that I lack happiness about your pregnancies but more that I lack the ability to control my own feelings of disappointment in my lack of one. And whilst I confess that there is a tinge of green in my vision, it is nicely offset with the pinkish glow of genuine delight at your news and I continue to love your fabulously fruitful selves lots and lots. Mwah!

As punishment for my mean spiritdness I have put together a pile of consumable baby goodies for the Red Cross Refugee Services girls to help some of their new mums. It makes me feel more motherly to help out some other mums.

Meanwhile, my obsession with obscure fertility symbols continues unabated. M despises the new beaded African Ndebele Fertility doll I recently acquired. I think it’s quite quaint in an Afro/bespoke Dalek sort of way, whilst he thinks it’s simply creepy. But you see, I am stabbing myself twice a day whilst he is not… which clearly makes me right!

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Lust for Life

Last night M & I had planned a special evening for the two of us at Claude’s, our favourite restaurant in the world, for a romantic and decadent dinner to celebrate our first full day of officially being married (we had to apply for the Thai marriage to be recognised here and now it is – we’re legal hoorah!)

But those cheeky chickens had other ideas!

Our first day of being legally hitched was full of hitches. At 7am I visited Casa Conception where I immediately broke my marital vows by being unfaithful to my husband with Dildocam. The Cow wasn’t there this time and instead I got a wand waver who was so irritatingly chirpy for 7am that I wanted to beat her to death.

M was understanding about my morning indiscretions with Dildocam and even drove me home afterwards. We then went to meet with two of my most fabulous friend’s for lunch… except I couldn’t sit still because my boobs were killing me. I swear to Gods they’ve doubled in size in 24 hours. This is not a good thing. They were so big before this that they had their own weather system… now they’re bloody enormous and I swear I saw a satellite orbiting them.

Anyway at the end of our lunch I got a call from Nurse Sweetness-and-Light (she’s new and I like her very much) to let me know my results were back from the bloodwork and DC.

She casually dropped that it was trigger time.

Tonight.

At 11pm.

Fuck me.

It’s only day 9 of the FSH injections… it’s supposed to be 12 or 15 days. And I have things to do. I’m not ready… could it really be happening? I’m scared. This is the money shot…. the last injection of them all.

Plus I really, really want to go to Claude’s.

Nurse Sweetness-and-Light , sensing correctly that I was shitting myself, calmly explained that the hens are laying ahead of schedule and everything is on track (my chickens are so efficient) and my estrogen levels are a sky high 11,000 (meaning a possible risk of OHSS, eek!) which explains why it feels like I’ve had bulldog clips attached to my nipples for the past 24 hours. As such, my doctor (a little more on him shortly) says it has GOT to be tonight with retrieval in 36 hours.

She then gave me an over the phone walk through of just how ‘Trigger’ works.

Now Trigger, as well as being Roy Rogers’s loyal horse, is the final step in the battery farming process. This is the injection that brings on ovulation. Trigger has been sitting menacingly in our fridge for ten days and is complex and scary requiring equipment and mixing which makes me feel like I really am about to shoot up something illegal.

Nurse Sweetness-and-Light told us that first we have to snap open the two little glass vials, draw up the solution with a syringe so long and fat it makes me faint just looking at it, mix it with a powder solution, suck it back into the syringe, change to a smaller needle (whilst breathing huge sigh of relief) ensuring there are no air bubbles then finally inject the lot (and it is a lot) into my gut. What fun!

So that’s how we found ourselves as born again newlyweds dining at Claude’s with an esky bag full of medication stuffing our faces at light speed so we could be home by 11pm and not have to shoot up in the middle of a three hat restaurant.

Having explained the urgency to the wonderful Claude’s staff they raced about, watching clocks and making sure we missed out on nothing… to the point of force-feeding us the dessert courses with such haste I felt like a fois gras goose.

At 10.30 we were eight courses down and on to the petit fors and coffee whilst the rest of the restaurant patrons were leisurely enjoying about course number five and staring at us like we were gluttonous super heroes. By 10.35 pm a waiter was valiantly leaping head first into Oxford Street traffic to get us a cab in to which we immediately dived and demanded the driver get us home post haste.

At 10.52pm we raced (well waddled as we were full to overflowing with yummy Claude’s goodness and about two tonnes of freshly shaved truffles) through the door, trying to put Trigger together. We smashed a vial as we were opening it and threw away the special sucking up syringe by accident from all our fumbly nerves. Thank Gods they give you spares for just such an emergency.

I paced nervously while M cooked up my drugs and then settled onto the couch, needle in hand, trembling with hope and fear. As I shakily started to swipe my stomach with the alcho wipe ready for the plunge… a sudden burst of music entered our living room making me look up to see M, I kid you not, putting on the Trainspotting DVD for moral support.

So to the energetic and rather appropriate strains of the Stooges classic ‘Lust for Life’ I plunged Trigger into my very full belly and cuddled up to my very funny and charming ex IVF drug dealer and now completely legal husband to watch a movie I’ve seen a dozen times but through new eyes.

On Monday at 10.30am I have to be at the Doctors surgery, for the egg retrieval.

The one thing I’ve never discussed during this whole process is my doctor, a lovely man from Scotland with a fabulous accent. Ironically, from the day we met him many months ago while we were still only considering this journey… we have been referring to him as Dr. Sickboy, because his voice sounds spookily similar to that of the Johnny Lee Miller character from Trainspotting, of course.

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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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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.

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Are you there Gods? It’s me, Stupid.

The list of my accomplishments in the field of abject stupidity is growing daily.

In the office yesterday I walked into a wall. We only have four and it isn’t that hard to navigate a square virtually unfurnished room or so I thought back in the old days when I was still capable of them.

It occurred to me last night that ‘perhaps my brain just needs feeding’ but after an hour I realised I was still on the first page of my book and that many of the words had more than one syllable. I decided instead to send my beloved to fetch me some trash of the type that really has no words… only pictures of thin blonde heiresses. By using the full force of my three functioning brains cell I managed to finish that… though with some difficulty.

Phase two of Operation “Entertain the Idiot” was to watch a movie. Nothing too complex… just a generic action blockbuster designed as fodder for the great unwashed. Unfortunately my skills of concentration meant that I was still mentally processing scenes ten minutes after they had finished and couldn’t even keep up with a plot written for and by the sub literate. I gave up on that and went to bed early to enjoy millions of little dreamettes of random ridiculousness. Another alarming side effect of Lucrin is that even my dreams are dumb!

So dumb do I feel that it has crossed my mind that they’ve been injecting George W. Bush with Lucrin for years. That’s right, I feel ‘W’ stupid! Though whilst the IVF fairies are making me a vacuous, vicious arse… I haven’t as yet felt the need to invade another country or become a fundamentalist religious hypocrite… so far.

Although… in saying that my house has turned into a virtual religious shrine. I, who have never been particularly suspicious or indeed secularly inclined for many years and who counts amongst her favorite books this year, Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, has been picking up every possible piece of mildly symbolic fertility crap and fecund religious iconography that I cross paths with!

I have Buddha’s multiplying rapidly – a Buddha of compassion, the biggest fattest most extraordinarily jolly lucky Buddha I could find, serene Buddha for moments of calm, and a few little generic Buddha’s scattered around the house. I even have the most peculiar Buddha I have ever met… a ghastly kitschy thing surrounded by comical babies that is in fact an ‘official’ fertility Buddha but on closer inspection more resembles a lardy pedophile.

I also have a skinny and malnourished looking Cambodian interpretation of Ganesha… the lord of beginnings and overcoming obstacles (and allegedly the god of intellect so he’s clearly malfunctioning in that area – have a sandwich Ganesha and get back on the job!) and his much sexier dad Shiva, the destroyer of evil and creator of the new – also known in our house as the Toilet God because this is where he lives.

There is our beautiful little ‘Turtle Dragon’ which is bestowing upon us long life and lucky new beginnings as we speak. Then we have ‘Wasll’, named thus by my beloved for reasons completely unknown to myself, he is a rather large 100 year plus old Burmese man with an enormous penis wearing what appears to be rather full nappies. Wasll (pronounced Wassell), who has become a very important member of the family, has a rather unfortunate moustache and is doing an alleged fertility dance…  and looks more than a trifle queer.

Diana, the Roman goddess of nature, fertility and childbirth has been with me a long time, in fact I uncovered her in a little shop in Ireland years ago. She is a beautiful little thing lolling about starkers with her legs in the air whilst shooting something from her bow an arrow. It’s probaly a dart full of Lucrin.  I’ve always found it amusing that she is also known as the ‘huntress’ as shooting things and fertility/childbirth seems a somewhat unlikely combo – though ironically my own battle with fertility has had me so frustrated that there has been more than one occasion that I’ve been ready to shoot things too.

An Egyptian cat, protector of family and good omen of fertility and birth looks upon this confused collection of multicultural and multitheistic idols with typical feline disdain and all these magical fripperies are complimented by the lovely double happiness candles given to me by a dear friend.

The newest addition to my collection is Kwan Yin. Kwan Yin is a girly Buddha of Mercy who moonlights in fecundity – although there is some dispute over whether Kwanny is actually a boy or a girl. Kawn Yin is an essential part of any obsessive catalogue of fertility icons. And so she was purchased in haste. And there lies the problem. Unlike the other members of my collection who, besides the pedophilic fertility Buddha, who does have his own special charm, have all been lovingly collected on our travels and are antique, artistic or simply beautiful, Kwanny is a thing of inspired ugliness and simply isn’t floating my aesthetic boat.

There better be some good vibes coming from you soon Kwanny – until then consider yourself on notice!

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On no, my testes are shrinking

I was fairly shocked when we began this journey to discover that stage one of making a baby with IVF is to go on a strong contraceptive pill. Seemed a bit of a paradoxical approach to conceiving a child but what would I know… the traditional methods, you know, like having sex and all that malarkey sure as heck hasn’t worked.

Given my nervousness about drugs in needles and how my body would react to them and all their lovely side effects… I didn’t really stop to think all that long and hard about the side effects of an oral medication that is allegedly 200% stronger than a normal contraceptive pill.

Silly me!

After almost two weeks of taking them I am a ratty, bitchy, manic depressive cow who has sudden bursts of euphoric hysteria. It’s quite amazing what a total and utter tit I’ve become. Seriously, I can’t believe how utterly shit I feel and this is from the easy bit. I just hope it’s my hormones swinging into alignment at super speed due to the strength of these fuckers because if I gets worse M can stand in line, because I’ll be divorcing me first!

As I am stopping them in a few days my moods could flip about all over the place some more which will no doubt thrill M to pieces. My beloved adores irrational bitchiness and mood swings in his women! In fact, so attractive will this make me to him, I’m sure he’ll fall madly in love with me all over again!

Tomorrow is phase two in my mission to make our Sea Monkey. I am not at all excited to be starting the first round of daily needles.

Daily needles that, I might add, must be self administered, eek! I would prefer M gave them to me but as he couldn’t even give insulin to the cat without having an aneurysm I think I’ll be flying solo all the way in my quest to become a human pin cushion. At least if M could give me the injection it would seem a bit more Trainspottingish and I could just pretend I was a junky and he was Ewan McGregor.

I’m all ready though. I picked up the seventeen million dollar supply of the drug Lucrin – the lovely stuff I have to inject myself with for the next few weeks and was terribly thrilled to read in the information supplied that the drug is actually designed and administered for sufferers of prostate cancer. Umm, do these IVF people know about which one is the mummy and which one is the daddy and where babies actually come from?

Though hugely relieved that my non existent prostrate will be freed from cancer I am more than a little worried that amongst some of the more common side effects I may suffer from shrinking of the testes.

And, thank Gods, there is no evidence from this drug of mutagenic potential. I was really quite worried about that!

Anyway, I best be off, it’s been at least ten minutes since I last bit someone’s head off…

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