Category Archives: Infertility

Dear Vatican

Dear Vatican,

It was with much amusement that I read your delightfully witty opine condemning the awarding of the Nobel Prize for Medicine to the wonderful Dr. Robert Edwards for his pioneering work in IVF.  http://tiny.cc/08pjk

As the parent of one (and a half) of Dr. Edwards genetic replicants, your spokesman, Monsignor Ignacio Carrasco de Paula’s insightful thoughts really resonated with me. I mean, seriously dudes, Iggy C. is so piss funny you should send him on tour or something. He makes Joan Rivers look like a straight man, or woman as the case may, though I apologise for that particicular comparison given your misogynistic bleatings and all. But seriously,  the clever word play of his stage name “Ignacio” being so close to “ignorant” (from the latin for utter moron) certainly wasn’t lost on me. You guys…

Anyway, I always knew how tremendously enlightened and utterly fabulous you are because you’re constantly banging on telling us how much better and purer and more worthy you are than everyone else… but I never realised that you guys were so fucking hilarious!  If I had, I wouldn’t have been wasting all my time thinking you were a bunch of hypocritical twats and would have been busy attending your comedy services every Sunday.

I found myself having to wipe the tears from my eyes as I read your side-splitting missive – so great was my amusement at the droll irony of comments like the one about Dr. Edwards prize being “out of order” because clearly it is we parent’s of Dr. Edwards mutant spawn and our shoddy  “God given” reproductive systems that are, in fact, what’s out of order. Hilarious stuff.

And though this magnificent satire will almost certainly be hailed as one of the great comedy classics of our time, I do have a few thoughts on how you could improve the routine for next time. You see, you missed some important opportunities that could have really added to the impact of your mirthful monologue.

For example, I know how much you lot hate contraception and love over-populating third world countries with starving children, even though so many of these poor little cherubs end up in agonising pain and carking it from disease and malnutrition, so you guys must be thrilled about Dr Edwards helping to bring more than 4,000,000 potential future Catholics into the world.  Given the cost and desire it takes to make one of these tiny freaks of nature, it’s so much less likely that the little mutants will keel over from a life of poverty, which is great news for you guys!  If you can just indoctrinate them with your narrow minded attitudes, the fact that they won’t be dead before they can even speak means thse ones will be able to help spread the word on how totally briliant your cult  organisation is. So perhaps you could add something about that into the routine next time.

Another  standout was “Without Edwards, there would not be a large number of freezers filled with embryos in the world. In the best cases they are transferred into a uterus, but most probably, they will end up abandoned or dead, for which the new Nobel prize winner is responsible.”

This one’s such a hoot, I almost peed myself laughing.  Seriously, where do you guys get this stuff ‘cos this is some fucking funny shit.  But maybe, given your  awesome record of protecting the little children and all, I would have taken this a bit further myself and maybe added something like…

“I suppose at least if these embryos are safely protected in a freezer and not given the opportunity to grow into children then our army of paedophile priests won’t be able get their grubby hands on them… saving us masses of work in covering up for the perverted arseholes and having to go to all that hassle of reassigning them to alternate locations where they continue to abuse a whole new bunch of innocent children. Phew!”

Anyway Vatican, though I have a few more ideas for you, one being to simply shut the fuck up, I really must dash as I’m frightfully busy gestating my next Godless IVF abomination.

Cheers,

Mummyfied

PS. My apologies to any of the 1.3 billion Catholics in the world that may be offended by my comments against your fearless leaders… but worry not I’ll be sure to get my heretical arse kicked when I go to hell with the other 5.6 billion of us who aren’t… or not… Anyhoo, y’all have a nice day.

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Filed under Infertility, IVF, Uncategorized

Is that the time?

It appears that two months have snuck by since my last post and much has been happening in the House of Devilboy.

After four unsuccessful embryo transfers we discovered that something was growing in my uterus… unfortunately it wasn’t a baby. On doing some more investigation Doctor Sickboy discovered a rather large Polyp which has been hogging around a half of the space of my womb. Now, call me crazy but I would have thought that at least one of the 32,000,000 ultrasounds I’ve had in the last seven months or so might have picked something up but no, that would be far too easy.

So the bad news is that like that other bloody tyrant Pol Pot, Pol Yp been wilfully slaughtering the inhabitants of my womb. I’m fairly sure that unlike under the evil Pot regime, my emby’s have not been forced into slave labour camps and the hugely unpleasant hysterosalpingogram seemed to indicate that no rice paddies had been cultivated. But Yp is guilty of starving them of all important nutrients and bludgeoning them to death as he swings around like a medieval flail.

Our four perfectly lovely and beautiful embryos T2, Frosty, Ice-T and Rocky may as well have been flushed down the toilet along with the thousands of dollars we’ve forked out… for all the hope they had of surviving this genocidal despot.

The good news is that outside forces have stepped in to stop the evil Pol Yp and he has been captured and destroyed. And my uterus has been freshly renovated with shiny pink walls and comfy soft furnishings – ideal accommodation for any self respecting emby.

With nothing left on ice we have started a fresh course of sticking things that are not penises into my body to make babies. We’ve finished with the stupidity drug and the bastard injections and retrieved the nine eggs laid by my funky chickens, eight of which were fertilised. Of those, one is currently doing an inspection of the premises and two have moved into the esky.

Now with fingers and legs crossed all we can do is sit back and wait and hope.

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Filed under embryos, Infertility, IVF

Bakers Dozen.

 “This might be a little uncomfortable” announced a smiling Dr. Sickboy.

Yeah right… and Adolf Hitler was ‘a little’ anti-Semitic.

Armed as he was with a speculum and a foot long needle (Dr. Sickboy I mean – not Hitler) several words crossed my mind. The two that stood out the most were ‘bull’ and ‘shit’. But, being the obedient little Science-Projectette that I was, I feigned belief – though not without impatiently requesting some of his top shelf happy drugs.

It turns out that Dr. Sickboy was right, it was a little uncomfortable. If by ‘a little’ he actually meant shitloads. Fuck. Ow. Ow. Ow. Thank gods for the ameliorating affects of the drugs I say, for without them I surely would have kicked him in the nuts as an act of revenge. Acutely aware of the pain but happily distracted by the now spinning room and all the pretty, pretty lights I relaxed a little – well, as much as one can when one is on ones back, knee high leather booted legs akimbo (I forgot that you had to keep your shoes on in the lab and was utterly embarrassed) in stirrups while a strange Scotsman stands between them vaccuming your follicles.

Besides the God awful pain, discomfort and embarrassment, retrieval went well and our funky chickens delivered. Twelve eggs! M and I whooped with delight at the number. We had a full carton! And that just somehow seemed right.

M took his sperm to their day spa appt. where they all lolled about in their tiny little towels, getting washed and coiffed while I sat in recovery hoping they’d been working on some seriously good pick up lines to use on the eggs… who were waiting in the lab touching up their lippy and mascara.

When our scientist, Not-Stephen-Hawking, popped her head around to let us know they’d miscounted and there were actually 13 eggs, I think she expected joy… and seemed a little shocked that she didn’t get it from me. I mean, I should have been ecstatic because it meant we had more chance but it had the opposite effect on silly control freakish me. I was gutted… devastated that she’d ruined my perfectly ordered carton of eggs with, of all things, an unlucky number.  Stupid scientist.

M tried to convince it wasn’t unlucky and that we should be thrilled with such a result, given last time we only got seven. “Lucky seven,” I pointed out! Rolling his eyes at my utter stupidity he suggested lunch at nice water front restaurant, knowing that nothing can distract me from daftness faster than food. So, still drugged to the eyeballs, we very sensibly went for a celebratory lunch where I very un-sensibly added a little champagne to my already toxic bloodstream. I don’t really remember the rest of the day. Oops.

Today, Not-Stephen-Hawking called to let us know that the fluffy coiffed sperm had indeed been practising their pick up lines and had rocked up to the Petri dish looking buff and driving little sperm Porsches.  My eggs, superficial as they are, must have been impressed because eight fertilised. Yeehah… 13 hadn’t been unlucky after all.

Fluent as I am in icon speak, I ran the number by to my motley crew of icons and they were most pleased. Eight was just fine by them.

The Buddha’s squealed with delight and high fived each other. Buddhists follow the Noble Eightfold path and are encouraged to the observe eight Buddhist Precepts to cultivate compassion, generosity, contentment and mindfulness.  There are eight lucky symbols’ – the parasol, the goldfish, the treasure vase, the lotus blossom, the banner of victory, the conch shell, the eternal knot and the eight-spoked wheel. It also didn’t hurt that the 8th was Buddha’s birthday.

My Chinese Buddha’s were particularly excited given that in Chinese culture eight is considered the luckiest  number of them all and in secular Chinese folklore there are eight demigods known as the immortals that can give life or destroy evil.

Skinny Ganesha and Shiva, dancing lord and protector of our toilet – pointed out that in Hinduism eight is the number of wealth and abundance. 

Even the Black Mary of Rocamadour, though piously dismissive of the other Icons claims, acknowledged that eight is a positive in Christianity, it being the number of sacred Beatitudes that form the core of Christian life. 

As the Icons debated the pros and cons of their own personal agendas amongst themselves it also dawned on me that Hannukah is an eight day Jewish celebration and in Islam, it’s the number of Angels carrying the Holy Throne of Allah.

That had us covered wih all the majors.

As for the more obscure Icons… Freya shared some random thoughts on eight-legged horses in Norse Mythology, though she may have just been tripping on some kind of Nordic acid. While the Venus of Lespuge, not known for her skills of erudition, just jiggled her enormous tits.  
                                
Thinking outside of secular and mythological connotations, eight is the winning ball in a game of pool. And M, when he was younger, more foolish and a frequenter of pool halls, used to order hash by the ‘eighth’ so this would definitely be an auspicious sign to him, desperate as he is for me to have a successful pregnancy so he can once again imbibe in other cannabis bi-products.

Hmm, what else? Octopi have eight tentacles, which are delicious when marinated and BBQ’d and Octomum, who is clearly the most fertile being of all, delivered eight babies.

At this point I am clearly grasping at straws – so should stop my obsessing before I am declared mentally unfit and given a ‘section 8’.
 

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Filed under eggs, Infertility, IVF, Uncategorized

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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Filed under Devilboy, drugs, iconography, Infertility, IVF, misery, Uncategorized

Oh, that’s how you make babies.

I’ve been thinking about the reasons M and I have been unable to achieve a successful pregnancy and realised after a depressed afternoon in front of the ‘W’ channel exactly why.

We’ve been going about this all the wrong way. A healthy diet, herbal fertility treatments, acupuncture, temperature taking, weeing on sticks, avoidance of alcohol, drugs and caffeine plus anything else mildly amusing, a household full of fertility icons, IVF treatments and even sex just aren’t going to cut it. Pillows under the butt, a hundred books on conception and the sweet advice from friends to just relax (yeah right!) and being asked constantly ‘are you pregnant yet?’ also isn’t going to help.

I have realised now that I need to change my entire lifestyle if I want to become a virtual baby making machine.

Firstly I need to get completely hammered and shag M in the back seat of my dads car with a broken condom and cross my fingers I don’t fall pregnant ‘cause that would be, like, totally uncool.

Failing this I need to take up crack, preferably in conjunction with prostitution. After M and I move into our new trailer home I will also become an alcoholic with an addiction to anti-depressants and M needs also to become an alcoholic as well as beating me as frequently as possible.

M needs to have an illicit affair with another woman and leave me or I can have an illicit affair with an underage male, preferable a student… which may prove difficult as I am not a teacher. Illicit sex with another man or men, preferably Asian or African American, on the same day I have sex with M producing multiple babies of different colours is also a fabulous option.

If all else fails I just need to have sex with Kevin Federline.

According to my television any of the above will guarantee us an abundance of babies… and the TV would never lie.

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Filed under accupuncture, iconography, Infertility, IVF

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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Filed under drugs, Infertility, IVF, needles, tests

I wonder…

… if IVF drugs are supposed to simulate the effects of the alleged latter stages of pregnancy on your brain to get you used to being a pregnant woman. Every intelligent woman I know has said their brains have turned to goo during pregnancy but after a few days of injectable drugs and my brain is already like soft cheese.

For example, yesterday I left my handbag at home when I went to a meeting. I realised half way there and returned home, picked up said handbag and headed back to my meeting.

On the way from my meeting to the office, I realised that I left the very same handbag at the place of the meeting. I returned, collected it and headed off one more on my merry vacuous way.

At lunchtime I went to retrieve my wallet from my handbag and realised I had left my handbag in my car. do you see a pattern forming?

The day finally over I collected my laptop and all my bits and pieces and headed to meet M in Kirribilli for dinner. When reaching for my bag to get some coins to pay for the parking meter I realised that I didn’t have it. Quel Surprise. It was still at the office.

This is the same handbag I carry everyday. The same handbag that I have used for years and years and have never ever left behind even once. It is so much part of my daily attire it would be like leaving the house nude.

I spoke to the IVF clinic to see if this was somehow normal and they said yes. Stupidity is a definite side effect. Great.

The other fabulously exciting side effect is that I get short of breath walking up stairs and my heart rate is around 482,000,000 beats per minute. It’s a good thing we only have about three thousand stairs at our flat. I have also managed to burst into unsolicited tears on average once a day since the first injection. Aide moi! This is going to be fun.

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Filed under Infertility, IVF, stupidity