Item – Hi, H! Thank you for posting yesterday. Hi, Gentle Readers! It’s May, but a rather frazzled May who is so not up to narrative arc. So! Items!
Item – H mentioned the ‘tricky’ egg retrieval yesterday. By ‘tricky’, Dr George assured me, he meant they had to tilt the table with me on it at 45 degrees, and the one of the nurses pushed down hard on my belly with both fists, in an attempt to shove Satsuma just that little bit closer to the ‘probe’ (I think he meant ‘needle’). ‘And we used the extra-long probe, of course,’ he added breezily, ‘You’ll feel a bit bruised tomorrow.’
Item – He’s right, you know. I do.
Item – Itemised list of owie: Bruised back of left hand from bastard awful failed cannula insertion which hurt so much I nearly cried (Anaesthetist very apologetic). Bruised crook of left elbow where I had several blood draws including a messed up one already, but where the cannula had to go in the end anyway so tough. Mysterious scratch on inner wrist, possibly to do with Anaesthetist’s chirpy announcement she likes to do acupuncture on her sleeping patients to hasten their recovery oh my horsey God. Tender area between waist and ribs on right side of abdomen, I think courtesy of Satsuma-wrangling. Tender achy Satsuma, who is clearly feeling hard-done-by (and oh, Lord, but wasn’t she sore when I came round. Thank you tramadol). Attacks of menstrual-ish cramp whenever I pee. And there is no way in aitch-ee-double-hockeysticks that I’m getting into anything with a waistband this week. On the plus side, I am peeing, and I’m not bleeding.
Item – Thirteen eggs! It seems to me that Satsuma, Queen of Passive-Aggression that she is, decided to be as helpful as possible in the most fucking awkward way possible. Yes! I will grow many many eggs, all by myself I might add, and I will take them with me to relax on your lungs because I can’t work in these conditions why won’t you people leave me alone. What do you mean, giant needle through the vagina? I just grew all these! Absolutely fucking not, you can’t have them, I’m leaving, Harold, and taking the babies with me! [Who the hell is Harold? – Ed.]
Item – As of this morning, I am taking two Cyclogest pessaries a day, morning and evening, fore or aft. I am going with ‘fore’ for the moment because [TMI] farting after the insertion of melty waxy substances aft is traumatic. I am instructed to go aft on day of transfer. Joy. I am still on Metformin, and Prednisolone. Tonight, I stuck my poor abused muffin-top with 40mg of Clexane, in a pre-loaded syringe that goes ‘bang’ when it’s done. Have you ever had a stout elastic band snap and ping you? Feels like that. I have ice. And all those, plus the Intralipid infusion yesterday (Golly that was boring. And I had to call for the nurse to unplug the drip-stand from the wall so I could go to the loo. Dignity), are to stop my rabid and unreasonable immune system from savaging the putative embryo when or if we put one back.
Item – Speaking of Putative Embryos, Riverside called this morning to let us know that of the thirteen exhaustingly retrieved eggs, nine had played nice with H’s little gentlefolk and fertilised. Nine! Nine embryos!
Item – They will now spend the weekend in a nice warm incubator, I hope behaving themselves impeccably and dividing neatly and evenly and in a timely fashion. And yes, it does feel surreal and slightly wrong that they’re all the way over there and I’m all the way over here. On Monday at 8am, the embryologists will let us know how they all got on, and we have to decide right there and then whether to do Day 3 CGH, Day 5 CGH, or stick any sorry remainder straight back in without testing. Or if they’re all dead, of course. The attrition rate on this is not for the milky with human kindness. So Transfer could be anywhere between Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, next cycle as FET, or never because life’s a sod like that.
Item – I am cycling rapidly between delight (‘nine! Nine embryos!’), Jewish motherishness (‘And what was wrong with the other eggs? Eh? Eh?’ (my first Jewish Mother joke about me! I’m so proud)), and profound irritable despond, because what’s the point and why would I ever assume it would work, and I’m sad and I’m tired. H being anxious and cranky as well, we had a, uh, frank exchange of unflattering opinions. This sucks.
Item – Nine!
Item – Ow.
Item – Nine!