We’re still here. May, H, and the putatively rapidly-increasing-to-orange-pip-size embryo (you had better be increasing to orange pip, young lady/man. Or there will be tears (mine, obviously. I don’t think you get around to lachrymal glands for weeks and weeks)).
I took the official, digital, expensive HPT on Friday morning. It briskly came up with ‘pregnant, 1-2 weeks’ (meaning since conception). So there you go. I then left a message for the IVF nurses at Riverside and went on my merry way to work.
(Holy crap. I’m pregnant).
The IVF nurses and I played a few rounds of telephone tag (there’s no phone signal in my office. Hurrah) before I managed to nail one of them down in the office.
‘So, you’re reporting a positive pregnancy test? Let me find your notes… Oh! I see we transferred an absolutely perfect, beautiful embryo! Well done! And a positive pregnancy test this morning! Congratulations!’
‘Thank you,’ I said blushing ferociously, halfway up an alley next to a building-site.
‘So, six week scan, let me see, how does August 15th sound? It’s more like six weeks and a bit…’
‘*sotto voceOr damn near seven weeks*’
‘Byeeee! Good luck! Keep taking the medications! Call us if you have any questions! Good luck! Perfect embryo!’
These last at a bellow because the cement-mixer had just started up.
H and I are perfectly reasonable specimens, but perfect? We made something perfect? Well, we did (6AA, 42 chromomes in neat pairs) but how?
On my way home from work, I stopped at Riverside’s pharmacy to collect the last of my prescription for Clexane and Cyclogest. I’d wimped out of having more than 14 days’ worth of both in the house in case I got a negative and had to sit there and stare at the boxes while weaning myself off steroids and bleeding that perfect embryo out in a tsunami of gore. But even with the rest of the prescription safely gathered in, I don’t have enough to last next week. The plan is, on Monday, to go to the GP and get them all transferred to NHS prescriptions. And if there’s any delay or issue with that, we’ll have time to get a renewal from Dr George and, oh, I don’t know, sell a kidney or something.
We also need to arrange for my second Intralipid infusion, which is also supposed to happen at around week six.
I am going to be discommoding work repeatedly for weeks, aren’t I? First person to say ‘Pregnancy is not an illness!’ gets karate-chopped in the throat.
Speaking of which, symptoms! Feel free to skip!
- Breasts – sensitive and bullet-nippled for the first week or so I spent on progesterone. And then they got bored and dozed off. And that is where they remain. Underwhelmed. Noncommittal.
- Nausea – nope. Not since the brief brush with OHSS. I do feel vaguely averse to raw egg-whites and mayonnaise, and chocolate seems pointless and tastes funny.
- Metal-mouth – Yes! Plain water tastes awful, so this pregnancy continues to be sponsored by Gatorade (H bought gallons of the stuff in case the OHSS settled in for a while).
- Cramps – intermittent, worse in the evenings or after a walk. I am doing my best to ignore them. You hear that, Cute Ute? I am ignoring you, you whiny bitch. And leave that embryo in peace. It’s supposed to be digging a hole right into your lining. Satsuma, meanwhile, lets off occasional twinges and dull achery, because why the fuck not? She never normally bitches during the luteal phase, but I think she is still sulking about the 18+ follicles and being shoved hard towards a two-foot needle.
- Headache – slight, persistent, possibly due to sleep deprivation. Progesterone normally makes me sleepy. Well, my own progesterone does. This ersatz stuff in cooter bullets clearly substandard.
- Belly – absolutely covered in bruises, from pin-head scarlet blood-blisters to socking great lurid blue green purple blotches. Oh, Clexane. I am less likely to bruise if I put an ice-pack on for a few minutes before and after injecting, and if I depress the plunger on the syringe v-e-r-y slowly. No, slower than that, even. Slower.
- Cooter – (look, I said you could skip this) a little itchy, but hasn’t produced any spotting again. However, the waxy, slithery sensations of melting pessary/suppository are not nice. And my knickers do not approve. Yes, yes, I have panty liners, but I’ve never really liked wearing them, either. No, this is not sexy. No, we haven’t had sex since before retrieval. Damn it all.
So, yes, here we are. I have known I was pregnant since Tuesday morning, and Nothing Bad Has Happened Yet. That’s six whole days. It is not how we do things chez May. It just is not. I don’t really know how to deal with it. Optimism and good cheer seem ridiculously premature, anxious gloom is just churlish.