I am finding it hard not to speculate about what the haematologist will say but I am now considering the risks in more and more detail. I am hoping that anticoagulants will be the answer but as I say, it is best not to speculate. I suspect that it would reduce the risks by having Clexane which is an injectible anticoagulant that I have had before when I have travelled overseas. We will see in a couple of weeks, I guess.
Okay – so on with the IVF past story. After the first cancelled cycle, I was devastated but was picked up a lot by the girls at an IVF forum that I visited, their advice was wonderful. The first cycle was really an experimentation by the doctors because they don’t know how you are going to react to the drugs and it was this advice that I hung my hat on. We had Christmas that year and went away to our beach spot like we normally did in summer and had a relaxing time. When we got back, we were ready to go with our next cycle. They increased the drugs that I was on in that protocol and put me on a boost cycle so at least it was a quicker one. I approached everything with a lot less enthusiasm this time, I was extremely cautious. We did get to the first scan and found that there were only 3 follicles of a reasonable size. We were pretty upset but our fertility specialist still allowed us to go to egg collection – he outlined the risks and gave us the choice.
As an aside, during the first cycle, I wore the same pyjamas every night to bed. They were orange because I had read an article about orange being the colour of fertility. During the second cycle, I resurrected these pyjamas (which had been kicked unceremoniously into the spare room when the cycle was cancelled) and wore them but not without a touch of dubiousness. I mocked myself mercilessly for this wearing of the orange pyjamas. Fast forward to now and the orange pyjamas were jammed into the bin long ago.
On the day of the egg collection, both JourneyMan and I were having procedures because he had to have the needle biopsy to retrieve his sperm from behind the vasectomy. The clinic was in an uproar because it was the first day after they had moved the day surgery so it took awhile to get everything sorted. We sat in the waiting room both in our robes and gowns smiling wryly at each other. He went in first and was having a local anaesthetic. After awhile, the doctor came out and said that they had to use a general anaesthetic because of the pain so I would need to find someone to take us home (JourneyMan was going to drive us home because he was only have a local). I asked the nurses to call my Mum and she agreed that she would come and pick us up and my Dad would drive our car home.
I didn’t see JourneyMan again until after my surgery. After a lot of waiting and reading trashy magazines (a guilty pleasure of mine – generally reserved for plane trips and hospital visits, they have graduated lately to being a pick me up when I am feeling like a treat) I went in to the operating room. Of course, the next thing that I knew, I was waking up in recovery. I always read every piece of literature from the clinic, the specialist and the hospital religiously so I knew that my clinic writes the number of eggs retrieved on the back of your hand. As soon as I woke up, I surreptitiously was trying to get a look at the back of my hand. After waking up a bit more, I looked at my hand and there was nothing. At the time, I wasn’t worried at all, after all – they could have changed their policy or they might have forgotten in the confused state of the clinic on that day. Looking back now, I can’t believe that I wasn’t worried at all – I wasn’t even worried when I asked the nurse how many eggs that they retrieved and she said that the doctor would come and see me soon. I mean come on there is naive and there is just plain dumb!
After a cup of tea and a sandwich, I was moved to the recovery lounges and JourneyMan joined me there – still in a bit of pain. After an interminable wait, the doctor came and told us that they did not get any eggs at all. I started crying and they pulled the curtains around us. Nurses whispered, everyone stayed away for awhile. I don’t remember much of the day after that. I know that Mum and Dad came to get us, I know I barely spoke all I remember is getting home and crying like I have never cried before in my life. I felt like I was howling like a wolf, the pain inside was so great – I just needed to get some of it out. I now know that that was the day that I lost the hopeful, cockeyed optimist in me that felt that I would absolutely, 100% have a baby of my own. A more cautious, more weary, more bitter girl has taken her place.
Don’t get me wrong, I am still fighting, I am still planning and I still believe that we will have a baby one day. The main effect has been that I have turned inwards, I don’t talk about it as much anymore with people, I am having trouble seeing my fertile friends and I have a constant pain inside that I try to replace with love for Journey Man and Journey Dog that is Woolly. Sometimes I grieve for that more happier, carefree version of myself, sometimes I despair that she will not ever come back. One thing that I have still though is hope, I hope to see her again.