Thalia's fertility journey

Just another everyday sadness

Oh the joy of needing to compose a new category. Any suggestions? Post IVF#3: Continuing the death march? Or Post IVF#3: Lalalalala I can't hear you? Or Post IVF#3: If RW is still 35, then so am I?

Yes, you can tell, I'm not exactly over this yet. The weekend showed me this pretty clearly. First, I went to Tescos on Friday afternoon to get some cake-making ingredients. I went fully armed with an ipod on full volume, but it didn't manage to block my visuals of hundreds and hundreds of small children who were having fun with shopping. And chatting, and crying, and asking: "Why?" and whining and all that good stuff, but still, no matter how much their parents would rather have been without them at that particular instant, I still wanted to be with one of them. Or two or three. Getting emotional in the organic fruit aisle, not really recommended.

Then we went to a friend's birthday lunch on Sunday. We thought we'd timed it right so we'd be able to walk in, say hi to our three good friends who would be there, then deposit our chocolate gingerbread contribution, then leave again sharpish. When we got there, our birthday friend was alone with just one other couple and their two (adorable, blond, slightly suntanned) children. We sort of know this couple who are perfectly charming but not close to us and not people we really needed to make small talk with this weekend. Not quite what we'd planned. We ended up staying for over two hours while people slowly trickled in, until just after lunch was served and one of our friends showed up, then making an almost indecently fast exit, with the excuse that we needed to get back to our builder. Yes, the builders are still in, and in a desperate attempt to finish one of them was indeed working this Sunday, we weren't lying to our friends. In fact, it was a good thing we left when we did, as the builder was slightly forlornly sitting on our bottom step smoking when we got back. Anyway, the lunch was very stressful all round - making polite conversation is really not my thing at the moment - and I was glad to be home again, even sans gingerbread.

I was thinking about the grief yesterday. And this morning, and most of the rest of my waking hours, actually. I was wondering why this pervasive sadness was back again, when getting a negative after a cycle isn't really as bad as having a miscarriage, no matter how early that miscarriage was. And I realised, because I'm so bright that way, that the sadness is back because this isn't any different than the grief of the miscarriage. It's all one big bit of grief, which just goes on and on and on being sad. Perhaps the last post I wrote should have offered me one ginormous clue that that was true, but what can I say, I guess my brilliance is taking a back seat to my sadness right now.

So yes, I'm really sad. My life is just coloured a peculiarly unattractive shade of grey all round. I don't really like my job, even while I recognise that I am bloody lucky to work for a company that has such good benefits, and pays me so well, and offers me interesting and challenging work, well, at least some of the time. Because I'd really rather be home, looking after a demanding and generally unresponsive infant, I don't get much pleasure out of my work. I'm fatter than I'd like to be, again, yet one of the few things that does make me feel better is cooking and eating delicious food. To the extent that I'm seriously considering whether a local deli would sell some of my cakes and cookies. At least that way I could get the satisfaction of making them without H and I and my work colleagues being the sole so-called beneficiaries. I'm guessing that as soon as this stuff is for sale to the general public that I'd have to follow all sorts of health and safety guidelines that my kitchen probably doesn't comply with, so it's probably not an option. But right now I do think it would make me happy. Cooking=nurturing=love, isn't that right?

Of course H is very sad, too. I think we, and the world, often forget how sad our men get. H has dropped little things into the conversation recently that have been quite illuminating. Things like: "Don't you hate it when we see so many babies on the way to the gym?" And "Let's not go to the wetlands centre today, it will be full of families." And he had to go out into the garden yesterday after a few minutes with the happy couple and their (adorable) children. I followed him out and he said: "Thank you, that was a signal that I needed a hug. But look, the baby's following us!" And indeed, the (very cute) baby was crawling in a very determined manner towards us. H also has a thoroughly violent reaction every time I turn to something like 'baby story' on the TV - not that I do it very often any more, but, as I'm sure you recognise, sometimes that masochism just kicks in. He always asks: "Why are you doing this? Why are you making yourself feel worse?" I just protest that actually in that instant it's ok for me to watch this programme, but I think now that I've been missing the point. It's him who can't bear to watch those programmes, not just me.

It always shocks me when he comes out with those kinds of statements. He's such the strong, kind, silent type that I imagine him, sad yet stalwart, just getting on with life. Those little sad comments give me a clue that he's holding a lot in so that he doesn't upset me. He continues to want to protect me, to look after me and make me feel better, so he doesn't burden me with those feelings that he has. But he has them, nonetheless. So I worry about him. Not much I can do, but I worry about him.

I've been thinking a lot about adoption. And getting very scared, and wanting to talk to H about it, but he's not ready. I'll write a proper post on it soon.

Thank you again for all your recent support. You've been fabulous.

I probably shouldn't be writing this

If we had got pregnant the first time we had unprotected sex at the right time of the month, our baby would be about to have her 18 month birthday. She would be walking and crashing into things and talking to us. I would be expecting number two.

If we had got pregnant first the time we had great unprotected holiday sex at the right time of month, around the first time one of my friends told me to 'just relax', our baby would have just turned one. He would be forming words and cruising, and loving knocking over the towers that we built him.

If we had got pregnant after I had the HSG, which as every board member knows "cleans out your tubes and improves your fertility", our baby would be nine months old. He would be crawling and getting into everything and enjoying smearing food over his entire body when we tried to feed him.

If we had got pregnant after the first laparoscopy had cleaned up the endo, and the hysteroscopy had removed the fibroid, our baby would be seven months old and reaching for her blocks and keys, laughing and babbling. We would be convinced that she already had a few words, but no one else would believe us. I'd be about to go back to work and I'd be terrified.

If we had got pregnant on our abortive IUI cycle, Our baby would be nearly six months old. She would be sitting up on her own, and suffering from stranger anxiety. She'd be enjoying the treasure basket that her grandmother had created for her.

If we had got pregnant on our first IVF cycle, our baby would be about six weeks old. We would be totally exhausted, overwhelmed, and dirty. He would be starting to smile at us, and we would be bowled over in our amazement at finally getting something back from him.

If we'd got pregnant on our 'fuck IVF' holiday, I'd be about to give birth. I'd be uncomfortable and terrified and overjoyed and terrified and excited and huge and amazed.

If we had not had a miscarriage, I would be five months pregnant now. I would be clearly showing, and everyone would be congratulating us. I'd be looking forward nervously to the rabbi who married us finally noticing the pregnancy when we went to synagogue for the high holy days, and dreading him asking us why it took us so long. I'd be starting to think things might be ok. We'd know that it was a boy, and we'd be starting to think about names. My hairdresser and I would already be teasing each other about him dating her daughter when they got older.

If we had got pregnant on our third IVF cycle, I would be four weeks and two days pregnant. I would be viciously addicted to the visembryo site. I would be petrified and overjoyed at the same time. I'd be telling myself that lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place, even though I know that's a crock of shit.

12dp2dt: Yeah, well, I hate to say I told you so

So I defy even the most optimistic of you to feel good about this. Beta=2. My body clearly couldn't get round to giving a resounding negative, so it gives us a level of 2. Which means I'm supposed to go back in in a week for another test, which I find somewhat ridiculous. It's not because they think I might be a tiny bit pregnant, thank heavens, it's just so they've got a zero on the books. Even Dr Condescending said gently: I'll leave it up to you, Thalia, but we'd prefer you to come in, just so we can close off on this cycle properly.

Actually what I reckon is my body gives a low level positive on these tests anyway. On that first cycle the level on 10dp3dt, after 2 days of bleeding, was 5, and a week later the level was 2, when presumably it should have been zero. Certainly that time they didn't make me come back for another test. So I'm not convinced that the level of 2 today means anything at all. But I guess I'll be compliant and go for another test, if only for the scientific interest.

I did of course collapse into floods after I hung up on Dr Condescending. There is always that little tiny bit of hope left, but no, now the fat lady has most definitely sung. I was walking across Hyde Park when the call came, so I called H, then just kept walking. I spent some time by the round pond, having geese honk at me, remembering my grandmother as it's where she and I used to walk together. Then I walked on to a little deli, bought some good bread and cheese, and walked on home. Sadly I was not wearing walking shoes as I went to a posh conference this morning, so now my feet hurt. A lot. But it was a pretty, blustery day and I wanted to walk. Hyde Park was nice and empty so it didn't really matter that the tears kept rolling down my face.

It's really over.

11dp2dt: White as a, oh I don't know, a very white thing

Yes well, I appreciate the 'wait for the beta' comments, and yes, a part of me is doing that. But I honestly don't see how this can be looked on with optimism. The peesticks detect approx. 20 units of hcg. A beta of less than 50 on day 14 is not likely to end well (and yes, I do know that a beta of 500 on day 14 may still not end well, but at least it's a better start). If the peestick didn't pick up anything this morning (and believe me, it got held at every possible angle just in case), then there are less than 20 units of hcg around, and that means the hcg tomorrow would be less than 30, and we all know where that's going. Yes, I know about Brooklyn Girl's beta of 14 which ended up as her son, but there aren't too many other examples out there, are there, or we'd all be talking about them.

You will have every right to make me eat humble pie if there is better news tomorrow, but honestly guys, it's not very likely, is it?

I'm running through scenarios in my head. Frozen cycle? Break for a few months so that the next transfer is after my 40th birthday and they'll let us put back three (I'm wondering if it's that literal - i.e., transfer on 12 January, only 2 embryos; transfer on 13 January, 3 embryos off you go. Will they check what time of day I was born just in case they go a few hours too early?)? Go straight (as straight as possible) into another fresh cycle because after all, the stats for fresh cycles are better? Give it all up and go buy a nice holiday home in Tahiti or somewhere? Call the social worker about starting the adoption process? Give up work for six months to get myself in great shape and hope that helps?

I'm in a mess emotionally so clearly making any kind of decision isn't going to happen just yet. It hurts, oh how it hurts. I'm going to have to go through my 40th birthday without a baby, and without being pregnant. I find that prospect absolutely terrifying. 

10dp2dt: White as a sheet

Thanks sweeties for yesterday. I always go to the archives of other people's sites when this happens to me. Julie's, clearly, from my message on Thursday, and also Suz's because she had the negative peestick experience before getting a positive beta. But the thing with those is that Suz clearly had a crap bunch of peesticks, and Julie got a positive at 8dp3dt, so my continued negative today isn't really terribly encouraging. Last cycle I got a positive at 11dp2dt, and it was a bloody clear positive, so much so that it would clearly also have also been positive the day before, and almost certainly the day before that.

I did a lot of despairing yesterday. So far today (it's only been 35 minutes) I'm holding it together. I'm saving the bitter, why us, what-the-hell-is-going-on-here post for after the beta, just in case. But you see the thing is that I knew I wasn't pregnant this time. I knew I wasn't pregnant on the first cycle, too. And last time, despite my fears, I knew that those cramps and pullings meant I was pregnant. When I took that peestick on the morning of 11dp2dt, although of course I was terrified, I knew it was going to be positive. Yesterday when I took that peestick I knew it was going to be negative. Of course I hoped, of course I did, but I knew. Funnily enough, the knowing doesn't stop the despair, it isn't any protection, but it's true nonetheless.

I do understand the 'Hope's a bitch' thing better now. We can't help hoping, it's human nature. Otherwise why would we go through this over and over again. And you all know how hopeful I was about this cycle, having got pregnant last time. I honestly don't think the hoping makes the disappointment worse. It's always just going to be totally horrible, investing all your emotional, and most of your physical, energy for months, to end in nothingness. Not hoping just means you're miserable leading up to being even more miserable. But when you have to stop hoping, you feel like an idiot for ever having hoped at all. I think that's where the bitch thing comes from.

I did tell H last night, and he was devastated. I always forget how much pain he carries with all of this too. I looked at Megan's birth pictures last night, and I saw her husband sobbing with joy, and I thought, that should be what H gets to feel, too. Instead of the other kind of sobbing. He didn't sob last night, he just got teary and offered me lots of hugs. The only time I've seen him sob is after the bad scan in our pregnancy, the one at 7w1d which showed there was no hope. At least this time we didn't get that particular crumb held out to us.

Okay it does sound like the self-pitying why-us post that I wasn't going to write. I think I have to stop and go and soothe myself some other way. Luckily a few weeks ago I ordered a couple of recent Doonesbury compendia, and I'm only halfway through 2002. That man's a genius. I'm off to laugh at George Bush's sayings again (no offence).

9dp2dt: Stupidity and despair

See, I was going to write a non-IVF related post about ice-cream flavours and other diversions, following Kath's lead. But I was busy enough at work yesterday that I didn't get round to it. And today I've been feeling too terrified at the knowledge of that peestick test coming up tomorrow morning to write anything light hearted and smiley. Instead I've been watching television, reading the paper, reading your blogs, and freaking out.

I did decide that the peestick left over from the last cycle wasn't good enough to be the deciding factor in my happiness tomorrow morning, so I've just been out to buy a new stock. And of course I decided that since I had them, I might as well try them out. So I have just christened the first peestick of IVF#3. Yes, in the middle of the afternoon, and with relatively dilute urine. So tell me I shouldn't despair that it was negative? That I should ignore that vast expanse of snowy whiteness? Yes, I can hear you from here. Sadly I'm not apparently paying any attention.

I've hidden the packaging from H, who is out. I don't want him to know yet because he'll despair and I can't bear to break his heart just yet. I'll do another one tomorrow morning, and then we'll see.

7dp2dt: Basket case

You're saying all the right things but I'm a basket case. I called H earlier in the hopes of him cheering me up, but he told me he'd had a panic attack about it earlier this afternoon. He really believes in my judgement of my bodily signals, that's the problem. Perhaps I need to keep this freaking out stuff to myself rather than burdening him? He did ask what my 'friends' thought about it and when I told him you'd all told me to calm down, he said "well perhaps your friends are cleverer than we are." And of course you are.

I might or might not be having a bit of cramping. Personally I think I'm making it up, or that my body has been so cowed into submission that it's giving me little twinges, but only when I think about whether or not I'm having twinges, just to try and make me feel better. I have only had three twinges when I wasn't consciously checking to see if I had any twinges, and they were very sharp and probably gas instead.

Is ligament pain in your inner thighs a sign?

Blimey I sound like a complete newbie from the boards obsessing about symptoms. I don't deserve to live, someone shoot me please.

I feel like ranting and raving but that really makes for such boring posts. And I've written them before. That's the thing about infertility, it just goes on and on and on being horrible and stressful. Even in pregnancy none of us seem to relax. It's all hard.

I do know intellectually that we might get pregnant this cycle. I also know that we might not - and in fact the chances are more in favour of the latter. I know that if we don't get pregnant we'll keep going but oh the journey is just getting harder.

And for those who asked, yes, I will POAS. I did it at 11dp2dt last time, but this time that would be Monday which I think is a no-no. I will POAS on Sunday, to give me a whole day of no interruptions from the world to get over it. 10dp2dt is plenty late enough to get a signal if there is going to be one. In Julie's pregnancy with Charlie, she got a positive (as seen "by the light of a thousand suns") on 8dp3dt, which is the same as my Saturday morning. But given it was so light perhaps I'll wait til Sunday. Let's see if I can hold out. I'd rather not have the snowy white space and wonder if I just tested too early. And yes, I know all pregnancies are different and just because Julie got a positive that day doesn't mean I will. But it's my fucked up logic and I'll stick to it if I want to.

6dp2dt: absence

Well yes, this is kind of a: "move along, nothing to see here, people" kind of post. This time last cycle I had suggestive cramps and shiftings in my abdomen. This time, nothing. I hope that doesn't mean anything, but it's freaking me out. I do so want this. My intellectual self is assuming that feeling those cramps meant nothing last time and would mean nothing this time, but my human brain, trained to recognise patterns and draw conclusions from them, made a connection between those sensations and getting pregnant, and it's not budging.

I ask myself how things could have been better this cycle. Yes, I could have not fainted etc., but that's really got nothing to do with my chances of getting pregnant. We had the most eggs, and the most embryos we've ever had, and number of eggs retrieved is correlated with pregnancy rates. We had the best possible embryos for day 2, and the characteristics of those embryos are linked to pregnancy rates. Four cells is ideal on day 2, and ours were graded almost at the top of the range because of their symmetry and lack of fragmentation. A 1 is top, but our embryologists say they don't often score any embryo a 1, so I shouldn't worry that ours were 1.5s. After all, we got pregnant last time with one that was graded a 2. And I'm choosing not to link the fact that at some point around six weeks it stopped growing, with the grading on day 2. I don't think embryology is as exact a science as that.

So I don't think we could have started off with a much better chance than we did on Thursday last week. Of course, I could be 5 years younger, that would help. Or I could not have endometriosis...or...

Yes, that's not really very helpful, is it?

I spent time yesterday with a friend who is very much of the school of: I will take whatever direction life sends me and just react accordingly. She and I laughed about how different I am. I am raging against an apparently indifferent Fate. Fate doesn't want us to have children? Screw you, Fate. Thirty years ago we would not have had the option of intervening this way in our fertility, and we would have moved towards adoption much sooner. Thirty years ago I don't think (although I don't know, I haven't investigated) people knew so much about how hard adoption is and how many challenges it creates. But we're not living 30 years ago, just like I'm not 5 years younger and living without endometriosis. We're living now and I'm absolutely going to wring the last possible drop out of the medical advances that have happened in that time, to try and help us get our heart's desire. If this cycle doesn't work, there will be another cycle. I don't know when, as I don't know how to help my body prepare for it. Between the zoladex and the miscarriage I've only had one 'normal' period since February this year, and presumably at some point my body's going to freak out on me. If two more cycles don't work, well, then I'll have to listen to Fate perhaps.

It's all very mystical isn't it? The invisibility of what happens inside us that causes our bodies not to produce eggs in the first place, or not to welcome our embryos once they're inside us, or to miscarry our developing future children? Nothing us rationalist 21st century people can do to make sense of it or to affect it. Perhaps that's why we resort to such un-rational language - the language of Fate and Hope and Luck and Wishing. If only those last three worked just because they are felt by those around us. With all the support we give each other, we'd all be there by now.

I'm off to bury my head in the sand.

Catherine T. Smith

Many of you may be surprised at finding this entry on my blog today. I'm quite surprised myself. When I first read about it on another infertility blog (I've forgotten whose, I'm sorry), I wasn't immediately tempted to get involved. It just didn't feel right, to be focusing on these 2,996 at the expense of all the other victims of similar atrocities who we could be remembering. Then one evening I clicked through to the 2,996 website and thought, "yes, everyone here should be remembered." I don't feel any special relationship to those who died. I didn't know anyone who died, or even anyone who was affected directly by someone's death. But something in me decided I should make some effort to commemorate someone who died on a Tuesday morning in 2001. To recognise that this should not have happened, just as every day, all over the world, people die from violence that they did nothing to cause, from violence that has no end. And to recognise that people who die in such acts are real people, with real impact on the world, as a person, rather than as a statistic or a political symbol.

And so I remember Catherine T. Smith.

Catherine T. Smith had recently been promoted to the role of vice president at Marsh and McLennan. They describe themselves as a global professional services firm, who after 9/11 developed a business in consulting on terrorism risks to businesses. Their offices were in the impact zone of American Airlines flight 11's hit on the North Tower, or One World Trade Center. Catherine worked on the 96th floor. As such it seems very likely that Catherine would have died on impact, or immediately thereafter. At her memorial service, her nephew Michael, who was 12 at the time, insisted that "She did not suffer, she went in peace."

Catherine was 44 when she died, and she lived with her domestic partner, Evelyn Cedeno in West Haverstraw, NY, USA. Evelyn and Catherine had both been regulars at the same bar in Rockland County for over twenty years, but had only become a couple about six years before 9/11. They had met again shortly after they'd both suffered break-ups, and took the opportunity to cry on each other's shoulder. Cathy, as she seems to have been known to her friends, pursued Evelyn until she finally gave in, leading to their description of themselves as Penelope and Pepe LePew. They planned to retire early, making sure they could enjoy the beachhouse in Manahawkin, on the Jersey Shore, which they'd recently built.

I wonder what Cathy's earlier life must have been like, coming of age just six years after Stonewall. She seems to have grown up in surburban New Jersey - what would her High School experience have been like in the early 70s? At least NYC would have been close by. By the end of her life, her sexuality seems to have become a non-issue. She had a happy relationship, she had good friends and colleagues, she had her family. She was close to her family, and spent the weekend before 9/11 shopping with her sister and mother for her mother's birthday. Michael, her nephew, said she was the aunt who was always there for him.

Reports describe Cathy as warm and loving, as well as full of smiles, with a real joy for life. I worried initially that this wasn't authentic, that that is just an easy thing to say about someone who has died so suddenly, but particularly after reading spontaneous comments from those who knew her in high school, combined with all those from family, friends and colleagues, it does seem to have been a strong characteristic. After all, she drove a canary yellow Volkswagen, so she must have had a great sense of humour. She collected baseball cards, and, according to her housemate Jill Aney, she planned to set up a business trading them. I get the impression she might have been a bit shy, even with all the smiles, which makes her pursuit of Evelyn all the more impressive.

The information has run out on me now. Catherine didn't leave any artefacts on the web during her life. The informaton that exists about her are her obituaries, comments on memorial sites about her, and a report of her memorial service. I'm sure those who loved her are finding this anniversary hard, as every day must be hard, living without someone you loved - love - so much. I wish I could give more insight, could more readily convey what she was really like, to live up to what I'm sure they are all feeling. But I can't. I'm only typing about someone I never met. I hope this is enough.

I remember Catherine T. Smith. I remember her as a person, and I remember her because her impact on the world should not go unnoticed.

Offer

This is all very illegal so I'll take this down sometime soon, but if you are in the UK, preferably in London, and are taking Puregon in the next four weeks let me know. I have an almost full 900mIU cartridge in my pen, and I don't need it. It's been pierced, so it should be used within the next four weeks. I used 125mIU from it, which means it's got about 900mIU left (they always have extra, and this is how much extra was in the other cartridges I had this cycle). I don't need any money for it, I just don't want it to go to waste. I also have one orgalutron injection going spare if someone can give that a good home as well. Let me know.

0dp2dt: Best yet, yet again

One thing I KNOW for sure - our embryos not our infertility problem. In the first two cycles we didn't have many, but we had good ones. This time eight of the nine which fertilised were looking good today. We're very impressed with ourselves. Some might say smug. We even had a five cell, but it wasn't symmetrical - one of the cells was much smaller than the others - so it wasn't top choice for replacement. Instead we put back two four cells. Both were rated 1.5 - i.e., between good and excellent, which is better than the two four cells we put back on day 2 last time. One was even an 'early cleaver' which I, with my haute knowledge of American culture, refrained from asking "Walt or the Beaver?" about. An 'early cleaver' I'll have you know is one which goes to two cells before its compatriots in the petri dish, and is forever after apparently an annointed one. So we put that one back, along with its best friend, the other 1.5 grade four cell. Which as far as I can see is just an ordinary four cell, with a little bit of fragmentation. But you know, I'm not an embryologist so who I am to express an opinion. And they've frozen everything else, five four cells, the five cell and even our little underperforming two cell (which was graded higher than one of the four cells), so we know have SEVEN embicicles to add to the six we already had (although two of those (one from each of the two previous cycles) are totally crap and not worth counting).

Turns out everyone in the clinic now knows who we are, since even the embryologist, who we've never met before, asked how we were doing post Tuesday's drama. I've got a little scar on my forehead, but nothing too impressive, so I feel a bit of a fraud. I do still feel pretty uncomfortable in my abdomen, but its definitely improving day by day so I'm hoping that by the time it starts cramping in a positive way this time next week, I'll be able to detect the difference.

Part of me feels that the clinic has just become our reality. That we go there once a month or so, or more often at 'peak times', and see people, and have stuff done to us, and that that will somehow just go on and on forever. The idea that anyone could get pregnant the 'normal' way seems to exist in some parallel universe that I can't ever remember inhabiting. Yesterday leaving the hospital was like "attack of the pregnant women." Not really surprising since my ward was in the middle of one of the UK's most important maternity hospitals, and we left during the mid-morning scan rush. By the time we got to the car park we'd passed 45 women, 39 of whom were noticeably pregnant. Being the skiving blog reader that I am I know that most of those pregnant women have their own fears and worries, but somehow I doubt they've ever been in a world where going to the clinic is more normal than having sex. Or not most of them anyway. Who knows, perhaps one or two of them were looking at us coming out of the IVF clinic, thinking: "I've been there, I know how you're feeling." I don't know and I can't know.

H asked me today as we walked back to the car today, embryos on board, if I'd give up America's Next Top Model and The X Factor if it would help us have a baby. "In a heartbeat," I replied. In fact, if you could prove to me that anything would improve our chances, I'd do it. Give up chocolate for ever? No problem. Give up reading? If I really have to. Lose 20 pounds? I'd do it. The reason I'm no longer wheat-free is that it doesn't have any effect. The reason I'm not doing acupuncture, similarly. (These might be important things for you, and I'm delighted for you to do them as I don't think they can do any harm. For me, they are not the point). But show me that something, anything, could definitively increase our chances of a full-term pregnancy and I'd be on it like a shot. Rather like us all chugging the folic acid, no? So what do you reckon, what is it that science will eventually discover is THE key to a full-term healthy pregnancy? Or will there never be a magic bullet, we will be forever destined to struggle with reproduction?

Maybe I should faint more often

H just called to get the fertilisation report. Nine out of 14. We are both thrilled. I am still feeling a little ropey, but am home and ensconced on the sofa with the latest Diana Wynne Jones (just published on Saturday, how's that for timing?). I don't feel up to typing the whole story, but suffice it to say, a night on a ward with 2 women suffering with hyperemesis gravidum did add a little ironic piquancy to my life story.

Tomorrow, the transfer. Not going to blasts (or even day 3) unless they can't tell the good ones apart tomorrow. Hear that? Good ones! Plural!

Shoes turned out not to be the point today

Well, it's been an interesting day. The good news is they got 14 eggs, which is amazing. Some might be immature, so let's not count chickens, but still, that's many more than I had been hoping for.

The less good news is that Dr Condescending had to poke around quite a bit to get them. Which means I'm pretty sore. The somewhat less good news is that after I'd emptied my bladder so that they'd let us go, I passed out in the loo, fell forward, banged my head on the soap dispenser, then bounced back and landed slumped against the wall, leaning against the bin that's next to the loo. I woke up (no more than 2-3 seconds later) to hear H and the nurse banging on the door, saying “unlock this door!” They ferried me over to the nearest bed, where I started shivering and crying with shock. My blood pressure had dropped, although it's always pretty low, particularly after an anaesthetic.

That got a lot of doctors in, and after some investigation (bloods and scan) they saw there was nothing serious (no internal bleeding) but they wanted to admit me anyway to be on the safe side. So I'm in an NHS ward which is not exactly the lap of luxury, and frankly I think I'd be better off at home where I could have a nice dinner and sleep uninterrupted, but I thought I wouldn't argue too hard. I

More stories (including shoes!) when I get home tomorrow.

Of muffins, boats and follicles

After a late night last night (dinner at a noodle bar and Volver (quite good, not Almodovar's best but Penelope Cruz is outstanding and oh my goodness I just saw that she's only 32, damn her) with my brother), I woke up later than planned this morning. I wanted to make muffins before going to the 9am scan. I woke up at 8 and bizarrely decided to bake anyway, including doubling the recipe, which then made the prep period longer by needing to chop extra ginger. This meant that I'd only just put them in the oven at 0855. Of course I'd intended to take muffins to the clinic, having had a fabulous response to taking them cookies on Tuesday, but they simply weren't close to being ready so I thought that I'd rather be on time sans muffins, than half an hour late with them.

I therefore had to go off to the scan without H, who was given instructions about how to test for muffin done-ness - he doesn't bake, he cooks, so this was quite a bit responsibility. He also felt bad about not coming with me, and, I think, just a tad nervous as the pattern in our relationship is that he drives and I sit in the passenger seat, so I'm not sure he's that keen on letting me loose on his gearbox. But actually, despite not having driven for ages, I felt fine with it, and realised that I'm a total hypocrite as I usually give H a hard time for driving too fast, when actually I'm just as bad once I'm behind the wheel, if somewhat less aggressive about other drivers.

The shoes today were a very smart pair of black stilettos, again around 4 inches high. Although they weren't red, they were so high that I felt I had to comment. (And Kristin, she was wearing some very skinny jeans which surely mean she's lost the pregnancy weight. She's pretty bloody skinny...). I complimented her on her ability to be present on a Sunday morning in high heels, and she said: "Well, it's certainly an art learning to balance on them". Which didn't really give me any insight but at least it was a form of conversation about the shoes. If she's wearing the red ones again on Tuesday for retrieval, I'll ask her about them then. Because yes, we are on for Tuesday.

• On the right: 23, 17, 17, 17, 15, 14, 12 (plus about 3 around 8)
• On the left: 24, 21, 20, 18, 17, 14, 13 (plus about 2 around 8)
• Lining: 11.7

That makes nine possible (over 17mm) and and other three maybes (the 15 and 14s). So the Ovitrelle injection is at 22:30 tonight. If we ever have to do it again, remind me oh please remind me that I stim slowly but do seem to get there in the end.

When I got back around 0930, the muffins were out. Sadly some of them were a trifle singed at the edges, but H doesn't mind burnt bits. They are good, but I'd already cut the sugar somewhat and these were still way too sweet, so if you do make them, I'd suggest using no more than 2/3rds of the sugar suggested in the recipe. The ginger is what makes them delicious, so don't skip that. Or perhaps I had a challenge in translating from cups to grams (although I used Stephanie Alexander who is usually quite reliable). Why do Americans cook in cups? It's so bloody inaccurate for baking - how do I know how hard you tamped down the sugar or flour? And why measure a cup of butter unless it's melted? You are strange people indeed. I'm convinced that baking is my child substitute. I have the whole Jewish food=love thing (oh how I need to cure myself of this before inflicting it on any potential future daughters) plus baking is just so nurturing somehow. Perhaps I could segue the feeling of nurturing into the garden? Somehow it's not quite so satisfying.

I remain quite optimistic about this cycle. I know there is no real rhyme nor reason for this, it's based on the entirely unscientific fact that we got pregnant last time (and perhaps even had some implantation the first time, who knows, with that beta of five two days after I'd started bleeding). I've found myself planning for what happens with scans etc after a positive pregnancy test, telling people I don't want to fly too much in one potentially busy week at the end of September when I'd be one week post pregnancy test, thinking of how we'll feel on our fourth anniversary of meeting, on 27 September, if I'm pregnant at that point. I keep telling myself not to count my chickens, but idle dreaming leads me back to the optimistic space. I think I'm just going to have to live with it, it's not going away, and I'm not sure being pessimistic really offers that much protection against the misery of a negative in the end. Let's see how I feel (assuming we have two to put back, which is still not a definite) in those few days before the pregnancy test where, honestly, last time I KNEW I was pregnant, much as I wasn't admitting it. Those cramps and pullings I was feeling felt so different than anything I'd felt before.

Clearly, several weeks of madness are ahead of us, either way. To edify ourselves we are about to head off to see this exhibition, and have decided to take the river boat to get there since it's such a nice autumn day. I do like weekends.

Inappropriate shoe watch, day 12

There they were again this morning. Bright red, and at least 4 inches high. Do you think she's just wearing them once every 3 or 4 days or so, and that just happens to coincide with our scan days? Or is she so addicted that she's wearing them every day? She was back in a short, colourful wrap dress today, brown with red, yellow and ochre dots. And the shoes, oh the shoes. Let's see if she's wearing them again next week*.

I've been feeling lots of twinges in the ovaries this week, to the extent that they showed up in my dreams the night before last. I dreamt that I peed on a stick and it was positive. I took it into the clinic to show Dr Casual and he agreed I was pregnant, and that the twinges I'd been feeling were in my uterus rather than my ovaries. In some part of this dream I was in a big science lab - the really old fashioned kind they had at my secondary school with old wide wooden benches with the bunsen burner connections at the front. And I realised part way through that pregnant or not, I should have been at a meeting - which was, in fact, the meeting I was supposed to be at yesterday morning. And then I woke up. I'm so sad that my subconscious is apparently not a science geek like me, and thinks that I can get pregnant in some kind of mad immaculate conception kind of way involving no sperm and no eggs.

Well, in fact those twinges seem to be relating to reality - and in my ovaries, not my uterus.

• On the left: 17, 16, 16, 14, 14, 11
• On the right: 15, 14, 13, 13, 13, 11, 11
• Lining 10.9
• E2 3185 (867 US units)

I'm clearly behind where I was on the last cycle at this point, but hopefully things look good enough that we will get at least six or seven eggs. We have to go in for a scan on Sunday, and we'll decide then if it's trigger Sunday night for Tuesday retrieval, or trigger Monday night for Tuesday retrieval. I don't mind in particular, but I'd slightly rather we went earlier rather than later as it gives me longer off work to chill out and let my body do the good stuff. But really I'll trigger whenever they think it gives us the best chance of getting most of those eggs. I'm hoping for seven, although if we can get things going enough I guess that nine might be possible? That would be good.

*Just found out that we're seeing Dr Condescending on Sunday for the scan. If she's wearing the red shoes on a Sunday I'm definitely going to ask about it!