How to forget that you're only two days away from test day

One word - gestone.

My right thigh is so painful right now that there's no room to think about anything else at all. I barely slept last night, and I'm struggling to prepare for this afternoon's job interview. Hey, I'm even struggling to walk. Or to sit still.

The good news is that the day after tomorrow, even if I have to carry on taking the horrible stuff (and I actually hope I will), I'll at least be able to talk to the nurses and see whether there's anything I'm doing wrong or could do differently.

The other good news is that I've googled enough to know that it's quite normal to be in this much pain, especially if you're doing the jabs in your thigh. And it doesn't hurt this much every day, so hopefully by this afternoon it will have eased off a bit, and this evening's injection won't be so bad. Sunday's was pretty awful (though not as bad as this), but I was fine on Monday and Tuesday. If it means I get a baby at the end of it, I can cope with excruciating pain every third day...

But for the moment, the one thought in my head is:

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ooooowwwwwww!!!

The inner dialogue

So, still think we're in with a chance, do we?

Well, it's 9dp3dt, and I haven't had any spotting yet - that has to be a good sign. After all, I spotted earlier than this on both my previous cycles. And today is day 26 of my normal 26-day cycle, so in the absence of the whole IVF process, today or tomorrow is when I'd be expecting AF to show up.

(Hollow laughter) And what about those gestone injections? Weren't you the one who read that they should prevent any spotting before test day, because of the higher dosage and the more efficient method of getting the progesterone into your system? You weren't on those for the last two IVF cycles, were you?

Errrm, OK - it's a fair cop. But what about all this weeing I'm doing? I'm up and down like a yoyo all day and all night, and that's not like me at all.

And what about all that drinking you're doing? I know your stomach's looking pretty ugly and bloated, but the water has to go somewhere.

True. But what about the heavy, dragging feeling in my stomach, and the occasional little stabbing pains?

Again, think back. You've got excited about those exact same pains so many times before, and every time you convinced yourself that you'd never felt anything like it before. Honestly, sometimes I think you have the memory of a goldfish! As for the heavy, dragging feeling - with extra progesterone AND Clexane, which are both supposed to plump up your lining and make it nice and thick and fluffy, did you really expect anything less? Doesn't mean there's anything actually living in your beautiful red cloudland.

OK, but I'm also feeling a bit queasy.

And you think that's unusual, with the amount of drugs you're on? Besides, don't you quite often feel queasy when AF is due?

Oh yes, so I do.

I suppose next you're going to tell me your boobs are sore and veiny.

Actually, they're not. They usually get sore and have prominent veins a few days before AF is due, then the veins fade and AF shows up. This month, I haven't seen the veins at all. They've been a bit sore at times, but nothing unusual. I don't think we can read anything into that.

[Scornful silence.]

Anyway, there's no reason to think that I'm going to be one of those intractable cases that has failure after failure. We tried a completely different approach this time, with a new clinic which has a success rate of 40% in my age group. Why shouldn't I be in that 40%?

Don't forget a success rate of 40% still means a failure rate of 60%. And as for thinking you're not an intractable case, let's look at the facts. You're a poor responder, you've got two failed IVF cycles behind you, and this time round you got one usable egg. Hardly a ringing endorsement of your fertility level, is it?

It only takes one - people get pregnant naturally every month having only produced one egg. And the embryologist said my embryo was beautiful.

Don't make me laugh - I'm sure she tells everyone their embryos are beautiful. I seem to remember the embryologist at the old clinic telling you your embryos were beautiful - it wasn't till after the BFN that they admitted what low grade they were.

I really really want this, and I've waited over two years for it. Surely it's my turn.

I think you know how stupid that argument is. We've seen plenty of evidence over the years that this doesn't go by 'turns'.

Well, I've done everything I should - I followed that healthy diet and supplement regime for months, I've religiously taken all my medications at the right times, I've followed all the instructions I was given, and I've put up with pain and discomfort without complaining.

And you think the people with 8, 9 and 10 IVF failures haven't worked just as hard to make it work?

And I've prayed like anything.

God's answers to prayer aren't always the answers you hope for.

OK, what about that angel reading? My egg collection, and therefore the fertilisation of this embryo, happened in July. Could there be some truth in what that woman said?

Oh, please! You really are moving from the sublime to the ridiculous. Put your faith in God and forget about some charlatan who gives you false hope. You should never have got that reading in the first place.

Well, quite apart from the reading, the timing is just so perfect at the moment, what with my job just having finished and all. And an April birthday would be lovely.

There are plenty of April birthdays in your family already - who needs another one? And as for perfect timing - babies come in their own good time, not when it's convenient. Have you learnt nothing in over two years of this game?

You're exhausting me - you're always so negative. Why shouldn't it have worked?

If you're so confident, why don't you pee on a stick to put yourself out of your misery? I'm sure it'd show up by now if it was positive.

Errrrm, no - I'm too scared. I want to live in my PUPO cocoon for a bit longer. Now please shut up and let me think about something else...

The gestone blues

Well, a constant supply of hot drinks and a large handful of dried apricots sorted out yesterday's problem, so I'm feeling more comfortable today.

My latest issue with the progesterone is just in giving myself the PIO jabs. Can I just say that, although I really hope I'll be continuing to take them for the next several weeks, I hate the buggers?

The clinic gave me the choice of doing the jabs in the middle quadrant of my outer thigh or the top outer quadrant of my buttock. Since I'm doing them myself, it's easiest to do them in my thigh. I've also read about people catching their sciatic nerve when doing the buttock, so without a precise target to aim for and with my history of back problems, I'm just not prepared to risk it - despite all the dire warnings I've read on the net about the thigh being a much more painful place to inject than the buttock.

I am getting a lot of muscular aches and pains around the injection site, so I decided I'd rather have one dead leg than two and have so far only done the jabs into one leg. That was fine until this weekend. Saturday's jab was fine as it pierced the skin, but I hit something on the way through the muscle and THAT was painful! Then yesterday I just couldn't get the needle to go in at all - I ended up taking the needle off, changing it and shifting the injection site about an inch further south, where it did at least glide in easily.

I only have four more of these jabs to do before test day, so I'm going to try to do those in the same leg, then if I get a BFP and they keep me on the gestone, I'll switch legs from Friday and give this one a bit of time to recover - I'd rather do it that way than alternate daily and have both legs sore at the same time, I think. I have heard of people at XXXX clinic being put on twice daily gestone injections - I'm already on twice daily Clexane, and I'm really hoping the gestone won't go more than once a day.

The trouble is that my recovery time seems to be a bit slow at the moment - I still have bruises from two weeks ago, though they are at least fading. It's getting harder and harder to find an unmarked patch of skin on my stomach to do my Clexane jabs. This is particularly true as the one hour gap between the Ritodrine and the Clexane isn't always enough to make the Ritodrine shakes stop before I have to do the jab, so I often have to do the Clexane with jazz hands.

But if I'm still injecting this time next week, I won't be complaining even if my entire stomach ends up looking like an army camouflage suit and I have two dead legs. You can remind me of that if I do start complaining...

The madness begins

Well, the calm, relaxed attitude of yesterday has been replaced by creeping doubts and frantic knicker-watching. On IVF #1, I started spotting at 8dp2dt. On IVF #2, I started spotting at 9dp2dt. So now that it's 7dp3dt this time round, I've started to look for the spotting. Of course, this time I'm on a higher dose of progesterone, and the injections are apparently more effective than the pessaries, so I've been told spotting is less likely. On the other hand, the information from the clinic also says that spotting is very common and doesn't necessarily mean the cycle has failed. But I'm still looking out for it, and still hoping against hope that I won't see it.

In other news, sorry for the TMI, but the progesterone is doing its evil job. I've been drinking water as if it was going out of fashion, eating plenty of fibre, walking around and getting plenty of gentle exercise - so why am I sooooo constipated? My stomach feels so uncomfortable, and every time I try to go, I worry about whether I'm going to dislodge my little embryo just as it's trying to dig itself a nice little nest.

So not a brilliant day for PMA, and I'm thinking a day spent at home with an endless supply of warm drinks and the Sunday papers sounds more attractive than either a visit to the in-laws or a trip to a shopping centre.

Lazy Sunday, here we come...

I love it when a plan comes together...

Well, it's been about 16 hours, and so far, I'm loving being unemployed!

Yesterday was a good day, with lots of people coming over or e-mailing to wish me well (and saying what a huge mistake it was on the firm's part to make me redundant, which was nice). I left without a backward glance - there are people I worked with there who I'm sure will always remain friends, and I've enjoyed the job and have achieved things that I'm proud of, but personally and professionally, the time is right to move on.

I've spent most of this morning on the phone, and now have the next week very satisfactorily planned out. I have an activity for every day, but nothing too strenuous, and certainly nothing that will take as much out of me as commuting to work does.

Today we're having a barbecue with some friends. The six of us go to a fortnightly pub quiz, which we win quite regularly. At Christmas, we went out for a slap-up meal with our winnings so far. We now have another pot of winnings racked up, so this afternoon we're going to coast round Costco picking up whatever we fancy, then have a massive blow-out barbecue. The sky is looking grey and threatening at the moment, but if it rains, we'll just move inside - no big deal.

Tomorrow after Mass DH is going to visit his parents, and I'm going to potter into town to pick up presents for a couple of birthdays that are coming up soon.

On Monday I'll take my parcels down to the post office, then go over the bit of work I've been asked to do in advance of my job interview.

On Tuesday I'm having lunch with two of my oldest and dearest friends. Although we all went to the same school, they didn't know each other at school, but gelled instantly when they met as adults at one of my birthday parties. Well, they would - they're two of the loveliest people I know. They each have a 10-year-old daughter - I'm godmother to both, and they were bridesmaids at my wedding and also got on brilliantly together - and a five-year-old son. I've been trying to get them together again for a while, and it's going to be such a lovely afternoon with some of my favourite people.

On Wednesday I have a job interview. If this job comes off, it'll be perfect - three days a week, working from home. I know several people at the company quite well, and the work will be interesting but a lot easier and less stressful than what I've been doing recently.

On Thursday I need to take my car for a service, and then if it's a nice day I might just go for a bit of top-down motoring to blow out the cobwebs, just for the sheer pleasure of driving through beautiful countryside.

And then Friday is test day. DH and I have discussed whether I should POAS beforehand and decided that I probably won't.

The advantage of doing so would be that I would be prepared for whatever result I get from the clinic. If it's a BFN, obviously I'll just want to be home as soon as possible and hiding under my duvet. But if it's positive, I'll be called back to have another blood test (progesterone levels etc) and pick up a prescription for more gestone and whatever else they think I need. So once I've had the blood taken on Friday morning, I really need to stay in London until I get the call with the results, just in case it's positive.

I think I know the very place to wait - it's a Starbucks not far from DH's office and the clinic, with a big comfy sofa right at the back which is sort of hidden - a good place to have a little cry if necessary. I've already waited in there for a couple of calls during stimming and done a couple of my jabs in their toilets, so the place will be forever associated with this treatment cycle in my mind anyway.

So my thinking at the moment is that I won't POAS, I'll have no way of knowing what the result is going to be, and I'll spend Friday morning sitting in Starbucks awaiting my fate.

So, a week of pleasant occupations and plenty of opportunity for rest in between. What could be more perfect?

Five

OK, I promise I'm not going to do this every day of the 2WW, but it's another significant number.

It's the number of days past transfer.

It's the number of embryos we've had in total over three IVF cycles - little Viennetta arrested before transfer on our first cycle.

It's the number of full years I've been working for my current employer - significant because today is my last day of work.

It's the number of days until my interview for a possible new job (confirmed only yesterday - and they've given me stuff to prepare for it, so that's Monday's lounging in front of the telly scuppered!).

It's the number of months until that job starts if I get it - and so the number of months I get to take it a bit easier and just do the occasional bit of freelance work to keep me going.

If any babies want to start implanting now, this would be a really good time to do it...

Four

The number of days since transfer.

The number of times I had to get up to go to the loo last night.

The total number of embryos we've had transferred in three IVF cycles.

The number of gestone injections I've done so far - and last night I discovered that although the ice does numb the skin and prevent the needle hurting as it pierces the skin, applying heat to the area instead of ice before doing the jab makes it less painful to actually squirt the stuff into the muscle. I'm pleased about that, since I'm hoping to be on these gestone injections until about 12 weeks (see that blind optimism again?).

The number of times I have to take Ritodrine a day. OK, the gestone hurts, but it's the Ritodrine I really hate. For over an hour after each dose, I feel anxious, shaky and sometimes a little bit dizzy. Fortunately, apparently this one doesn't go on after test day whatever the result. Also fortunately, two of the doses are taken while I'm in bed, and I can (try to) go back to sleep afterwards.

The approximate number of mood swings I have each hour. Lucky, lucky DH!

Overreacting? Moi?

I went into the kitchen this morning to put on a load of laundry. DH has done the last couple of loads, and he mentioned at the weekend that he thought we'd run out of Calgon. I reminded him that we have a mahoosive box that lives under the kitchen cupboard and thought no more of it.

This morning I discovered that he has thrown away the dinky little box that fits into the cupboard, that I used to refill from the big one, and the kitchen cupboard is now a total mess with a mahoosive (and half empty - didn't that give him any sort of clue?) box balanced diagonally across the top of everything else.

In the big scheme of things, this is really not a big deal at all, and in any case, it'll be very easy to find another little box to keep in the cupboard so that the big one can go back underneath. Perhaps if it's a completely different sort of box, it might encourage him to remember why and then not throw it away next time he empties it.

So after I'd tossed all the washing onto the floor, kicked it around a bit, stamped up and down on it, gone through the recycling to see if I could find the empty box and then thrown all our old cardboard and paper all over the kitchen as well, sworn loudly and burst into tears, I did start to wonder if all these drugs I'm on may be making me just a teensy little bit less stable than usual...

The WUB drug routine

Thank you so much for all the prayers and good wishes - and please keep them up!

As promised, here's a little list of the drugs that I'm on between now and next Friday (and hopefully some of them at least for a bit longer, if all goes well). I have alarms set on my iPod to tell me when to take them all, so let's work our way through the day...

0600 - First dose of Ritodrine - half a tablet to be taken at six-hourly intervals throughout the day (and night). This is a drug which is used to prevent uterine contractions, and when prescribed at XXXX clinic it's used only during the two week wait. That's good, because it gives me a slightly shaky feeling and I think is also what's causing the indigestion that I'm getting.

0655 - First dose of Clexane -20 ml subcutaneous injection which stings a bit and leaves peculiar perfectly round purple bruises, about the size of the head of a screw. This is a blood thinner which is used to increase the flow of blood to the uterus and try to ensure no clots are formed.

0845 - Steroids - two tablets, to be taken with or immediately after food. Yesterday they switched me from Dexamethasone to Prednisalone, but Mr Miracle Worker reviewed my file this morning and put me back on Dexamethasone from tomorrow. Both are used to damp down the immune system and try to prevent it rejecting the embryo as a foreign body, but apparently Dexamethasone is better at negating the effect of natural killer cells.

1200 and 1800 - Second and third doses of Ritodrine. More shakes and heartburn. I also take a 75mg aspirin at noon, as I've been told to take it some time between the Clexane jabs.

1855 - Second dose of Clexane, and the big gestone injection - the dreaded progesterone in oil. 100 mg a day, injected intramuscularly with a 1.5 inch needle - OUCH! I was told I could do it into my buttock or thigh - given the difficulty of contorting myself to reach the right part of my buttock and the danger of hitting the sciatic nerve, I've opted for the thigh. Having read various things about it, this is how I'm doing it at the moment: when I start getting everything ready, I pop the two phials of gestone into my bra to warm them up. While doing my Clexane jab, I balance an ice cube against my outer thigh to numb it. I then whip the phials out of my bra, make up the jab, stab the needle into the numb part of my thigh and inject slowly (having pulled up on the plunger to make sure I haven't hit a vein). As soon as I take the needle out, I massage the area gently for a couple of minutes and then apply a warm wheat bag to it. The injection itself isn't too bad, but I've had a bit of a dead leg afterwards both times I've done it so far. Anyone want to tell me that's going to improve...?

0000 - Final dose of Ritodrine.

And apart from that, it's just the litre of milk, 2-3 litres of water, prenatal vitamins and regular protein snacks - and even more regular prayer.

I'd like to think that all this extra support, and all the hoops I've jumped through to get to this stage, can't fail to lead to my long-awaited BFP - but of course there are plenty of people who've gone through even more treatments and jumped through even more hoops and still never got there. And so I veer between quiet optimism and a firm belief that this can't succeed, because I just can't imagine what success would be like after more than two years of failure.

What a wimp!

We had a bit of stress getting sorted for today, as relatively late last night we discovered that all today's trains into London from where we are had been cancelled, and we couldn't get a hotel room in central London at short notice for less than the price of a small kingdom. So we decided to hope for the best that I wouldn't be sedated and drive all the way in.

The staff at XXXX clinic were as lovely as they always were, and I had a good chat in the waiting-room with someone I'd been chatting to regularly while we were going in for daily bloods - she was in for egg collection today.

There were three egg collections and a hysteroscopy before me, then I had the cannula inserted just in case and the embryologist came to see me. She said Rucksack was at seven cells and was looking beautiful. The consultant said he would prefer me to be awake for the transfer, but offered me the option of being sedated straight away, so I said I'd have a go at being awake.

Another sign of how tailored the treatment is at XXXX clinic is that they map everything out when they do the hysteroscopies, and on the basis of what they know of your individual anatomy they decide how full they want your bladder for transfer. I was lucky - they wanted my bladder empty.

It was much more relaxed in the theatre than it ever was at the other clinic - Mr No Nonsense liked to do his transfers in absolute strict silence, whereas everyone was joking and trying to put me at my ease this time. Without the experience of my last two transfers, I'm sure I'd have been absolutely fine.

The consultant did a quick t/v scan before he started, and I took slow, deep breaths and concentrated on trying to relax. They don't use ultrasound during the actual transfer, as they don't want any distortion in the shape of the uterus caused by the scanner thing pressing down on your stomach.

Then he said he was ready to get started, and I heard the clink of the metal instruments on the tray and just thought, "I can't do this". I totally panicked and begged them to put me to sleep - which they instantly agreed to, and the lovely anaesthetist came in and sent me off. Oh, the blessed relief!

I was very apologetic afterwards about having been such a wimp - but on the plus side, I got a good half hour to an hour lying absolutely still after my transfer, and I feel quite positive about the effect that might have.

I have a whole raft of new medications to take - they tested my progesterone level and have taken me off the Cyclogest and treated me to the dreaded PIO injections instead. I'll tell you more about my new drug regime tomorrow... I suggested to the embryologist that they were just trying to take my mind off the two week wait by making me spend the whole time counting down to the next dose of medication, and she didn't disagree!

I have to go back for my beta test on Friday 13th - lucky for some, I hope. And in the meantime, I'll just relax and enjoy being PUPO.

Two cells

I don't like to boast, but this morning the embryologist said my embryo looked 'perfect'. S/he was checked on first thing this morning and was at two cells, but as the embryologist said, s/he may already have carried on dividing and reached four cells.

So I'm to go in for 8:00 tomorrow morning, and the embryologist confirmed that I would start off awake but be sedated if I found it very difficult. She said that a lot of people have had difficult transfers elsewhere and then had no problems at XXXX clinic - largely because Mr Miracle Worker almost always does a hysteroscopy beforehand and so knows the best way in. Also, he doesn't try to rush the procedure, which probably helps.

I know you don't want to mess around with sedation if it's not necessary, so I'm quite happy with that arrangement.

I went back to the breakfast table - we have a friend staying who has 9-year-old IVF twins, and I said, "We have two cells!"

An alternative birds and bees conversation ensued when one of the twins asked what that meant. Their mother explained in simple terms what we were going through, then said, "I haven't really told you this before, but that's how we got you as well."

And then she gave the most beautiful, simple explanation of how their father had been ill and they hadn't been able to have babies on their own because of it, and how the treatment had happened, and told them that the first time she saw them, they were each about six cells. And the children asked three or four questions and were then satisfied.

I hope I'll be having that conversation in 9 or 10 years' time, with my perfect little two-celled chap.

Rucksack III

Well, the embryologist called. One of the eggs wasn't suitable for injection, but the other has fertilised, so Rucksack III is currently waiting for us in the lab and hopefully working hard on dividing nicely. Perhaps we should change his/her name to Chesney (The One and Only).

Although I was a little disappointed, I still feel more hopeful than I did at this stage last time round. It only takes one, and although our odds of one implanting are slightly reduced by only having one in total, it's still the quality of the embryo that counts. And surely, after everything we've done over the last six months, the quality of both my eggs and DH's sperm MUST have been better this time round.

I asked about the sedation, and the embryologist said Mr Miracle Worker prefers people to be awake for transfers, but that she would talk to him.

She later called back and proposed what I think is the best possible compromise - because I'm sure it's best to avoid sedation if I can.

My transfer will be scheduled for some time on Sunday morning, after all the egg collections for that day have taken place. Until the end of today, they won't be able to say exactly when that will be, as they will be monitoring people for the rest of today to see if any of them are ready to trigger tonight. But that will mean the anaesthetist is still around when I go in. Mr Miracle Worker wants to start me off awake, and if it gets too uncomfortable for me, he's promised to put me to sleep.

Having got that little detail sorted, I feel quite calm about the whole thing. I don't feel too anxious about little Rucksack/Chesney sitting there in the lab, because I know the embryologists are on the ball and s/he will have five star treatment while s/he's there. And to be honest, if s/he isn't going to survive to day 3, it doesn't really matter whether s/he's inside me or not - but at least if I know before transfer, I'll be spared the agony of the 2-week wait.

In reality, though, I'm not letting myself think about the possibility of having nothing to transfer, and am concentrating all my energies on praying that our little embie will survive - not just until Sunday, but to grow into a baby and then an adult and ... well, you get the picture. One sometimes has to be specific in one's requests.

So the next hurdle is the phonecall from the embryologist tomorrow to see how Rucksack/Chesney (Ruckney? Chessack?) has done overnight, and then hopefully instructions about when I need to be in London and what I need to do on Sunday. And in the meantime, I've restarted the Dexamethasone and aspirin, am on Cyclogest twice a day, and the Clexane starts up again tonight. I'll while away the waiting time with drugs...

A modest harvest and a little freak-out

So, we got up yesterday at 4:15 and left the house at 5:00 (DH complaining that he was tired). We were at the clinic for 6:30, where we discovered that there were SEVEN egg collections happening that morning, and I was last on the list. Apparently today there are no egg collections taking place. That's the thing with individualised treatment and all this intensive monitoring - you get your eggs collected when they're ready, not when it's convenient for the clinic and they have a space on their list.

DH was taken off first to do his business. I do find it hard sometimes to think that he has no problem producing into a cup at the clinic, and he even had no problems when I ordered him upstairs on Tuesday night, but he has such a psychological block about coming up with the goods when he's with me. Can you be jealous of a plastic sample pot? Still, at least his little pot was filled yesterday without any difficulty.

The contrast from the old clinic is huge - much more informal surroundings, more chit-chat to put you at your ease, absolutely no frills, but absolutely superb care. I was in no pain at all when I woke up, and although I was a bit sore by the time I got home, I had killed a few hours wandering the streets of London (I did have to beg DH to take me to a coffee shop for a sit down in the end, in preference to going round yet another bookshop as he had intended) and then gone to my work leaving do in the interim period, which is probably not the most highly recommended way of recovering from egg collection.

At the old clinic, they wrote the number of eggs they'd collected on your hand, so that you could see it as soon as you woke up. Here, they didn't do that, which gave me a brief moment of concern that perhaps they hadn't got any.

As it turned out, they had collected two. Bearing in mind that on IVF #1 I had four follicles visible on the scan and ended up with six eggs, and on IVF #2 I had two in the running and two coming up behind and got four (although two turned out not to be mature), I was a little disappointed with this. At my last scan I had two huge ones, as well as one about 18 mm and another one or two possibles. So was it the huge ones that yielded up the goods? Or were they overripe, and had a couple of others caught up?

However, I was also hugely relieved that I had any. I know I would have been gutted to get only two eggs at the last clinic, but all I could think of yesterday was "well, hopefully they're both better quality than the crappy eggs I got before".

XXXX clinic does transfers on day 2, 3 or 5. Having only two eggs, it's unlikely that we'll go to day 5, so we're looking at a day 2 or 3 transfer - tomorrow or Sunday. Strangely, I think I'd prefer day 3. Before, I've been so worried about my little embies in the lab and just wanted to get them inside me. But this clinic has some of the best embryologists in the country, and if they think it's OK to let my embies go to day 3 I feel as though that means they have more confidence in their quality and viability.

I had a little freak-out when I was told that they're not expecting to sedate me for embryo transfer. At our very first appointment, I was told they would consider doing this, and the last two transfers have been so painful that this was a hope that I was really clinging onto. They insisted that Mr Miracle Worker is really good at this and that people who have had painful transfers elsewhere haven't felt a thing with him, but the image that keeps playing through my head is of Mr No Nonsense sticking that blasted car jack into me and vigorously cranking it until I felt I was going to split in two. I'd so much rather be asleep and not know anything about it, however skillful Mr Miracle Worker is.

Of course, all of this could be academic - I'm now waiting for the fertilisation report, and there's always the chance that there'll be nothing to transfer. If we're playing a numbers game, I don't have many options. I just keep repeating to myself that it's quality that matters, not quantity - and hoping against hope that all the supplements, the healthy diet, the pints and pints of milk I've consumed, the intensive monitoring in the course of this cycle, and all the other things we've done differently will add up to super-quality eggs and sperm that got happily jiggy-jiggy last night and now are busy dividing away in the lab and beginning to grow into my future children.

Vignette

The lab where they do the blood tests is round the corner from XXXX clinic. The lady on the desk is there every single day - I was staggered to see that she was working both Saturday and Sunday as well as every weekday.

On Tuesday, I said to her, "Do you ever get a day off?"

She put her hand on my knee, gave me a lovely smile, and said, "You tell me when you're pregnant - then I'll take a day off."

So no pressure, but I really hope for her sake that I get pregnant soon...!

I never thought we'd have a row about this...

Some people's husbands do their jabs for them. Others do the cooking from time to time. Mine does neither. He won't even be in the room while I'm mixing my jabs. And I'm the one that always has to think in advance about what he's going to eat, do the shopping, cook it and tell him which of the Tupperware containers in the fridge he's taking for tomorrow's lunch. And sometimes just the fact that I always have to think about it exhausts me a bit.

Anyway, when I started stimming this time, I asked him to do one thing. Research has shown that the optimal amount of time to abstain before giving a sperm sample is something like 2-5 days. More than that, and the sperm aren't fresh. Less, and you might not have time to make enough good new ones (especially if you have a very low count to start with).

So, given that his little problem means that this is something he has to do on his own, I asked him to make sure that for as long as I was stimming, he should make sure that he clears the chaps out every two or three days, so that when I got the go-ahead for egg collection he could then stop and know that we'd be in the 2-5 day window on the day his chaps were needed. Not an unpleasurable task, I would have thought, and not much to ask when I'm doing absolutely everything else.

So last night I asked him when he'd last done the deed, and he said, "Oh, I'm not sure. Some time last week, I think."

I got really cross, pointed out that it was the one thing I'd asked of him, and that we were now definitely not going to be in the 2-5 day window for optimal sperm production.

His response was, "I'm sorry - I've been too tired." (I went out with friends on Sunday - he was at home pottering about the house by himself all day. And was still too tired to do a five minute job which would presumably have given him a certain amount of pleasure? Oh please...)

After organising this whole thing, sticking up to four needles a day into my stomach, having to get up at 5 am to give myself jabs and leave home at 6 am to go and have yet more needles stuck into my arms, spending a day on a drip on Monday, and following all sorts of other instructions so that I'm a tired, achey, bloated pincushion with arms and stomach covered in bruises, is it unreasonable that I got a bit cross with him for being too tired to give himself a little bit of pleasure over the last week?

And I wonder how many other arguments have finished with the wife shouting at the husband to get up the stairs NOW and get on with that particular job...?

Triggered!

Yesterday was another very intensive day. When I had my scan on Monday morning, I had one big follicle on each side (like, over 20 mm each) and one or two little pathetic things lagging behind. I was warned that they might call me back for another scan in the afternoon, but they didn't, though I did have a repeat blood test. Having done 0.25 mg Cetrotide jabs every day since Thursday, on Monday afternoon I was instructed to do a 3 mg jab immediately (that's the one I did in the loo at Starbucks!).

So here's my timetable for yesterday (and bear in mind that I was supposedly at work all day!):

5:00 - 25 mg Cetrotide injection
6:00 - train to London
7:00 - drop into the office to pick up some papers I needed
7:30 - blood test
8:00 - scan - one follicle on each side over 25 mm, plus a 14 mm on the left and another possible one on the right that I don't think he measured
8:30 - breakfast at my desk, start dealing with a few e-mails
9:00 - dexamethasone and aspirin
10:00 - appointment with my solicitor on the other side of London, sorting out some paperwork to do with my redundancy
11:15 - back at my desk
12:00 - call from the clinic, calling me back for repeat bloods and scan. Instructed to take 300 IU Fostimon immediately before going into the clinic, so went off to shoot up in the loos at work
12:30 - blood test
1:00 - I managed to fit in a nice lunch at a cafe round the corner from the clinic
2:00 - scan - told I'll almost certainly be triggering today or tomorrow. Still only two huge follicles, but so big now that the scan was really uncomfortable. Don't know how people manage who get dozens of follicles in there
3:00 - back at my desk
4:45 - call from the clinic, instructing me to take 150 IU Fostimon immediately - went to shoot up in the loo at work again. Also instructed me to drink half a litre of water immediately and up my liquids to 3.5-4 litres of water (plus the regular 1 litre of milk) for today and tomorrow and to drink another glass of water every time I get up in the night to go to the loo, have regular (2-3 hourly) protein snacks and to do my trigger injection tonight
5:30 - left work - crossed my legs and hung on desperately on the way home
6:45 - arrived home, quick trip to the bathroom, then carried on chugging water and eating nuts and seeds
8:30 - 10,000 IU Pregnyl - I'm triggered!!!
9:30 - huge mug of milk followed by huge glass of water, then bed at last

My stomach's pretty uncomfortable this morning and I have EWCM, so I'm hoping nothing untoward is happening. I've been up for a couple of hours and have so far consumed half a litre of milk, a cereal bar, two cups of Redbush tea, half a litre of water and a bowl of Fruit 'n' Fibre with apple and pear puree. Apart from that, I'm enjoying a day of not having to go into London or stick any needles into myself. The only medication I have to take today is my Dexamethasone, which I just had a few minutes ago.

We need to be at the clinic at 7:00 tomorrow morning for egg collection. There's a big do at work starting at 4:00 tomorrow afternoon to celebrate the end of the year for our students and say goodbye to those of us who are leaving. I'd prefer not to miss my own leaving party, but we'll see how I feel...

Exciting?

Today I'm having lunch with a colleague who knows about the IVF, having covered for me when I was due to teach the day after my first egg collection and the day of that embryo transfer. When I first told her I was doing IVF, her immediate reaction was, "How exciting!" At the time, I thought this was a little odd - what's exciting about being infertile and having to have intrusive treatment for it?

I was reminded of this last night. I'd spent the day at the clinic, having three bottles of IVIg and a bag of saline dripped into me over the course of five hours. I'd also had two blood tests and a scan and given myself two injections, and had two more injections that I had to do during the evening. A couple of my cousins who live in the US are in the country on holiday, and we met up for a meal last night. I explained away the huge bruises (honestly, despite the intensive monitoring, I haven't seen anyone else at the clinic who has bruising as bad as mine - I'm a delicate little peach really!) on my arms by telling them what was going on. The instant reaction from both of them was "Congratulations!!!"

I shuffled my feet and muttered that there was nothing to congratulate me on yet, and they said they were sure there would be soon. As we left them in the evening (way later than intended, given that Mr Miracle Worker keeps instructing me to take injections at 5 am and then be at the clinic for 7:30), both hugged me and wished me luck.

So is it exciting? It's a treatment for a horrible illness which affects my whole life. Would someone get excited and congratulate me on being in the middle of chemotherapy?

Clearly not, but still, it is exciting to know that I have a chance. It's exciting to be in the middle of treatment after all these months of waiting. And it's exciting to know that this technology exists, and that I'm being given an opportunity to go through this that is still only available to the privileged few.

Yes, in many ways I'm lucky. I just hope that over the next week or two, I'm going to get luckier still...

Opti-pessimism

If you say "I'm going to appreciate every minute of this for as long as it lasts", are you being positive because you're living for the moment and appreciating what's happening now, or negative because in doing so you're demonstrating that you don't expect it to last long...?

Actually, the intensiveness of the monitoring and treatment this time round makes it hard to think further ahead than today anyway. And although I won't be monitored during the 2WW, I will still be injecting, swallowing and maybe shoving (progesterone suppositories), so there'll be plenty to keep me occupied then as well.

Today I did my Cetrotide jab at 6:45 am, left home at 7:15, had my blood test (first time I've got a huge bruise from that place - butchers!) and scan (still four follies in contention, and a bit bigger than on Thursday, but this time there were two on each ovary, rather than three on the left and one on the right - not sure what happened there!), went to the pharmacy to pick up my Clexane and Dexamethasone, took the Dex with breakfast on the train home, picked up DH and took him out to lunch in a nice country pub, got the daily call from the clinic while we were waiting for our food to arrive and had to go straight away to shoot up 450 IU of Fostimon in the loo, did some shopping, visited DH's parents, came back and had a cup of tea with a couple of the neighbours, then did my Clexane job and took my aspirin. And now it's bedtime.

So no, not much time to think and stew over what the outcome may or may not be. But whatever it is, I feel absolutely confident that Mr Miracle Worker is doing everything he possibly can to make that outcome a positive one, and every jab and pill, and every bruise and twinge (yes, the bloating is back with a vengeance, and my stomach is feeling tender) feels like one more positive step towards the goal we're all aiming for.

While my credit card gently weeps

Today I had another 'take this now' call. This means that in the four days I've been stimming, I've had to shoot up in a busy reception room at the clinic, in the public toilets of a concert hall, at a friend's house, and now in the toilets at work. The only jab I've managed to do at home was this morning's 6 am dose of Cetrotide. At work today I had to do two jabs: 300 IU of Fostimon and 150 IU of Merional. Tomorrow afternoon we'll be at my parents-in-law's house - taking the call and then shooting up there may be a bit tricky, as we haven't told them about the IVF, so I hope at least I'm instructed to do the jab in the evening rather than straight away.

The results of my immune testing also came back, and weren't brilliant - I'm now on 75 mg of aspirin a day, and from tomorrow I'll also be taking Clexane and Dexamethasone. But the one my credit card really won't enjoy is the £1,300 per dose IVIg, which I'm due to have on Monday. Let's hope I only need the one dose. It's administered by drip over the course of four or five hours, and they may decide not to start it until they've seen the result of Monday's blood test, so I've been told to plan to spend the whole day at the clinic on Monday. Just as well my boss is so understanding, and that I've told him what's going on.

Tomorrow I have another early dose of Cetrotide, then bloods at 8:30 and a scan at 9:00. The Cetrotide must be taken at least an hour before the blood test - not a problem if I do it at home, as it takes over an hour to get to the clinic.

In terms of side effects, the bloating and headache have actually eased a bit - maybe I'm getting used to the drugs. DH would probably tell you that the irritability hasn't eased very much, although I'm doing my very best to bite my tongue and not take it out on him.

My biggest problem today was total exhaustion - the most recent bout of irritability was when DH tried to stop me and give me a hug on my way upstairs, and I felt really cross that he was coming between me and my bed. But now I'm sitting in bed updating you before I allow myself to go to sleep, so go figure. I'd better stop and go to sleep before I get grumpy with you too.

9:30 pm - what a lightweight!

For probably the last time...

... I have to tell you again how much I love my boss.

I told him yesterday what was going on - one of my slight concerns was that I have a few days' teaching coming up, one or more of which I may not be able to do. Since I'm due to finish work in two weeks anyway, I offered to resign on the spot rather than hang around and potentially let him down at the last minute on the teaching.

He has arranged cover for all my teaching if necessary and told me not to resign, but to do what work I could while ensuring that what I need to do for my treatment cycle takes priority, because that's the thing that's most important in the grand scheme of things.

I'm going to miss working for such a great guy.

In other news, today I had my first scan since beginning stims. I'm on day 3 of stims and have three follicles on the left ovary, all around the 7-8 mm mark, and one on the right, at 12.8 mm. Today's instructions were to take cetrotide as soon as I got the call and then 'as soon as possible' to take 450 IU of Fostimon. I'm not sure what the difference is between 'now' and 'as soon as possible', but I did the cetrotide straight away and then immediately afterwards did the Fostimon. I have to take another cetrotide tomorrow morning, and probably every day after that - not something I'm excited about, as I get that itchy reaction to it.

But as I said to a friend today as I chugged my third litre of water for the day, if Mr Miracle Worker told me to drink ditchwater while standing on my head, I'd do it. This guy knows his stuff, and at the moment I love him almost as much as I love my boss...

Shooting up in public toilets

One of the signs of Mr Miracle Worker's attention to detail is in the timing of the jabs. At the old clinic, I was told to do my jabs at the same time every day - I was pretty much free to choose what time that should be, so I did them around 7 every evening.

The daily instructions from XXXX clinic are very precise - they say what dosage you should take of which drugs and at what time, as well as saying what appointments you have the next day (blood tests, scans, etc) and anything else Mr Miracle Worker wants to pass on. You need to have an injection kit with you at all times, as you can be told to take the drugs 'right now', 'as soon as possible' or at a specified time.

My instructions today were to take 300 IU of Fostimon between 8 and 10 pm. This presented something of a challenge, as my cousin was singing in a concert and DH and I had arranged to be there. The concert began at 8.

I had my little bag of drugs ready, and managed to find a seat at the end of a row, closest to the toilets. As soon as the choir went offstage for the interval, I dashed to the loo and shut myself into the first cubicle, where I hastily mixed my injection and jabbed myself in the stomach. I could hear the queue building up outside and was too embarrassed to stay in there any longer after doing the jab, so had to cross my legs until the end of the concert - not so comfortable after following the instructions to drink a litre of milk and at least two litres of water in the course of the day!

Tomorrow I have a blood test at 7:30 and a scan at 8:00. I've also been instructed to up my fluid intake again and drink 2.5 to 3 litres of water tomorrow (as well as my litre of milk). This morning I had eight little phials of blood taken from me - perhaps they're trying to replace all the blood I'm losing with water...

So it's up at 5:45 tomorrow, and hopefully I'll get to do tomorrow's jab in the comfort of my own home.

Wish me luck...

Well, here's unexpected!

I went in for another blood test and scan this morning. It turns out Myndi was right, and the large 'follicles' I had last month were the same sort of cysts that I had last September. One of them had disappeared completely and the other had shrunk to 10 mm, so the doctor was satisfied, although he still found my right ovary quite hard to find.

All then depended on the oestradiol, and I must confess I assumed it would be too high again and was resigned to waiting for next month.

Having had the tests, I went off to Niece #2's pre-school sports day. I was then due to look after #2 and #3 while my sister took #4 for her 8 week check and first lot of jabs.

Two things changed the plan somewhat. First, I had a call from the clinic saying that I was OK to start and should do my first jab as soon as possible. Expecting to be told to wait another month, I hadn't yet acquired any drugs, so said I would go back to the clinic to pick them up as soon as I could.

Then my sister reappeared a lot sooner than expected, because she had forgotten to register #4 at the doctor's surgery in advance (and nobody had reminded her, despite the fact that she had been there twice since #4 was born and had an appointment for this afternoon), and because she wasn't on the doctor's computer, they wouldn't give her the jabs.

So off I hopped back to London, where Aussie Nurse presented me with a huge bag of tricks. She offered to mix the first jab for me (450 IU of Fostimon), so I was able to watch her do it and refresh my memory, then I gave myself the jab right there in the office (which has four desks, all of which were occupied at the time, as well as the reception desk, at which there were a couple of people waiting). So OK, now I'm shooting up in public.

If you've been willing my oestradiol levels to go down, or praying for me, I'd like to thank you, because it clearly worked. On nosing through my file, I found that last month the level actually went up to 230 on the second day they tested it. Today, it was down from 230 yesterday to 93, which with FSH of 6.9 is awesome!

I'm back for another blood test tomorrow morning - and every day, including weekends, until egg collection. As well as the hormone panel, I'm having blood taken tomorrow for a natural killer assay - since my natural killer cells were slightly raised when I had my immune testing in March and levels can fluctuate from month to month anyway, they need to know what they're doing right now, so they can decide whether I need steroids or even IVIg - I hope not the latter, as each dose costs £1,300.

And in the meantime, the big thing I need to work on is that this clinic requires everyone on treatment to drink at least two litres of water and one litre of milk a day and to eat - preferably something containing protein - every two or three hours. I have a big bag of beef jerky and lots of nuts and seeds, so that shouldn't be too hard.

Six hours after the first jab, my stomach already feels bloated, so I think I can safely say that's a side effect I can look forward to over the next couple of weeks. Apart from that, I'm apprehensive and excited in equal measure.

Here we go...

Letting off steam

Forgive me if I have a(nother) little rant today.

When I arrived at the clinic early yesterday morning and told them I was on CD 3, the person I spoke to gave me the form for my blood test and told me to stick around in London, as I might be required to have a scan in the afternoon. I had foolishly decided to work from home, and had been planning to get home around 9:30 and put in a full day's work. I didn't have any of my work with me.

I very clearly told her that it would take me over an hour to get home and that I would have to hang around and kill time while waiting for them to get back to me. She said they would have the results by 11:30 and would contact me as early as possible.

At noon I went back to the clinic and told them that I would hang around in the waiting-room in order to ensure that everything could be dealt with as soon as possible.

At 1:30, I finally tracked down Aussie Nurse, who gave me my results and told me to go back this morning. All that time waiting around had been wasted - she seemed surprised that I had been told to wait, and the information she gave me could equally well have been given over the phone.

But that's not what made me cross - though I was a little agitated at the thought of the work waiting for me back home and the apparent endlessness of the waiting (in previous months, the call with the results has sometimes come through as late as 6 pm, and I was concerned that they might not get to me until then, since the promise to call me as early as possible obviously wasn't materialising).

No, what made me cross was the woman who was coming back for an initial consultation for her third IVF. The results of her first two successful attempts came in with her, as did her husband. Her husband didn't go up to the appointment with her, so it struck me that he and the children didn't really need to be there. As it was, she came in with a three-year-old and a baby. The baby was so chubby she was almost spherical, and this woman kept desperately trying to make her take a bottle, as the baby wriggled, squirmed, clamped her lips shut, turned her head away and demonstrated in every way she possibly could that she really didn't need a bottle right now.

For the 20 minutes or so that they were there, they took over the waiting room. The woman kept up a constant, high decibel stream of baby talk. She referred to herself as Mummles, and kept saying in a piercing voice to the older child, "Tell Mummles if you want a pee pee. Do you want a wee wee? Mummles needs to know if you want a pee pee." The child ran around creating havoc, and kept yelling at her father to try to get his attention. He had created a barrier in front of himself with a copy of The Sun and was completely ignoring all three of them, until the child's incessant and increasingly long and loud yells of "Daddy!!!!!" made me want to pick her up and force her head first right through his newspaper.

Eventually Mummles was called for her appointment and instructed Daddy to take the children to the park - why he couldn't have done that in the first place, I have no idea.

Meanwhile, a pregnant woman sat down next to me and lovingly caressed her bump. A nurse came in to admire the fat baby and chatted to another woman who turned out to be there for her six week scan. And I sat there trying to read my book and ignore all this, while wondering in the back of my mind whether I would ever get the chance even to start a cycle.

The waste of time didn't matter to me too much - I had a good book to read (had I only been able to concentrate on it), and the work will get done at some stage in the next three weeks. But a good half hour of the hour and a half I spent in that waiting room was the most exquisite torture that I have been subjected to for a long time.

And that's why I came home grumpy yesterday.

What more can I do?

This month's results are almost exactly the same as last month's. They are (with last month's in brackets to compare): FSH 6.9 (7), LH 3.6 (3.2) and oestradiol 230 (222). So the blasted oestradiol is still the sticking point, and I'm to go in again tomorrow morning for another blood test and a scan - no doubt to be told exactly what I ended up being told last month: "No, not suitable this month."

In one way I'm relieved - as I said, I really wasn't sure I wanted to do this during my last three weeks of work, and if my levels improve next month, I'll be able to relax completely while going through treatment, as I'll have finished work and have nothing else I need to do.

But that's the sticking point - IF my levels improve. And at the moment it seems to be a very big IF.

DH and I finished our four month programme of supplements about a month ago, and about two weeks ago we cut each other's hair again to send it off for reanalysis. I haven't sent it off yet - it costs money, and I thought if we were able to go ahead with treatment, we'd have our proof there that the supplements had done their job.

So now what do I do?

Send off the hair and pay the money, with no real evidence that the supplements are working? Because if a high oestradiol level can artificially make your FSH reading lower, then the improvement I thought I was seeing in my levels is illusory.

Not send it off and risk undoing the good that we've done over the last few months? Because we're definitely healthier and fitter than we were when we started all this. But then we've also made changes to our diet which I'm going to keep in place for as long as I can, so how much of the improvement in health is down to that?

I feel this strange mixture of relief that I don't have to cycle this month and fear that I might never be able to. But mostly I just feel desperate to know whether there's anything I can do to bring down my oestradiol levels.

And so it's back to waiting...

Bother bother bother bother bother!

So, it appears that my cycle is so regular that if I'm late one month (as I was last month, by a little short of two days), I'm early the next - by the same margin. And here are some of the reasons I'm not too impressed by that discovery:

1. AF showed up as I was getting ready to leave for a ceilidh. Since I wasn't expecting her till Sunday, I didn't have any of the heavy-duty CD1 supplies that would have ensured a carefree evening's dancing.

2. The only clean trousers I have for the weekend are white.

3. I discovered that AF was here 20 minutes after the clinic's phone lines had closed for the weekend. There is an emergency number, but I don't think they'd see this as an emergency, and all their patient information gives strict instructions that you should not turn up for blood tests or anything else at the weekend unless you have an appointment. That means the best I can do is turn up on Monday morning on the off-chance that they can fit me in for a blood test. It'll still technically be CD3, but all my other blood tests have been done on CD1 or 2 (as they prefer).

I feel a little ambivalent about this month anyway. I have exactly three more weeks in my job, and if we started to cycle now, egg collection would fall round about the time of our big leaving party. Plus I do still have work commitments in those last three weeks, and I'm not sure if the stresses of leaving a job I've been in for a few years would be compatible with the zen-like calm I hope to achieve during my treatment cycle.

On the other hand, there's that ticking clock and the fact that I haven't yet had an ideal CD1-3 blood test result, so that if it is right this month, I have to go ahead anyway.

Why is life never simple...?

It's all in the stomach

I went to boarding school for eight years from the age of 10. It was a wonderful school in a beautiful valley, and I made life-long friends there - I'm godmother to the daughters of two of them, and we're still in regular touch after all these years. Last weekend I went to a picnic organised by an old schoolfriend. Another classmate was there whom I hadn't seen since 1986. We recognised each other instantly, and chatted away as though we had seen each other yesterday.

So yes, I loved my school. The surroundings were beautiful, the friendships unbreakable, the education... well, it was perfectly adequate.

But every time we drove up the long school drive, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach - the feeling that (avoiding) homework was about to take over my life again, that my access to the television was going to be restricted, that I wouldn't see my family for at least another three weeks, and usually longer, that I was going to have to abide by a set of rules I didn't always agree with and shake down with people who weren't all what you might call soulmates.

Being several years younger than me, my sisters didn't attend this school until after I had left, and I often went back to visit them. I then became a school governor, and the journeys up the long school drive continued for a few more years. It's a special place that I've taken my DH to visit, and I've been back for various reunions and other occasions.

It's now 23 years since I left that school, and yet the school drive still has the power to stir those old feelings in my stomach. My head looks forward to the visits, but my stomach knows better, and remembers the aspects of school that my rose-tinted hindsight has forgotten quite successfully.

I was reminded of this last week. For the first time since the follow-up appointment after our failed cycle in December, I had occasion to take the road that leads to our old clinic.

For about five miles, I turned up the music on the car stereo, sang along loudly to it and sternly told my conscious mind that I was on my way somewhere completely different and there was nothing special or unusual about this road at all.

My stomach thought differently. As my car twisted and turned along the country road, my stomach churned and turned with all the feelings of hope, dread, disappointment and ultimate despair that characterised my dealings with that clinic. It wouldn't let me forget, it wouldn't let me move on. As the schoolgirl trapped inside me still experiences those first-day-of-term nerves on the old school drive, so the infertile inside me is reminded of all the times I drove this route, angrily swiping away treacherous tears as I tried to concentrate on the road ahead.

That was when I knew. My conscious mind will rationalise this thing, will tell me that if it never happens for us, if we never become parents, we'll be all right and will still have a happy life, even if it's not what we planned and hoped for. And most of the time, that'll be true.

But my stomach knows better. It knows that it will always carry that knot of grief, the knot that will be twisted at both predictable and totally unexpected times for as long as I live. And my stomach will tell my head, and my head will tell my eyes, and suddenly I'll be singing at the top of my voice and trying to drown out that little voice of pain that tells me I'll never be the same again.

An anniversary of sorts

A year ago today, DH and I nervously went for our first appointment with Mr No Nonsense. DH had provided a sperm sample in advance, and I was prepared for my first encounter with the ultrasound wand.

We weren't too sure what to expect, but were shell-shocked by the news that DH's sperm were so bad that we had pretty much no chance of conceiving naturally. Even IUI was not an option, and we were bluntly advised that IVF with ICSI was our only hope.

Thus began a year of struggles.

Struggles with my conscience as I came to terms with the fact that the only way I had any chance of achieving my life-long wish to become a mother was to go against the teachings of my Church.

Struggles with my body, as I learnt to give myself injections, forced myself to eat and drink more of some things and less of others, and battled to coax my aging ovaries into producing the one decent egg I needed.

Struggles with my feelings, as I fought the green-eyed monster that told me the people around me who got pregnant and popped babies out so easily were 'jumping the queue'.

Struggles with my tear ducts, as I shed more tears over the course of a few months than I had done throughout my life.

Struggles with my appetite, as I worked to lose the weight gained through comfort eating and treatments, denied myself some of my favourite foods for months on end, stuffed my body full of supplements and tried to follow the instructions I'd been given to improve my general level of health.

Struggles with my husband, as he failed to take any responsibility for the regime he too was supposed to be following and fell off the wagon again and again.

Struggles to persuade our little embryos to stay with us, and to come to terms with the fact that they were gone.

It's a year in which I've experience deep sorrow, physical and mental pain, soaring hope following by crushing disappointment.

And whenever I reached the pits of despair, I've been lifted up. DH and I haven't had to carry this burden alone. My family and friends have been amazing. You, my internet friends, know more of my story than any of my 'real-life' friends (apart from Jeannie, who has given me so much support). You have shared the ups and downs with me, hoped with me, prayed with me, rejoiced in my good news and given me words of wisdom and comfort in the many troughs of this rollercoaster ride, and for that I'm so grateful to all of you.

Taking back a bit of control

One of the things I hate most about IF is the loss of control - the inability to make plans, and the feeling that time is just pulling away from us. We were planning to go to South Africa last year to see my brother and his family, and it didn't happen. Then we were planning to go this August/September, and we've just pushed it back again. We haven't seen them since our wedding, and I so long to chat over coffee with Jeannie, to get to know my sweet godson and his brother again, and to see my brother.

Over the last two years, we've also put off a trip to China and innumerable other treats and trips that we thought of.

We've handed over our immediate future to XXXX clinic, so there's not an awful lot we can do for the moment about the lack of ability to plan - everything depends on the results of those monthly blood tests, which are not bad enough to give up but not good enough to be able to risk missing what might be the one perfect month.

But there are other treats we've denied ourselves. When I met DH, my pride and joy was my car - a classic MG which was rusting and of variable reliability, but which I loved driving and which took me on many great adventures. DH is not a car person, and he didn't like the MG much - but the real reason I sold it to buy a sensible car was because I was the only person available to drive DH's parents around, and our getting together coincided with his father's increasing frailty and inability to take the train as he used to. A reliable car with space for the in-laws was a necessity, and I consoled myself with the thought that we would soon be filling it with children of our own and have another reason for needing the sensible car.

More than two years on, we've been enjoying beautiful summer weather, and I secretly promised myself that if it turned out we definitely couldn't have children and we had to close the door on that dream, I would at least console myself with another frivolous, fun car. After all, DH is learning to drive now - I had always thought that if we got a second car it would be for him, but why should it be? I've been driving longer, so insurance is cheaper for me, and he's on the insurance for the sensible car anyway.

Last week, I decided that I'd had enough of waiting for the outcome of this treatment. It may or may not work - in fact, it may or may not ever even happen. My life is still on hold to a large extent, but there are some things I can take control of.

So my dream of a fun car is not going to wait until I know we can't have children. I can have fun while we're waiting, and if I end up in the happy position of having to sell the two-seater because the twins won't fit in it, then I'll do it with a singing heart, but knowing that I've really enjoyed my last summer of 'freedom'.

And things couldn't have worked out better once I'd made the decision. I picked up my new toy boy on Friday evening, and the weather has been perfect over the weekend for my first couple of days of topless motoring (the MG was not convertible).

We went to a picnic yesterday, and as we were leaving I asked if my friend's son wanted to have a look at my new car. I ended up with six small boys queuing for the chance to sit in the driver's seat, and I don't know who enjoyed the experience more - them or me.

The new boy in my life may not be flesh and blood, but he puts a smile on my face, and who could ask for more...?

I spoke too soon

I should have known it wouldn't be that simple. A problem that's lasted two years and is so strongly wrapped up in the workings of the inner psyche doesn't go away just like that.

I had a blissful few days where I naively thought that DH's delayed ejaculation/anejaculation was cured, because out of the blue it happened on its own not once, but twice.

I warned him that it probably wouldn't happen consistently every time from then on, and that we must both be relaxed about any times that it didn't happen. And I told him that the main reason I was so happy it had happened those two times was for his sake, because it was enjoyable for him.

So the first time after that that it didn't happen, I was quite relaxed about it. Unfortunately, DH wasn't - and ever since then, we're right back to square one, with him desperately working at it, trying to make it happen. I can tell that whenever we're making love, he's only thinking about one thing: "What can I do to make it happen? Will it happen this time? What if it doesn't? Will it ever happen again? Maybe if I try moving a little bit differently..."

Meanwhile, I'm silently praying that he'll get some relief, and trying everything I can to help him relax and try to feel those tense muscles unclench.

So there'll be no natural conception this month - my bubble has burst, and I'm so intent on trying not to make a big deal out of this that I daren't even suggest using the artificial methods that we tried before. And in any case, it's now too late for this month however we try to do it.

Last week I was cut to the quick when it was all over and I was trying to reassure him and tell him that it didn't matter (but it did, and a little bit of me was dying inside as I said it). In a voice full of despair, he said, "But all I want to do is make you pregnant."

There are only three things that make our situation now better than it was two years ago: I know it can happen, and I'm sure it will again one day, when he's ready; I know it's not my fault; and I know it's not because he doesn't find me desirable.

But right now, our love-making doesn't bring us comfort and togetherness, but tension and isolated despair. And I'm left wondering how I can help a man who over-analyses everything in life to relax and just let things happen.

Missing a layer of skin

I'm so thin-skinned at the moment, and so easily wounded by things people say.

I need to stop reading the comments on other people's blogs, because a comment that's made to help another person in a different situation can unintentionally stick another barb in my wound.

Like the one who commented that once she knew a NICU nurse who was treating her daughter had fertility problems of her own, she was afraid this nurse would steal her daughter.

Like the one who said of a nurse who was being mean that she obviously wasn't a mother herself, because a mother would be more sensitive.

Last week, my sister rubbished the advice of one of the best-selling authors of baby books, saying that because she doesn't have children of her own, she clearly knows nothing.

Just a couple more of the thousands of little pin-pricks that daily remind me that I'm a freak, that I'm not a member of the exclusive club I so want to join. And I watch the first-time mothers who've never changed a nappy before, never burped a baby before, holding the baby awkwardly in their arms as if they're afraid it'll break, and I wonder at the fact that they're members of this club and I'm not, and might never be.

I love my nieces and nephews, my godchildren, other children of my friends and family. I'm a useful babysitter, and I have tons of experience of looking after newborns, babies, toddlers and older children.

But don't worry - the fact that I don't have a baby of my own won't make me any more likely to steal any of your babies. It's a baby of my own I want, not somebody else's.

Fantastic!!!

Circus Princess has some amazing news today - I was feeling a little bit low when I started checking blogs this morning, and this gave me a real lift. I'm so thrilled for her, and hoping and praying that everything will go smoothly.

Unfortunately, Blogger seems to keep eating my comments on her blog, so let me just say it on here - CONGRATULATIONS!!!!

The trouble with not logging on every day...

... is that by the time I've read and commented on all my favourite blogs, I've run out of computer time.

Life is busy at the moment, and a bit of a curate's egg - good in parts. Today will mostly be spent ferrying my mother-in-law around and visiting my father-in-law in hospital. Hopefully normal service will resume soon...

The closet

At the weekend, I had coffee with a friend who is 20 weeks pregnant after her third round of IVF. She said that one of the things she has insisted on as her friends and family have found out about this pregnancy is telling them how it happened. She has felt very alone in her IF journey, and felt that she and her husband were the only people in her circle of friends who were struggling. Since she has started being open about her IVF pregnancy, she said it's amazing how many stories have come out of the woodwork about people having similar struggles.

I have found the same thing. There are a couple of people I will never tell about our struggles, either because they would be judgemental about us as Catholics going through IVF or because they would use my pain as a source of cheap gossip. Mostly, though, I've been very open about it throughout the whole process - everyone knew how much I wanted children, so it seemed pointless to try to hide the sadness I experienced about it not happening.

This week, we had visitors - a friend from my university days with her husband and baby. I hadn't seen her for several years, although we had been in touch by e-mail and Facebook. I must confess I was a little disgruntled when I heard that she was pregnant, especially as she had never seemed particularly interested in children and had made a comment on Facebook about how unexpected and unplanned her pregnancy was.

While we were catching up over a cup of tea, we talked about travel, and I said that it had been a bit difficult to make any plans over the last couple of years because of TTC and then the inability to plan around our IVF treatments.

That was when she told me that she totally understood the inability to plan, because she and her husband had tried for two years without success. Eventually, they gave up and when an opportunity came up for her husband to take a two year posting overseas with his employer, they decided to go for it. Within a couple of months of arriving in a new country, she was pregnant.

Apart from the fact that she told me the best cure for infertility is being in a cold environment with no heating so that you and your husband need to spend lots of time in bed keeping each other warm, it was a very enlightening conversation.

I know many people choose to keep their struggles to themselves for all sorts of reasons. It's also a bit of a double-edged sword having so many people know about our situation, because they regularly ask for updates and it's harder to keep private any bits of information that we don't feel ready to share. But I love to hear the stories of struggles and eventual successes, and every story I hear makes me feel a little bit less alone in this journey.

I think you might be right...

Myndi mentioned in her comment on my last post that her oestradiol had been elevated on one cycle because of a cyst. I've been thinking about that and looking back at what happened in my previous cycles, and I think she may be onto something.

The doctor who scanned me didn't mention the word 'cyst'. But on each ovary, the thing that was there was 14mm - and surely that's too big for a normal follicle on day 2. The cyst that I had in September was 17mm, and on IVF#1, after five days of stimming at a very high dose, my biggest follicles were 14mm and Nurse Perfect was saying I was almost ready to trigger.

So I'm pretty sure that I have at least one cyst, and probably two. And since these cysts are caused by a failure in ovulation, perhaps that explains why I had no ovulation pain last cycle, as I usually do.

If that's the explanation for my high oestradiol, then I'm fairly comfortable that it ought to come back down in the next one or two cycles - and if I can just keep my FSH down as well, then we should be going ahead soon. So I'm now thinking cyst-deflating thoughts, just in case...

Ho hum

Well, I went in for my scan and blood test yesterday. The doctor who did the scan wasn't very hopeful. There was one obvious follicle (or potential follicle?) on my left ovary. He then took ages to find my right ovary, with me saying, "The left one was pretty quiet on my last attempt - the right one produced a few more." When he did eventually find the right one, there was only one follicle there too.

I've already mentioned that XXXX clinic doesn't use computers. When you're queuing for a scan, they give you your file to take upstairs and you sit with it outside the door of the scan room. This gives a perfect opportunity to have a nose through your file while you wait, and I was able to compare the notes for last month - "Not suitable for treatment" - and this month - "May not be suitable for treatment". An improvement - but was it enough?

When I left the scan room, I read the note the doctor had added - again, it said, "May not be suitable", so everything was riding on the results of the blood test.

I had my 'Teach' session with the nurse, just in case the results came in OK. There was another person there for the session - she was on the long protocol and this was her first IVF. Our concerns and questions were a little different, shall we say.

Anyway, having had Gonal-F and Cetrotide last time, with Ovitrelle to trigger, this time I'll be on Merional and Fostimon, with Cetrotide to prevent early ovulation and Pregnyl to trigger. The fact that I'll be on a completely different regime gives me hope. I am a little nervous about having to break the glass vials, though.

Another thing that gives me hope is that I picked up a piece of paper in the waiting room with the latest results from the HFEA, and XXXX clinic's success rate in my age group is 40% - twice the rate of any of the other London clinics, and almost four times the rate of our old clinic. Given that 75% of patients at XXXX clinic have had previous IVF failures elsewhere, this success rate is phenomenal.

Despite this hope, I was prepared to be told that this month would not be suitable. I then had to wait for the rest of the day to get the call to confirm one way or the other. This afternoon I had to take my MIL to visit my FIL in hospital - he has just had a second operation, having been diagnosed with cancer. The call didn't come until almost 6 pm, just as I was turning into her road to drop her back home. As I picked the phone up, I accidentally pressed a button and cut the damn thing off - you can imagine my frustration.

Anyway, the nurse who called was the same one I'd had the teaching session with in the morning. She said that having reviewed my results, Mr Miracle Worker had decided that this was not a suitable month to start cycling. So that's it for another month, as far as the clinic is concerned.

It's funny - I thought back to how devastated I was when my first ever cycle was delayed last year. But this time I felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. Of course, I now know that a delayed cycle is so much less traumatic than a failed cycle. I only want to go ahead if there's a good chance of success. But I so want to get a shot at that 40% success rate.

So if you're the praying type, please pray that both my FSH AND my oestradiol will be within the acceptable range next month - because apparently I've been thinking too much about my FSH and not appreciating the importance of the oestradiol level. And hopefully the downward trend will continue as I relax more and wind down towards finishing work in August.

Delivering the message

You know what I really enjoyed about that phone call yesterday?

The first thing the nurse said to me was that my oestradiol level was a bit high and that Mr Miracle Worker wanted to do another test before deciding whether I should go ahead with treatment this month.

But then I asked for all the numbers - oestradiol first, because that was the first thing she'd mentioned, and then FSH.

The emotion that she put into that single word, "Seven", was amazing. I could hear the smile on her face, and her voice was full of excitement, as though she were sharing some wonderful secret with me.

I said, "But that's the lowest it's ever been!"

And she instantly responded, with the same smile in her voice, "I know - that's why we want to try to go ahead this month."

It's a big clinic with a lot of nurses and an even greater number of patients, and I doubt if either of us could pick the other out of a line-up, but we shared a real moment of excitement over my day 2 hormone levels. I suppose they must get as fed up with delivering bad news as we do with hearing it. A phone call with a bit of good news in it was a boost for both of us yesterday.

Drum roll, please

Don't ever let anyone try to tell me FSH levels aren't adversely affected by stress.

The clinic just called with my results, and they're the best ever - FSH 7 (yes, seven - that's a little over half what it was when first tested), LH 3.2, oestradiol 222 and prolactin 292.

I'm so excited about my FSH level - but this is a little tempered by the fact that my oestradiol is back over the magic 200 number. Although it's the FSH they concentrate on more, the high oestradiol apparently still makes me borderline.

My instructions are to go in for a scan and another blood test tomorrow, and on the basis of those they'll decide whether or not to recommend going ahead with treatment. I don't know if it's a sign of optimism on the nurse's part that she said I'd need to plan to be there for a while tomorrow so that I can have my injection training etc.

Please keep everything crossed for me...

Here we go again

Today is CD 1, so I've just arranged to go in tomorrow for another blood test. Hopefully this time my FSH will be a bit lower again and I'll be able to start IVF #3.

What I didn't tell you about the excitement of the other day is that the first time it happened was on day 13 of my normally 26-day cycle. I usually ovulate around day 13, so for the first time ever, this put me in with a chance of a 100% natural conception.

Of course, Mr No Nonsense's words of last year were ringing in the back of my head, when I told him about our problem and he said, "With these sperm results, it wouldn't have happened anyway." But I was also aware that DH's sperm had improved significantly since then.

So when my AF was due on Monday and there was no sign of it, I tried not to get excited, but I was a little distracted. And when I got through the whole day at work yesterday and there was still no sign, I was a little more distracted.

I remained a little bit realistic - I kept telling myself that I was waiting for AF to show up because I needed to arrange my blood test, and reminding myself that although I think of my cycle as being like clockwork, I have been a day late before.

I have to confess, though, that I enjoyed a couple of days of day-dreaming about what it would be like to find out that I was pregnant, imagining telling DH he was going to be a father, calculating how many weeks gone I would be by the time I finished work...

But when I saw last night that AF was on her way, and then when I woke up to a full flow this morning, I wasn't too sad, because the delay was just long enough to ensure that it's OK that I can't go into London today and that I'll be just fine doing the blood test tomorrow.

I'm hoping for a nice low FSH number after being on holiday this month, sorting out my work situation and generally being less stressed than I have been for ages. But if I don't get it, we have another month of trying naturally - which makes me feel as though there's only two weeks to wait rather than four before we have another chance.

So all in all, it's been a nice couple of days with my head in the clouds, and when I came down to earth it wasn't with the crash that it has been on so many previous occasions. And now we'll see what happens next...

Out of context

When one of my US nephews was about 3 or 4, he saw his preschool teacher in Walmart. Normally outgoing, confident, and very fond of his teacher, his first instinct was to hide - she wasn't meant to exist out of school, and he was completely thrown by her presence in the real world.

Yesterday I knew how he felt. I was in Starbuck's in town with a friend, and Nurse Perfect from my old clinic walked in. I suppose it wasn't all that unexpected - I did know that I live between the clinic and her home, because she once offered to drop some drugs off for me on her way home, and my town has a Saturday market and a couple of other attractions that make it worth the occasional visit.

I don't know if she saw me, and even if she did, I don't know if she recognised me - my face wasn't the thing she was usually looking at when I saw her, and the part of me she is most familiar with isn't usually on display in a coffee shop. Even so, and even though I loved her when I was going through treatment, my face started to burn and I sank lower in my chair and had to mumble excuses to my friend about how hot it was getting next to the window.

I wonder what the correct etiquette is here in buttoned-up Britain when you bump into your ex-IVF nurse when she's off duty...?

Excitement!

I wasn't sure whether to blog about this, but it's a story that I would have loved to hear a couple of years ago.

When we married, DH and I were both virgins. It took us a few days to figure out how to get that thing to go in there, and once we did, we found that we had another little problem. I did a bit of googling when I got back home, and discovered that there was a name for it - delayed ejaculation. Subsequent reading indicated that it was actually more like situational anejaculation.

This meant that our TTC was always a bit more mechanical and a bit less romantic than one might have hoped - we tried various methods of DIY artificial insemination over the first several months of our marriage before eventually going to the clinic last July. When Mr No Nonsense asked us if we had any problems, we told him about it, and his immediate and blunt reply was, "Well, it wouldn't have worked anyway, because you don't have enough sperm."

Since then, of course, DH's sperm have improved hugely thanks to the regime we've been on - but we still had the basic problem with getting them anywhere near my (elderly) eggs.

And so we come to the big news - last Monday, for the first time ever, and after more than two years of trying, DH successfully finished the job. And a week later, he did it again, proving that it wasn't just a one-off fluke.

This is a hugely big deal for us - it means that, however slim the chances of success, we finally get a chance to TTC like normal people. We still have all our other issues, but we finally have an element of hope that we never had before.

So if anyone stumbles across this who is in the same situation I was a couple of years ago, I have this to say - it can be hugely upsetting and frustrating, but if you stay calm, try not to let it become an issue between you, and persevere, it can eventually come right even after you've resigned yourself to it never happening.

I'm back!

After our weekend away, we went off on holiday with US bro and his family and my parents. The place we stayed at claimed to have internet access, but at £7 per hour it was access I wasn't prepared to use!

We went to the seaside, and it was the coldest seaside holiday we've ever had, with fog to boot on the first day. Other than the weather, though, it was a good break, and lovely to get to know my nephews and nieces again after spending very little time with them on their last two visits (for my wedding and UK bro's wedding).

The legal process for the redundancies has been grinding on, and the holiday gave me time to think about what I want to do. My department is being reduced in size and we have to reapply for the jobs that are remaining. I discussed it with DH and with my parents and SIL, and it all boiled down to 'what would I regret more?'.

The answer then became fairly clear - if I carried on working and then failed to get pregnant, I'd always wonder whether leaving that job and taking a bit of time off to relax and destress might have helped. If I left this job and didn't get pregnant, I could always find another job, and if it's not as well paid as this one - well, we don't actually need as much as I earn at the moment.

So when they phoned me on Monday to give me the formal notification that the consultation has finished and I'm 'at risk of redundancy', I told them I wouldn't be applying for one of the new jobs. Yesterday was my first day back in the office, and I had a meeting at which I confirmed that and was told what my package will be. It's an amount that if I'm careful, I should be able to live on for about a year - though to put it in perspective, it's also about the amount that we will have spent on IVF by the time we've finished IVF #3.

Although I'm redundant, I'm still needed for the moment, so my agreed finishing date is in early August. I'm in the happy position of having to beat off unwanted job offers at the moment, but I'm trying not to burn any bridges, and to say 'not right now' rather than a straight 'no'.

So the stress is reduced, and I'm hoping the way is clear for IVF #3 to start next week. I also have some other news which I consider rather exciting, but I'll keep you in suspense for that until tomorrow - I'm off to catch up on everyone else's blogs now...

Gone fishin'

Thank you so much for all your comments and your support - it means a lot to me.

And you're right about how supportive my family are. When I mentioned my brother's news to my mother - it was rather tentative, since I didn't know whether he had told her yet, so I just said, "Have you spoken to ___ and ___ yet? - her instant response was, "Yes - it just gets harder, doesn't it?" I so appreciated the fact that, although I know she'll be excited to have another grandchild, I didn't have to pretend with her. I hope they all know that I am genuinely happy for them - I'm sad for me, and the timing sucks, but I don't begrudge them their happiness in any way.

Anyway, I may not be around much over the next few days - my US brother and SIL and their seven children are staying with us until Monday. I've managed to find bed space for everyone, and have bought a mountain of food - when the woman on the cash desk in Costco saw my trolley, she instantly offered me executive membership! It'll be exciting having eleven people for three nights in a house that only has one bathroom, but I'm sure the neighbours will help us out if there's an emergency!

Have a great weekend, and if you're in the UK - enjoy this beautiful sunny weather. (Also, please think of me tomorrow - as well as having my hyperfertile brother and his family staying with us, we're going to Niece #4's christening tomorrow, and it'll be the first time I see my little brother and his wife since they announced their news. Could the weekend get any more child-centric?)

Out of turn

Thank you so much for your supportive comments last night. I wasn't able to be more specific in that post, because I'd been asked not to tell anyone else in the family, and one of my SILs reads this blog.

So here's what happened. I was home alone while DH had another driving lesson, and the phone rang. It was my little brother - the one who got married last year, just over a year after we did.

In rather hesitant tones, he said, "We've got some rather unexpected news."

Now, when I say that I specifically prayed that this wouldn't happen just yet, I don't think I was being horrible. They do want children, and I obviously want it for them as well, because I wouldn't wish what we're going through on anybody, especially not someone I love. But they weren't planning on having them just yet - in fact, the timing isn't brilliant for them, since my brother is also facing possible redundancy and they're currently living in temporary accommodation while doing up an old ruin of a house they bought last year.

My lovely brother didn't specifically say anything about our situation, but he did tell me that I was the first to know, and it was clear to me that it was because of our situation that he made sure we heard it first and had time to get used to the idea before everyone else started to burst with excitement.

And that's one of the things I hate about this whole IF business - it affects everybody. When my sister got pregnant with #4, she and my BIL agonised over how to tell me, and worried about upsetting me. My little brother has obviously thought of our situation and made sure he tried to tell me in a sensitive way. And I know when he told my parents and my sister, one of their first concerns would have been about how I would react.

It shouldn't be this way. The whole family should just be greeting the news of another new little life with nothing but joy and happiness, not worrying about whether the news will upset me. I don't want to be this person.

The trouble is, though, I AM this person. I cried buckets last night, and I'm crying again as I type this. I managed to sound excited for my brother, and I truly am pleased for him. I know he hasn't taken the whole baby thing for granted, and has thought about the possibility that they might not be able to have children when they wanted them. But they've still managed to do it - unplanned, and at a time when my SIL has been travelling for work so much that it's astonishing that they managed to fit it in.

I'm grateful for two things - first, that my brother was thoughtful enough to tell me first, so I can get used to the idea before everyone else starts talking about it. Hopefully, he'll have no idea that I'm anything other than excited for him.

Secondly, I'm grateful that I heard over the phone and that I won't be seeing any of my family for a few days. I hope that by the time I do see them - at #4's christening this coming Saturday - I'll be able to talk about it without crying.

Truly, it's not that I'm not happy for them. But they got married over a year after us. I just feel as though we've now truly missed our turn. I'm also now terrified to go ahead with IVF #3. If it fails, then when their baby is born I'll be in exactly the same position as I was a couple of weeks ago when waiting for #4 to be born - reading excited family e-mails and thinking of what could have been if my IVF had been successful.

DH is wonderful - he held me while I cried last night, and he made all the right noises. My brother is wonderful, and so thoughtful to tell me the way he did. But life? Well, it pretty much sucks.

Gutted

This weekend, I very specifically prayed for something not to happen right now, because I didn't think I'd be able to cope with it.

It was a bit of an odd thing suddenly to pop into my head, because it wasn't something that was on the cards at all, and I also prayed for the strength to cope with it if it unexpectedly did happen.

And today it happened.

I don't even know why I suddenly thought of it this weekend, but it was the one thing I was hoping not to hear about this week. I'm gutted, but I also feel horrible for feeling this way.

Sometimes life is very, very unfair.