Have you ever decided that you really do have time for one last cup of coffee before you leave to meet a friend? Even though there is the niggling voice of doubt telling you that you probably don't. And, is the result of your terrible inertia, a fraught journey comprised of zooming down a motorway at top speed, performing an almost fatal balancing act between avoiding a fine for irresponsible driving and risking a meeting with an irate friend? Quite often it is difficult to establish which would be a worse fate, the friend or the fine. Or perhaps you have become proficient at performing the run-walk, I know you must have done it too, all the way from your house to the station, or bus stop, or meeting place.
Is it possible that you have found yourself happily explaining to friends that it was your plan, right from the outset, to buy your bikinis at the airport because, obviously, shopping with no changing rooms, only a few minutes to spare until your gate closes and carrying a heavy case is your idea of a fun afternoon? Anyway, you tell them, you have always wanted to hear your name echoing loudly throughout the departure lounge. When the sad truth is that no matter how much your partner begged you to pack the damn case, you continued to protest that 30 minutes was ample time to pack, shave your legs, apply fake tan and find your passport. The upshot, along with the impromptu swimwear purchases, is invariably a grumpy taxi driver sitting on his horn right outside your front the door as you desperately attempt to cram a lone sandal, all the while fretting hysterically that people will notice that not one of your shoes has a partner, into a bulging suitcase.
These things happen to us all, don't they?
A good friend of mine during my university days suffered shockingly badly from the same affliction; no matter how hard she tried, she was completely powerless to study until the very last few moments before exams. The poor girl would sit on the steps outside the examination hall, with tears welling up in her eyes and with desperation etched across her face, open her folder for the first time in months and wail "but I just don't know anything". She, not surprisingly, failed her Chemistry degree but, you will be very pleased to know, did go on to become a very good nurse.
Sometimes though, you amaze yourself and you only go and bloody pull it off. The sensation of success feels great and the adrenaline inducing rushing around all seems worth it. Although, once again, you promise yourself you will never procrastinate again.
By now you must be wondering what all this has to do with infertility or IVF; I am taking a stab in the dark that this is why you have found yourself reading this blog. Unless, of course, being a passionate gardener, you typed "in my garden grow" into your search engine and landed up here by mistake. In which case, I am truly sorry - I really didn't think it through when I was choosing the name for this blog and, if I were to do it again, it would have the words "pregnancy" or "infertility" or perhaps even "IVF" in the title - but, regardless of how you got here, please feel free to stick around. I am afraid I can't help you with your tulips but, you never know, you could just learn a thing or two. Oh dear, there I go again, ramble, ramble, ramble. The point is, if I can ever get myself there, that I have found myself almost leaving something very important too late.
Several weeks ago I nervously fired off a cheeky email to Mr T, our fertility specialist, asking him to write us a private prescription for the medications that we require for our upcoming IVF cycle. He had previously hinted that he could be persuaded to do this for us, which was very helpful because, as you can imagine, clinics situated opposite Reagent's Park in London don't tend to have the lowest pharmacy prices. However, another doctor at the clinic, who is definitely not my favourite, explained, when asked to write a prescription before our first cycle, that it really wasn't the done thing and we should buy our meds directly from the clinic. So, as you can probably guess, I felt quite brave and just a bit proud of myself for securing the private prescription. What I should have done next, but clearly didn't, was jump online locate a reasonably priced pharmacy not too far away and place an order. What I actually did was deposit the prescription on our coffee table, so I could walk past it every morning and mutter "I must deal with that this evening" and, occasionally, mention to my husband that the script was there. I can't say it was a total surprise, although my reaction may have begged to differ, when I realised with only a few days until kick-off that the drugs were still not ordered, the pharmacy still not found and the little white slip was still lying in the exact same spot on the coffee table.
The fear that we would miss the deadline altogether was enough to spur us into action; when I say us, I mean my husband. He hopped on the web found an online pharmacy and merrily ordered away. Although, I do wish the pharmacy he chose didn't have a name that was spelt in text speak - I hate to admit it but that does make me bloody terrified. So, if we haven't just sent our hard borrowed money to the Cayman Island, we should have some lovely, and potentially rage inducing, drugs turning up on Tuesday. I am really hoping they don't get delayed and/or that my period doesn't surprise me and turn up before Monday, because if either of those things happen, we're screwed.
Now that we have got ourselves together, and, yes, I do mean my husband when I say we, the following drugs are, hopefully, winging there way to us:
- One drug to make my eggs grow plentiful and mature - that one is called Gonal-F
- Another one to stop my little, or hopefully big but not too big, eggs from popping out of my ovaries prematurely - that one is called Certrotide.
- A drug to release the eggs from my ovaries when the moment is just right - that little beauty is the trigger shot and is called Ovritrelle.
- And finally, a drug to keep my uterus cushiony plump for a little embryo to bury into my uterine lining - this one is called Cylogest but you might know it better as progesterone.
We are now £1100 deeper in debt, I would love to say we that were are just a bit poorer but this is, without any doubt, unless we win the lottery, going to be a credit card baby. You might think that's irresponsible, and I do too, but, in case you haven't got it already, I'm desperate for a baby here. On the upside, we have saved ourselves £400, that is assuming that we have ordered from a reputable company, the text speak name was just an unfortunate marketing blunder, and we haven't just sent our money to pay for an extra gold tap in a luxury mansion belonging to an internet fraud kingpin.
Let's just hope my dilly-dallying hasn't really buggered it up this time and, yes, I promise, I promise, I promise that next time I won't dawdle and I will jump straight onward to my next task. What's that? Cup of tea, you say? But I really must get on. Oh dear, you've twisted my arm, just a quick one though.