Second beta at 15dp5dt - Bugger

Just a quick update. There are no pictures today or silliness about chocolate lollipops.

My beta has gone from 81 on 13dp5dt (18dpo) to 130 on 15dp5dt (20dpo). Those measurements were  over 52 hours apart. My clinic isn’t too hopeful; the lovely people who help me there have gone from being chirpy to gloomy. The clinic and my GP suspect that I might be in possession of an ectopic pregnancy. Quite handily, they have given me a list of warning signs which, if any of them happen, should send me galloping on over to my local hospital. I will have another beta on Monday and, if I make it, a scan next Friday. There is a small chance that this pregnancy will work out but you'd really need a high powered microscope to see it now. I am clinging on to that small shred of hope. I want to keep my diamond, dammit.

Back on the big dipper

Why do people voluntarily ride roller coasters? Perhaps if the aliens land tomorrow they will think that, if they base their assessment on the roller coaster riding alone, the people who inhabit this planet are bonkers. The creatures from Mars will see that, before the earthlings climb into the buckets, they are trembling and, once seated, they will scream, nausea will rise from their guts and, if it's a good one, even cry. However, once it's over, you will hear the riders say how thrilling it was, oh it was such an adventure, they'll say; get right back in line and hop on again for one more go. In short, the exciting, thrilling, exhilarating, wonderful feelings outweigh the fear, vomit and scream-inducing gut-wrenching stuff. Maybe that is why couples keep on putting themselves through one IVF cycle after another: the hope that, one day, after all the rain they'll get a turn at dancing in the sunshine.


This week I had the first scan of my current, it's my third if your counting, IVF cycle. I tried to remember how many scans I have had throughout my infertility journey  but I can't, there have been just too many. After the first scan of my last frozen cycle I wrote down my thoughts on the scan process and, lucky reader, you can read all about it below:

 
"On the train back home from my clinic I couldn’t help thinking about how odd these scan sessions are. Maybe it is just me but they are weird, aren’t they? I find it all so awkward and slightly hysterical at the same time. I spend a good ten minutes in the morning checking everything downstairs looks okay, like anyone cares, and the thought that it isn’t pops into my head many times during the day. Then, once I get to the clinic, I spend several moments debating whether it should be socks on or socks off, wondering if it matters, and trying to remember if my nail varnish would be suitable if I do dare to go socks off. Finally, I make a socks on decision, clamber onto the chair, or maybe it’s a bed – I am not sure what it is – and I attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity whilst desperately trying to balance in the stirrups. Once I think I’m safely in, I have to call out “I’m ready” at which point I panic wildly, think Mr T won’t hear me so call out two more times with increasing volume and desperation. The whole humiliating process culminates with, what can only be described as, an eye-wateringly large dildo like probe which, to add insult to injury, gets lubricated and covered with a condom! Then the lights go down, I half expect Barry White to start playing, and we get to spend several minutes examining my inadequate innards. Like I say – odd!"


I had the exact same feelings again this week - nothing changes. Except this time, instead of excited anticipation, I am nervous and a little bit scared. The scan went well, I have 8 resting follicles (that's okay, apparently) and none of my internal organs had left the building - I wouldn't blame them if they had, I think they've had enough. But this time I have prior knowledge of what lies ahead; I know that IVF is hard and it makes me feel like this:

Oh before I forget, the financial round up:

1. IVF meds:    £1092
2. IVF cycle:   £3275
3. HEFA fee:    £75
4. Train fares: £28
   Total:       £4470

Good days and bad days

Almost two years ago, on the first of July 2011, I got married. It was the best day of my life. There were months of preparation; plenty of visits to boot sales, antiques fairs and charity shops, hunting down forty individual vases to fill with mixed bunches for the table decorations. Many hours had been spent painstakingly designing, cutting, pasting, and attaching ribbons to piles of  handmade invitations. Rose petals were pressed, cakes baked and iced, food sampled and alcohol purchased.  When I woke on that most special of mornings, I could feel my stomach was knotted with excitement and anticipation. My beautiful bridesmaids and I giggled, like the school friends we used to be, over a champagne breakfast; we slipped in to our pretty dresses in my cramped apartment overflowing with flowers, lace and happiness. Make-up applied, hair styled and simple posies carefully placed, we bundled ourselves, and boxes of confetti cones, into my friend's trusted car and sped along the scenic country roads; the sun was shining, the was weather warm and a landscape of green welcomed us. The world was bright and vibrant; we felt alive. When we arrived at the venue, we were greeted by our registrar; she sensed the nerves, comforting me with kind words and explanations of the formalities. The day was passing in a blur; I willed the world to turn slower; I tried hard to absorb every detail, to remember every smile, every laugh and every single moment of joy. My new husband looked anxious but exquisitely handsome and happy, oh so happy. Petals fell onto the dusty floor of the ancient barn; we drank, we ate, we danced.

Two days later my husband and I strolled through the brilliantly bright streets of Bangkok. Stepping into a marble lobby, chandeliers sparkled overhead, we moved forward to the reception desk of our luxurious hotel. The receptionist was courteous, helpful and understood what a magical time our honeymoon was. As we were led to our suite, we passed the faces of relaxed holidaymakers, serious businessmen and the maids scuttled down the corridors around us. Once we crossed the threshold, the bellboy showed us the features of the peaceful apartment; we were presented with a delicately iced cake to celebrate the special time. Finding ourselves alone, my husband and I fell onto the soft sofa; our hands touched, our fingers became entwined and joy radiated through our bodies, from our smiles right down to our toes. Unpacking my case, I pulled out seemingly endless reams of light colourful summery fabric. Each dress chosen to flatter and reveal the new figure I worked so hard to achieve. After fourteen days of adventure, endless delight, one elephant safari and with two sun-kissed faces, it was over.

When we arrived home, we were greeted by flowers and cards; our loved one's generous words tumbled from messages full warmth and happiness. We felt loved and connected; our joy was complete and our hearts were full. We lingered as we opened each present, read each card and committed the well-wishes into our memories. Surrounded by a sea of tissue, we came across a present that we weren't sure what to do with. It wasn't a vase we could place lovingly on a sideboard or a picture that we could hang with care. The confusing wedding gift was the opportunity to name a star. My husband and I talked about what to call the star; we came up with nothing, we shrugged and I put the box under the coffee table until the day that inspiration would find us.


Six months ago, on the twelfth of December 2012, our babies died. It was the worst day of my life. There had been months of preparation; countless trips to fertility clinics, specialist doctors and maternity wards, to achieve and sustain the pregnancy our hearts ached for. Many hours had been spent injecting, pill popping, testing, and undergoing scan after scan to ensure the eggs would mature, graduate to embryos and the resulting babies would survive. Maternity clothes were bought, nurseries dreamt about, friends told and my belly grew bigger.  When I woke on the morning of our thirteenth pregnancy scan, I could feel that my stomach was knotted with fear and dread. My husband and I talked with hushed tones as we dragged on our heavy clothes in our bedroom filled with exhaustion, fear and sadness. Teeth brushed, hair scraped back and our maternity file carefully placed in my bag, we shuffled to my beloved car and drove along the grey wintry roads. Snow lay on the ground, the weather was icy and a landscape of gloom surrounded us. The world was dark and still; we felt stunned. We arrived at the hospital and were greeted by our midwife, she sensed the fear; comforting us with kind words and explanations of the formalities. The day was passing in a blur. I willed the world to turn slower and I fought hard to blink back the tears, to cling to every shred of hope, to remember every blurry image and hold onto every single moment of joy. My husband looked tired, desperately worried and sad, oh so sad.  As the ultrasound got underway, the words shattered the air around us as they fell from the doctor's mouth, the babies were gone; we shook, we cried, we crumbled.


Two days later my husband and I walked through the depressingly dull streets of Reading. Stepping into a yellowing lobby, the fluorescent strips flickered overhead, we moved forward to the reception desk of the labour and delivery ward. The midwife was kind, helpful and understood what a tragic time the loss of our babies was. As we were shown to our suite, we passed the faces of expectant couples and anticipating grandparents; the midwives rushed through the corridors around us. Once we crossed the threshold into our delivery room, the midwife showed us the features of the deathly quiet apartment; my cervix was prepared for the impending birth and pills were given to start the contractions. Finding ourselves alone, my husband and I fell onto the uncomfortable sofa and our hands touched, our fingers became entwined and agony radiated from our souls. Unpacking my case, I pulled out a limited stock of heavy, dark clothes. Each item chosen to hide and cover the pregnancy I worked so hard to achieve. After nine hours of labour, endless torture, an emergency surgery and a blood transfusion, it was over. The next day, we stood like statues with fragmented hearts as we looked at our daughters, both of us too scared and broken to stretch out a hand and touch their cool skin. 


When we arrived home, we were greeted by flowers and cards; our loved one's comforting words tumbled from messages full sympathy and sadness. We felt loved but alone; our worst fears had been realised and our hearts were empty. We sat in stifling silence as we opened each envelope, read each card and committed the grief to our memories.


Some months later, as I cleaned round our coffee table, I felt my foot touch something cold. I knelt down, reached under the table and pulled out a box that I didn't recognise. I prised opened the metal lid and a thin sheet of instructions floated onto the carpet. I smiled when I realised it was a forgotten wedding gift; the leaflet told me it was our opportunity to name a star. My husband and I didn't need to discuss what to call the star: inspiration had found us.  

The first step

Little Pill, as you sit on the table in front of me, I look at you and wonder. I examine your size, your shape, your texture. I marvel at your neatness; how compact you seem lying here before me. I take you in my hand and let you sit there for a while. I want to know more about who you are: what might you do to me? So I search; I am rewarded with new knowledge about your structure, your function and I laugh at your unpronounceable name.


Little Pill, if I swallow, will I become Alice? Will I fall down the rabbit hole? Will you come with me through Wonderland? And, Little Pill, is there a chance I could awaken to a brilliant new reality? Can you make my dreams come true? Or, Little Pill, will I be trapped here, still in this never-ending infertile nightmare?


So Little Pill, as you can see, I am nervous and fearful. We have been here before, you and I. Can I take this leap of faith? If the worst comes to pass, will my heart be strong enough to bear the pain? My soul longs for what's on offer: for the promise of a different life. But I have seen the underworld; I have taken a walk through Hades. I look at you once more, Little Pill. You sit still, motionless, ready.