I’m Pregnant.

Long story short, I got pregnant on my third IVF and am now 20 weeks but haven’t blogged because my anxiety starts screaming at me that I’m jinxing it. I can’t even put into words how much pain that causes.

Also there was that whole thing about being unable to get out of bed for ten weeks because of chronic morning sickness. I threw up all day, all night. Anywhere, anytime. In the bathroom, in the sink, in a sick bag, in a bucket, on the floor, out my nose. I spewed so much even the cat started to look at me like ‘you are disgusting.’

So last night I was in the shower and thought that I should finally write something brief about it and get it over and done with and hold my breath and wait for the God of jinxing to do his thing. But then I got all distracted because I was washing my face and pressed too hard and pulled one side down like I was having a stroke, and then worried that it would actually trigger a stroke because who knows how muscle memory actually works?

But then James came in and I asked if I have stretchmarks on my kidneys yet from my gigantic belly and he said yes. But then he said that even with all the stretchmarks, I’m beautiful. But I think it’s just that the cat got at his glasses and chipped the lenses so now he sees the world like a fly does, through tiny multi-faceted kaleidoscope eyes – and that crazy-arsed shit would make anything look beautiful.

Okay I don’t’ want to risk any more jinxing, so here is a normal story from last night at the supermarket:

James: I have a cut on my finger.
Me: You need antiseptic cream, put it on the shopping list.

*in the last aisle of the supermarket*
James: I think that’s everything on the list.
Me: *sensing a packed aisle* NO YOU’VE FORGOTTEN TO GET YOUR HEMORRHOID CREAM.
James: *stares at me in horror* Nice.

*in the medical aisle*
James: Oh a razor, I need that. And we need more Panadol. Is that it?
Me: No, you’ve forgotten the cream.
James: *unnaturally loudly* I DON’T HAVE HEMORRHOIDS!!!
Me: the antiseptic cream. I meant the antiseptic cream. But this is seriously the joke that just keeps on giving.

I Know I’m Double-Posting And I Hate Double-Posting Almost As Much As I Hate Double-Denim. But I Am On Hormones So If You Have A Problem With This I Will Personally Come Over And Wee On Your Front Door Mat.

I spent the day meowing showtunes.

It sounds odd but I swear to God, replacing song lyrics with meowing is *the* most therapeutic thing you can ever do. Go on. Try it. My recommendations for beginners are Jolene, bohemian Rhapsody and the theme music to Jaws. The more advanced can try showtunes like Oh What A Beautiful Morning, I Could Have Danced All Night, Phantom Of The Opera, and the Time Warp. The higher pitched, the better.

Strangely the dog totally ignores my supersonic meowing, and the cat looks at me like ‘you just called my mother a whore. I will bite your face off while you sleep.’

So, while jacked up on 450 units of Gonal-F per day, for 14 days, which is approximately enough hormones to kill an average sized elephant, I resorted to the highest of high-pitched meowing. It’s a better option than homicide.

So last night lying in bed with James:

Me: Meow-meow, meow-meow, meow-meow, meow-MEOW-OW-OW…
James: Stop meowing Jolene.
Me: If I meow the high-pitched parts of Bohemian Rhapsody, will you back me up with the low-pitched parts? Like the Galileo Galileo bit?
James: No.
Me: *meows Scaramouche-Scaramouche will you do the Fandango with such gusto that I let out a fart*
James: You are an embarrassment.
Me: If I get out of bed and get you a caramel swirl ice cream, will you meow?
*silence*
Me: A high-pitched meow? Just one?
*silence*
James: How high-pitched?
Me: High as you can go.
*silence*
James: Meow

And so I hauled my arse out of bed when it was so cold that the tears nearly froze on my cheeks, and I had to stop, doubled over, stop laughing long enough to go a few more steps. Worth it. So very, very worth it.

Sometimes, I just Wish I Could See. It’s Not Too Much To Ask.

So James had to fill in the paperwork for my egg retrieval:

James: What is your title?
Me: Timelord.
James: Miss, Mrs, Mz.
Me: Timelord.
James: I’m not putting that.
Me: And leave the name part blank. Obviously. Put that or I’ll dye my hair TARDIS blue. And my eyebrows to match.
James: No.
Me: And I’ll get a TARDIS tattoo on my arse.
James: I put Mrs and now I’ve moved on to your address.
Me: Ruiner.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

Seriously, Simon and Garfunkel are not quoted nearly enough.

But the Sound of Silence is totally applicable due to my prolonged absence. And words that could have been snatched from my own head. A head which I will now crack open and let spew all over you.

Spew words, not gory grey matter and other gross stuff. Just words. Promise. Okay deep breath here I go.

I have spent a while in bed with my hot water bottle. And not just sleeping time. Working time. And eating time. And socialising time. All the time. What sparked this anxiety episode? The dawn of time, pretty much.

It’s acute anxiety. Not my normal run-of-the-mill anxiety, but one of my turbo-charged, into-the-abyss turns. I just go to bed with my hot water bottle. And Anxiety just lays down beside me. Big black boots on the doona cover and all.

He’s constantly there. He’s usually there anyway, but this time he is more clingy and permicious than ever. I make a cup of tea. He’s there waiting for the kettle to boil. I write an article, he’s sitting on my piano stool telling me to edit, edit, edit, re-edit, re-edit it will never be good enough but keep trying trying trying trying trying. I do 80 burpees every day and even that does not make him leave, he just drops to the floor beside me and churns them out harder faster stronger better smarter. I can’t win.

So instead of fighting the panic attacks, fighting the good fight to stay out of bed, I just let myself be suspended in anxiety for a while until I saved up enough energy and head space to get up again.

So I went out to dinner Friday night and again it all turned to shit. Massive anxiety. Minor panic attack. Too much noise, too busy, too hot all of a sudden, and five minutes spent paralysed, staring down at my food, trying desperately to remember if I eat it with my left or right hand usually. And choking on this critical decision. Dinner wrapped up early. Luckily the two I was with are fine about it. But that doesn’t stop Anxiety calling his best mate Guilt over to gatecrash my pity party.

The thing is, in the middle of acute anxiety the brain stops working properly and I’m left absolutely incapable of rational thought. All the pathways for my neurons to fire in that direction shut down. Anxiety and panic take over. And I don’t remember large chunks of it. It’s like having a massive night out, then the next morning you look at all the stamps on your arms and know you went to all those nightclubs… but don’t remember it. Your mates talk about the night… and you just have vague snatches of memory of conversations. Except this time it’s not funny. This time you feel guilty, because everyone’s gone home early because of you.

And then, while hungover from massive doses of adrenaline thanks to the anxiety and panic, I’m left apologising the next day. Always. Everyone says it’s unnecessary, that they understand. They probably do. But still. The headache, the nausea, the tiredness, the vague feeling that you’ve let everyone down. Again. And the compulsion to make everything right. Again.

It all sounds a tad melodramatic. So I pulled up my big girl socks and braved a shopping trip yesterday with James.

I couldn’t even get out of the car to go into the first shop.

Then we went into Aldi and I don’t remember anything from then on.

So I’ll be at home for the next few weeks. Happily at home. Come and visit me.

**I just read a piece by Stephen Fry on what ails him. Sad and moving. Yup – massively popular comedian who everybody loves, and he’s got a bung head too. He talks about having invites to summer in the south of France with his fellow rich and famous and yet he’s stuck in his room, too. *blowing massive raspberry to the whole world* it’s not just me.

If You’re Not Living On The Edge, You’re Taking Up Too Much Space

So I had to go in for yet *another* blood test to make sure that I have more hormones in my blood than alcohol. Or something like that.

And I got up and dressed all by myself and went and had the test like a big-girl, and came home and was sitting at the bench when James came home for lunch:

James: Have you already done the test?
Me: Yes I went in this morning.
James: *reaches forward and I think he’s going to rub noses Eskimo style but he picks at my jumper*
Me: What was that?
James: A Coco Pop on your jumper.
Me: *hangs head*
James: *reaches out and lifts my chin… and picks at my neck*
Me: What?
James: That was another one. On your bare skin. Did you go in to do the test like that?
Me: no?
James: Really?
Me: No?

So, no more Coco Pops.

But having Coco Pops at the arse crack of dawn gave me a whopping headache, and then when I reached up on the fridge to get panadeine, there were two boxes that felt about the same. Ah. We bought cat worming tablets on the weekend. Surely cat worming tablets can’t be that harmful to humans. Surely. They have worming tablets for humans, they’re probably exactly the same. Probably. There’s a 50/50 chance I’ll soon find out.

At least I had the tablet after the blood test. If they found cat worming tablets in my blood *and* Coco Pops stuck to my jumper, there’s no way I could show my face at that pathology centre again. Ever.

Killing Hormone Time.

Me: outside is dangerous, you know.
James: I’ve never met anyone who hates being outside more than you do.
Me: I’m super special. If I was in the FBI I’d be Super-Special Agent Taylor
James: You’re certainly something…
Me: I went outside to water the plants and walked through a spider web.
James: A web is not dangerous.
Me: But there *could* have been a spider in it so I started hitting myself in the face trying to kill any spiders and get rid of the web.
James: *silent*
Me: And then I realised that it wasn’t actually a web, it was a stray strand of hair that blew across my face. It hurt when I tugged at it.
James: More than hitting yourself in the face?
Me: Anyway so now I’m just going to let all the plants die. It’s not worth the risk.

And then I went back into my office to keep working and found that Bobcat had challenged Frankie to the Ultimate Farting Championship Heavyweight Title. A giant cat farting on the desk in front of me, a giant dog farting on the floor behind me. We’re never feeding either of them ever again. I think they were trying to gas me out so Frankie could jump on the computer and look up porn and Bobcat could google a good therapist.

Inside can be just as dangerous as outside, people.

One More, And I’ll Stab You While You’re Sleeping.

So I’m carrying around several lemons in my ovaries and it’s not very comfortable. I am the home of the giant follicle, and with another 36 hours to go before retrieval I’m considering downing a bottle of rubbing alcohol, grabbing the fruit knife and getting those suckers outta there myself. They’re getting so big I think they are planning to stage a coup and take over my entire body.

It’s not uncomfortable. No more ‘uncomfortable’ than applying a hot iron to one’s face would be. It’s fucking painful and if this was a perfect world then I would get to lie on a big white bed and have mignons bring me grapes and panadeine forte and strawberry milkshakes all day long and I wouldn’t ever have to waddle around with a gut full of lemons. Seriously, these follicles are like 5cm each. Baby lemons, yes, but if you want to argue the point with me then I will come over and wee on your front door mat out of pure frustration. They hurt.

And there’s just no exercising with these bastards in there. It’s like the Germans have invaded and are fucking everything up. As Germans are wont to do. I tried doing star jumps and managed one before I doubled over. Then I just decided to do the arm movements instead of the jumping as well, and ended up like a wind turbine. A council officer came over and asked to see my permit. So I’m giving up on exercising for a few days. But then I’ll get fat. Fuck you, Germans.

And then, James started saying the wrong thing. Everything anyone says at the moment is the wrong thing, granted, but really?

Me: My ovaries hurt. These giant follicles are killing me.
James: You remind me of the crayfish I caught as a kid, with their tails full of eggs.
Me: That was not the right thing to say, asshole.
James: Don’t worry. I always threw those ones back.

Quickly followed up just minutes later by:

Me: *dangling my foot in front of James’ face* Do you like my new slippers?
James: They sure are purple.
Me: Are they?
James: Yup. With a black sole with a blue ‘Bonds’ written on it. See? A black soul. Just like yours.

It’s pretty mean of him. I think he’s got some German in his heritage. He’s certainly got some stupid in his heritage. When I get my physical prowess back, I’m going to beat him like a Salvation Army drum.

NB: I don’t actually have anything against Germans. Well, besides a couple of bigarse wars. And them hating on Jewish people. And that smug look Germans always have. Don’t they always look just so fucking smug? And they need more vowels in their language. Can’t understand a fucking word. Like they’re talking with marbles in their mouths. Hmmm. Turns out I don’t like Germans much at all. I’m sure the modern ones are perfectly nice. When they’ve got that fucking smug look off their faces. I’m just angry. Maybe I have some German in my heritage.

IVF Drugs Don’t Make you Put On Weight. Drinking Four Strawberry Milkshakes In One Day Does.

So I started wondering if there is any clinical basis for IVF drugs to make me put on weight. I like to be prepared. Like, for the end of the world if possible. I have a zombie survival plan. Enough said.

And turns out that none of the drugs have any caloric or metabolic influence at all. *gasp* controversy. It’s just that they make you feel shit and that makes people comfort eat. Hello four strawberry milkshakes – without ice cream – in one day. Which still gave me chronic belly pains and I appeared to be randomly grimacing at people all day. Awkward.

Also, most people don’t want to exercise when they feel shit so strawberry milkshakes + couch = putting on weight. Strawberry milkshakes also = brings all the boys to the yard. And they’re all like, it’s better than yours. Damn right, it’s better than yours. I can teach you. But I’d have to charge.

Ahem.

I haven’t put on any weight. All these IVF drugs, and not a single gram. I like to be all pious and proud of being lean and fit and strong… but if I could eat chocolate or donuts or cakes or ice cream or lollies then it would totally be a different story. But all those things upset my tummy because of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and combined with the rampaging effects of the hormones on my tender tummy it’s pretty much like having hormone induced involuntary bulimia.

And the exercise. Oh, the exercise. I workout like a military operative, fuelled by pure anxiety. I’m not sure it’s entirely normal to do 750 jabs, 750 upper cuts, 750 military punches, 750 knees, 1200 star jumps, 150 butt lifts and eight minutes of skipping every night. But it helps. Every little bit helps. Helps with the anxiety, helps keep my weight down, helps clear my head. Although now I have to go and see my physio because my knee keeps aching. I’m getting old. Either that or it’s going to rain.

My point is, I really like strawberry milkshakes. My other point is, this whole thing is a mind game. You can’t win or lose this game, you can just get through it however you can, whatever it takes.

Sometimes I get by with a little help from my friends. As in, I was complaining about my nasal spray causing massive hot flushes, oh my god why the fuck is it so hot in here? And she says ‘that must be like snorting cocaine. You’re like Lindsay Lohan, you’re going to have to get your nose fixed, that bit in the middle there.’ Which made me snort my tea out that very same nose. Sometimes you just need someone else to point out the funny side to you.

And sometimes, I don’t do very well at it. At all. Here’s an email I sent James:

‘Fuck you. I had to go out and fill up the dog food container because you are too fucked up to manage it. Fuck you.’

Y’all already knew I’m a bad person, right?

And then I feel bad for being mean and I am going to have to help thousands of old ladies across the road to equal out this bad karma but the sad thing is, being blind I’m probably not going to be very good at it so the headline would be ‘Kind Act Results In Death Of Hundreds’ and then A Current Affair would track me down and bang on my door wanting to know why I drag old ladies onto the road in front of cars and then I’d have to move out of my street because none of the neighbours would want anything to do with me and would throw eggs at my house and I’d have to move to Queensland because that’s where everyone leaving Ramsay Street seems to move to. Not that I am so low-brow as to watch soapies. Did you see that Steffi married Liam on the Bold and the Beautiful? I’d totally have to knock off killing old people on local roads at 4.30pm every day to catch The Bold. Maybe I could invite the survivors over to watch it and have a cuppa and a gluten free biscuit. Or a strawberry milkshake.

It’s not easy being on IVF meds. And oh my god why the fuck is it so hot in here?

Baby, I Know It

A whole week on Syneral. Oh, the headaches. Someone sedate me, please, I am psychotic again and moodiness just isn’t moodiness without randomly screaming ‘why can’t I get Barry fucking Manilow on this radio?’

Anyway. I think James is looking for something to put me to sleep. Not just for the night, either. The kind of sleep that’s followed by a funeral…

James: Myyyyy… way… to… the… danger zone…
Me: It’s ‘Highway,’ dickhead, not ‘my way.’
James: It’s ‘my way.’
Me: It’s ‘highway.’ There is only one way. It’s not like you’ve put ‘the danger zone’ into our satnav and its asked ‘do you want the shortest route to the danger zone, or the route with the best roads?’ There is only one way. The highway.
James: It’s ‘my way.’
Me: No, ‘My Way to the Danger Zone’ sounds like Frank Sinatra singing Danger Zone. And I’m pretty sure Frank Sinatra never felt the need.
James: The need?
Me: The need… for speed.
James: Google it.
Me: Fine. *googles* ha, dickhead, it is highway. Don’t try to fuck with a Top Fun fan.
James: I don’t even care.
Me: I know why.
James: Mmm?
Me: You never close your eyes… anymore when I kis your lips.
James: I know what you’re doing.
Me: And there’s no tenderness, like before, in your finger tips.
James: Please stop.
Me: You’re trying hard not to show it… but baby. Baby, I kno-ow it…
James: Here we fucking go.
Me: You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling… whoa-oh that looooovin’ feeling… you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling now it’s gone, gone, gone, whoa-oh-oh-oh.

And at that point James left the room, so I had to sing extra loud in case he couldn’t hear me any more and then I followed him around the house singing that he’s got no lovin’ feeling but then I tripped over the cat. And stopped singing.

But if I ever had to choose a wingman? It would totally be James.

Bribing Ovaries Is Harder Than It looks

So I’ve started my nasal spray for a down regulation cycle and you’d think that the whole ‘point-and-spray’ of a nasal spray would be super easy. Last night I missed my nostril all together and squirted it up the side of my face and into my eye. And started panicking that it would burn my eyeball out or leave my cheek hideously scarred. It took a good thirty seconds of frantic rinsing to realise that if the spray was that dangerous, they probably wouldn’t get me to spray it up my nose. Thank you, logic, for your late arrival. The situation wasn’t even covered in the little sheet that comes with it. I’m that clumsy, I require medical fact sheets to be re-written.

My point is, don’t give clumsy people medication that requires co-ordination. Needles are fine, my biggest worry there is having to do them so early in the morning that I haven’t woken up properly and I accidentally inject the cat. Who is currently leaving so much hair on my carpet that I’m thinking of cutting out the middle man and just vacuuming him. But every time I even look at him with the turbo head in my hand, he gives me this ‘bring it, bitch’ flick of the tail which means it’s on like Donkey Kong. I’m all like ‘oh yes I will’ and he’s all like ‘oh no you won’t or I’ll wee on the iPad’ and I’m all like ‘go ahead, loser, it’s James’ iPad not mine’ and then he’s all like ‘fine then I’ll get into your top draw again and bat all your tampons up and out and all over the house for your visitors to find in strange places’ and so I lose to the cat. Again.

Anyway. I’m too clumsy for nasal spray. Hell, I own plastic glasses because I’m too clumsy to have nice glass glasses. It’s not my fault though, because I have some kind of Munchausen’s by Proxy which makes me inflict pain on inanimate objects for sympathy. True story.

So I thought I could just try and work up a sweet deal instead of all the meds this time, but then the following conversation took place, possibly entirely in my own mind, and looks like the nasal spray is the only option:

My ovaries: Oh Lord, won’t you buy me, a Mercedes Be-enz…
Me: Are you trying to bribe me?
My Ovaries: My friends all drive porches…
Me: They do not.
My Ovaries: I must make a-mends. Worked hard all my lifetime…
Me: No you have not. You’ve done the opposite. You’ve worked un-hard all your lifetime. That’s why we’re doing IVF. Because you are lazy as, and can’t be arsed producing follicles.
My Ovaries: Maybe we would if we had a little incentive.
Me: A Mercedes Benz?
My Ovaries: Exactly.
Me: How about the next verse? A colour TV? Look, we bought you one. A shiny 54” plasma. For you.
My Ovaries: That’s not for us. You’ve had it for ages. You have to buy us something.
Me: It’s not for me. I’m blind. What the hell do I want with a giant TV? I’d be perfectly happy with one of those portable black and white tellys.
My Ovaries: We’re going to consult our union on this.
Me: Oh don’t start that shit again.
My ovaries: We have poor working conditions.
Me: that would be really bad. If you ever did any work. We both know you’re too lazy to take any industrial action.
My Ovaries: Not true. We already went online and ordered some miniature placards off vista print.
Me: Ho-ly shit. You’re staging a picket line in my abdomen.
My Ovaries: Pay up, bitch.
Me: or what?
My Ovaries: We’ll hold all your eggs hostage.
Me: uh, dudes, that’s pretty much what you’ve been doing anyway.
My Ovaries: Oh. Right. Well. We’ll release them one at a time until our demands are met.
Me: Which is like a 100 per cent performance increase.
My ovaries: You’re not making this easy.
Me: I don’t negotiate with terrorists. Get back to work.
My Ovaries: *sigh* okay. Fine. What-ev. Talk to the hand.
Me: You don’t have hands.
My Ovaries: This is discrimination.
Me: If you had tiny little hands, then maybe I could grease your palms with a little pay off.
My Ovaries: And we could use them to flip you the bird. Or do lines of cocaine.
Me: you guys are like Charlie Sheen meets Robert Downey Junior.
My Ovaries: Now all we need is those hands and some teeny tiny prostitutes in here.
Me: I’ll buy you a Mercedes if you shut up now.
*silence*