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.

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?

Turns Out I’m just Possessed By The Devil.

So I cancelled my standing order with a food delivery service that, for the purposes of this blog, I will call Schmaussie Schmarmers Schmirect.

And got a follow-up call the next day. Day three of my hormone injections, that is.

Dude on the phone: I’m just giving you a call to ask why you have decided to discontinue our service?
Me: Because I can’t afford it.
Dude on the phone: We could cut your order back to fortnightly, if that would help?
Me: Have you ever done IVF? No. You’re young and you sound Irish, of course you haven’t. The young part, not the Irish part. I’m sure Irish people do IVF. But not you. You sound like you’re about 14 years old. Anyway. I can’t afford anything right now so just cancel my order.
Dude on the phone: Okay. That’s all completed for you now.
Me: Finally.

And the crazy part is, I could afford it. I just didn’t want it anymore because I binge on foods, like banana bread. It’s kind of a family trait. And they made an awesome banana bread. But then I ate so much of it that I didn’t want it anymore, and didn’t want to explain all that to the dude on the phone.

So instead, words just spewed out of my mouth. They were not my words. They were entirely the words of my hormones.

It’s kind of like that scene in The Exorcist, where the devil has possessed Regan’s body and she writes ‘help’ on her own belly. She is still in there. She is still Regan. It’s just that what she’s saying isn’t her own words. It’s the devil.

I’m in here. It’s just that a crazy bitchy arsed psycho is speaking on my behalf at the moment. Which is totally screwing up my karma for at least the next ten years.

I’ve Got $20 On Bullshit For The Knock-Out

And so the process of trying to bribe my body with hormones to do what it is supposed to do begins. Again. It’s the circle of life. And it moves us all. Until your evil-arse brother kills you in a giant wild animal stampede, that is.

Though I’m pretty sure my body would respond much better to more humane bribes. Like a huge bowl of hot salty fries with tomato chutney and a fish burger and a vanilla malt milkshake every morning.

Oh yeah.

But instead I get a huge, and I mean medically-classified *huge*, dose of hormones.

Hakuna Matata my arse.

More headaches. Worse ones this time. More homicidal tendencies. Worse ones this time. The box of meds should come with a little straight jacket packed in it.

I hate hate hate the injections, and all the bullshit that comes with it.

It signals the start of the bout.

Another Ultimate Fighting Championship Title Fight.

In the red corner, I have Hate. 28 fights, 28 KOs.

? And in the blue corner, on a hot streak of 13 TKOs in a row, I have Bullshit. Hope, Fear, and Anger are in his corner, cheering him on.

I’m not sure which one will win. I can’t see Hate having enough puff to last more than a couple of rounds.

But then, I can’t see bullshit tapping out, either. Not with that support behind him.

F-ed Up Follie Style

Despite six excruciating days of hormone injections… there were not enough follies to go ahead with IVF.

Fuck. The. World.

And as I left the clinic crying my little eyesies out, one song was playing in my head over and over again.

Gangnam Style.

Which is not normal.

It’s so last year, for starters.

But I had my own words to it.

Heeeeey your fucking la-zy
So, so, so, so so
F-ed up follie style

…and

My lazy va-ja
Come on and spaaaaaark up
You never grow
No
You only grow
Slow

Heeeeeeeey I’m batshit cra-zy
Yep, yep, yep, yep yep
Pumped up hormones style

So I lost round one to the hormones.

But I did have a minor, unrelated win.

My general store has started selling slurpies.

Fuck yeah.

Raspberry *and* Fanta. Literally one kilometre away from my house.

Fuck. Yeah.

This is some kind of divine intervention, because it’s practically my civic duty to support local business. And I am more than happy to carry out my civic duty twice a day. That’s just the kind of person I am.

Heeeeeey got dia-be-tes…

I’m Swearing So Much Because Of The Pain

I finally went to the physio about my stupid ankle and the news is bad.

I have Wankles.

As in, weak ankles. Fat ankles = Tankles so weak ankles = Wankles.

And my Wankles mean that I can’t run for two weeks because I have destroyed my stabiliser muscles and my right Wankle is strapped and I have a giant red rubber band to do strengthening exercises with.

Or to slap James in the head with. Either way.

But I probably shouldn’t whack him in the head with it because I’d probably end up taking an eye out.

Which would be hilarious.

Terribly impractical, of course, because one blind person and one half blind person would mean that not a lot of driving etc gets done. A pain in the arse.

But fuck it would be funny.

In the meantime, my Wankles hurt like fuck, and I’m incredibly hormonal and cracking the shits over everything. James probably qualifies for some kind of respite holiday.

And all this just in time for Christmas.

Thanks, Santa. You fat fuck.

What I Wouldn’t Give To Beat The Shit Outta Fertility Treatment Hormones

So I just did 45 minutes of running and boxercise in my garage. Which is my equivalent of Ana’s Red Room of Pain. I go in, fall to my knees out of respect    for the two kilos I put on just in fluid retention thanks to Ovadrel every month, and while there’s no whips or buttplugs, there is rowing, running and dumbbells.  

45 minutes. Oh yeah.

Then I sat down and ate half a banana bread. Oh my.

On Monday, I did 30 minutes of boxercise for the first time. I started it, and was doing super-well, so I was all like ‘man I am all over this shit’ and then I kept going, and was all ‘I am fucking awesome at this yay me.’

Then I couldn’t get my bra on until Wednesday. Couldn’t. Lift. Arms. At. All.

Best weight loss treatment ever. Can’t lift arms to eat = weight loss by default.

Lesson learned, I just did running and rowing and went back for more boxercise today.

Then ruined it by eating half a banana bread. Yay me.

So while I’ll keep torturing myself, I need to find a better way to reduce fluid retention.

Hellooooo Dr Google.

Causes include hormonal stuff from the birth control pill, pregnancy, and the menstrual cycle. Can’t fucking win, in other words.  

Cures include a low-salt diet. Fuckers. My diet is already too low in salt.

Diuretics can help. Like tea and coffee. I don’t drink caffeinated tea or coffee because they give me massive headaches.

You see where I’m going with this.

I can either pass out from not enough salt, or shut myself in my bedroom with a box of Ibuprofen and my head under the pillow.

Or, I can leave it be and swell up like Veruca Salt all the fucking time.

I hate the fucking world.

Laters.

This Is Why I’m Yelling At You. FYI, Pretty Much. You’re Welcome.

I’m kind of stressed. About everything that’s happened since the dawn of time, pretty much.

And sometimes my brain all of a sudden lists social skills at the bottom of my priorities. Thanks, brain.

So I was headed outside last night, and wanted to check the temperature. I opened the front door, stuck my arm out, pulled it back in again and closed the door.

But as I stuck my arm out, I heard a voice. And figured it was talking to me. And I didn’t want to talk to anyone. So that’s why I pulled my arm back in and shut the door again.

And then sniggered really, really loudly at myself.

I suspect it was the neighbour talking to me, and the idea of him hearing our front door open, seeing my arm appear, calling out, then watching my arm quickly disappear and then the door shut, had me laughing my arse off.

Which is kind of not normal.

Not normal at all.

But fuck it. I had a good reason for having bad social skills.

They were all used up.

Sometimes, my job is awesome. And sometimes my job is shit.

I had to cold call a man in his 80s to ask if he heard screams from his neighbours unit on a particular night. Because Police now allege that a 22 year old woman was stabbed to death there on that night. Long story short, it was a tip-off that didn’t work out. Thankfully. Because if it had, that would have meant things even more terrible than the actual murder itself.

So I had to be pretty fucking gentle to get the info out of this old dude.

And it used up all my manners. And good social skills. And every synapse in my brain needed a good rest after it. And a teeny tiny shot of tequila.

And that left me with a three-day good social skills hangover.

Because then the council dude knocked on my door and said he took photos of where our new shed will go, and complimented me on our wooden privacy screen.

I told him that my husband made me stand outside in 40 degree heat for five days to help build that screen and the only relief I got from the sun was when I went inside to get him ice and water.

Which is, like, only a fifth of the whole story. I actually loved helping build that fence.

But the dude just edged away and I closed the door.

Then…

I rang my private health insurance people to ask about what is covered for IVF. Or more to the point, what isn’t covered…

And I spoke to some dude who, despite being really, really nice, was totally shit.

Me: So what aspects of it are covered?

Shit Dude: Um, well, I have here that the, umn… insertion? Is covered. And so is the embryo retrieval.

Me: You mean the egg retrieval.

Shit Dude: Um… no, sorry. I have here it’s the embryo retrieval.

Me: Well I’m telling you it’s not. Why would they go to all the trouble of taking an egg and a sperm and squirting one inside the other, only to take it out again? We’re not doing the Hokey-Pokey here, dude. You put the embryo in, you take the embryo out, you put the embryo back in and you shake it all about? There’s not even any shaking at all.

Shit Dude: Um, all I have here is that the insertion and embryo retrieval are covered.

Me: Well then if the embryo is retrieved, and not the eggs, where am I going to get eggs? Are they going to be free-range? Free range is always more expensive. Are you going to cover that, at least?

Shit Dude: Um, it also says here that you’re covered for hospital admission.

Me: It’s a day procedure. Does that count as hospital admission?

Shit Dude: Um, I’m not sure.

Me: Can you find out?

Shit Dude: I’m pretty sure it is.

Me: I’m all for being lazy at my job, but I kind of need to know this. So I’m going to call back tomorrow and hopefully get someone else.

I yelled that last bit at him.

But he totally deserved it.

And now I need to have another mental shot of tequila.

Tour De Francility

I’m cycling again.

No, I’m not Cadel fucking Evans.

Another fertility cycle. Embrace the anger. Or some such shite.  

So for my monthly hormone injecting, instead of the here’s-one-we-prepared-earlier Ovudrill epipen, we got the DIY one. Like I’m a fucking binary understanding pharmacist. Well I’m fucking not.

Me: This will put your mad scientist skills to the test. Have you ever drawn liquid out of a vial, injected it into another vial full of powder, drawn up the solution and injected it? Actually if the answer is yes I don’t’ want to know. But don’t worry. There’s a piece of paper they gave me that has teeny tiny pictures showing what to do on it.

James: Did they also give you a spoon?

Me: yep and my very own tourniquet and lighter.

James: Do I have to hit a vein?

Me: No. You just have to slam the needle into my heart and plunge the syringe down at the same time. Just like Pulp Fiction.

James: What heart?

Me: The little black one.

*mixing and injecting*

James: Okay so I draw it up with the 18 gauge needle. Holy fuck.

Me: What?

James: Nothing. Nothing at all.

Me: It’s a huge needle.

  James: yep. If this one is 18, I don’t want to see the 21.

Me: it’s smaller.

James: Yeah, you tell yourself that.

Me: No really. It’s like how A4 paper is bigger than A3. It makes no sense. But it’s a system that works so why fuck with it.

James: sure.

Me: If you stab me in the belly with an 18 gauge needle I will punch you in the face.

James: Oh. Right. I just got it out of the packet. It is smaller.

Me: It’s like I never even spoke.