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.

Big Bad Secret

I have to stay up until midnight to give myself a precisely timed trigger injection so right now I’m killing time with patsy Kline. Or just googling random stuff, anyway.

The scan today was… some say good, some say bad.

Well, the results were good or bad, depending if you have a fucking PhD in reproductive science or are just a regular average Joe. Or Jane, as the case may be.

The scan itself was bad. Bad bad bad bad. 50 Shades of Bad. Harry Potter and the Badinator of Badnesstown.

And mortifying.

O gosh, so so very mortifying.

But don’t worry. I fixed the badness with a pint and two pots at pub trivia.

Firstly, I had to wait in the waiting room for 90 minutes. 90 fucking minutes of my life that I will never, ever get back, stuck between an old woman having a diabetes test who continuously hummed Khe Sara Sara under her breath, and another women who smelled like what can only be described, as protectively rationalised in my mind, as Quiche Lorraine.

Where the fuck do these people come from?

Anyway.

*deep breath*

I finally got called in and the dude doing the scan is awesome. I’ve had him before, and he’s awesome. And the first thing he says is ‘hey, kate, how are you going today?’

And I burst into tears. As in, full parliamentary-inquiry-into-single-incident-water-redistribution tears. For no reason. Other than the fact I’ve been pumped up with enough hormones to turn a male elephant gay.

Abso uncontrollo big ugly cry.

He handed me a box of tissues and went off to find someone to write down the follicle sizes as he called them out.

And I took my gear off and lay up on the cushion wedge, unspeakables just rockin’ the breeze, giant sheet over my knees, as per usual.

And I farted.

Oh my gosh if you know me in real life please don’t ever look me in the face again. Or talk to me. Cross the street when you see me coming, please.

I was so incredibly mortified at this turn of events, because I’m actually very ladylike and never, ever, barely ever even fart. Let alone in public places.

I lost my mind and started frantically waving the sheet about, desperately trying to ‘clear the air’ as it were.

It was only a teeny tiny fart anyway.

Oh dear God I have classification categories for farts. Kill me now. Please, strike me down with lightening. Or some kind of rectal dysfunction, yes, that would be more fitting.

I’m not sure what the dude thought when he returned to find a hysterical still crying woman waving a queen sized sheet about while sitting on a scan table. Maybe he thought I’d just seen Les Miserables and was also singing the French national anthem with my hand on my heart.

I lay back down and smoothed the edges of the sheet into place. Nice and natural. Nothing to see here folks.

And now I will spend the next hour and a half reliving this pure definition of embarrassment until I can give myself the damn shot and go to sleep. Where I will probably dream about going to Big W and buying a giant portable fan that I will have to take with me wherever I go for the rest of eternity. I’m even taking that fan with me to heaven. Just in case, you know.

Long Story Short, I’m After A Polar Bear Uterus

Turns out that having a polar bear uterus transplant would pull me out of this fertility funk. But I googled it, and it hasn’t been done. There’s not even a support group for polar bear uterus transplant enthusiasts. You fail me, internet.

This is from an article written by Jason Bittels called ‘The Great (Do Bears Hibernate?” Debate:

‘’After bears rock it in the usual way, the reproductive process takes a hard left from everything you learned in that sex-ed class taught by the school gym teacher. Following fertilization, the baby bears stop growing after becoming multicelled blastocysts. For a few months, they just float around in a state of arrested development known as delayed implantation. Should the female bear fail to fatten up enough over the course of the year, her body can put the kibosh on pregnancy in an act of self-preservation. Conversely, if times are good, her body will allow more blastocysts to develop and implant in her womb—adjusting the number of cubs created based on fat stores.’’

How they found this out, I don’t know. I sure as hell wouldn’t shove a dildo-cam up a Polar Bear’s twat while it was hibernating. It would probably wake up and be a touch grumpy.

And I really like the idea of the number of babies being dependant on the number of fat cells in the mother… hello camembert deep fried in chocolate and wrapped in bacon and served on a bed of hot salty fries with a milo and mint slice icecream on the side. For fertility’s sake, and all.

So now all I need is a willing polar bear and I can eat up and give birth to fifty beautiful, miraculous, adorable, polar bear cubs. I mean… babies. Yes. Babies.

Does anyone know a polar bear organ donor?

God, I’d Like To Buy A Vowel.

I had a scan and the follicles were great so I was triggered. And that should have been all.

But no.

No, no, no, no, no.

What happens usually is the scan dude comes and does the actual scanning, and some lady comes in and stands there and writes down the numbers he calls out. It’s kind of like the relationship between the dude who hosts Wheel of Fortune and the lady who turns the letters around on the board.

And I’m pretty sure that follicle could have been measured in metres because my ovary was so sore I practically begged the nurse to trigger me. I was on my knees before her yelling ‘Stella’ Marlon Brandon style. Except her name wasn’t actually Stella so it was a bit awkward.

And *that* wasn’t even the *most* awkward part of it all.

So it’s all done and finished, the host and his letter-turner leave me to get dressed.

And my stuff isn’t on the chair.

Fuck.

Instead of standing, the Wheel of Fortune lady must have pushed my jeans and undies off the chair and sat on that. Seriously, woman, are your legs fucking painted on?

She was lovely though, so I couldn’t yell at her. A pity, because my hormones were whispering in my ear to do evil things. And usually I listen to them. But this time, I am saddened to say, I abstained.

And what a fucking lot of good that did me. Because I then spent ten minutes crawling around on the floor, wearing just my top and jacket, groping around everywhere for my undies.

And right then, the scan dude came and knocked on the door again, calling out “are you ready?”

With my bare arse sticking up in the air and frantically feeling around for my undies, I kind of panicked and half-screamed at him to give me another minute.

The jeans were easy to find. But the undies ended up over beside one of the wheels on the table. I let out a little squeak of delight when I found them.

But then I freaked out that they’d been on the floor in a medical centre and ewww, what kind of gross things have been on that floor? How long since it was last cleaned and appropriately disinfected?

As if I was going to take something that may have had Golden Staph transferred onto it, and then wear it on my bum.

So I shoved the undies in my jeans pocket and just pulled them on.

I think I’m the only blind vegetarian infertile in the whole world that shit like this happens to. Thanks, karma. You motherfucker.

Or is it the hand of God? Because if it is, then dude your ways are getting more fucking mysterious every fucking scan. And I’d like to buy a vowel. An A for Asshole.

Relax, Everyone. My Penis Is Fine.

In unrelated news, my last cycle failed. I’m encouraging my uterus to try harder this time. Mostly by eating a whole box of Anzac biscuits. Will let you know if Anzacs cure infertility.

Meantime, I’ve had low blood pressure. This happens sometimes, and drives me nuts because it makes me a bit dizzy and light headed and I am blind and clumsy already, so adding dizzy and light headed is probably going to end in me being run over by a bus at some stage.

So I googled it. As you do.

And…

Low blood pressure is fine. I will live longer. I can eat more salt and drink caffeine to help.

But…

It’s bad for pregnant women. Heheh. Google are you deliberately trying to fuck with me??

And…

It recommended additional articles I may be interested in. Including high blood pressure. And erectile dysfunction.

Harsh, google. Don’t judge me. My penis is fine.

Apparently, low blood pressure can sometimes make you faint. But don’t worry. I found this stellar piece of advice:

“When someone faints, people often feel they should prop them up or support them,” Dr Vaddadi says. “However, lying down gets blood to the brain more quickly. Sometimes you can prevent a fainting spell by crossing your legs in a standing position and clenching your buttocks and thighs for 10 to 15 seconds.”

Which left me sniggering so much that James came in thinking my allergies were playing up again.

James: What are you doing?

Me: Check out this advice.

James: Uh-huh.

Me: It’s hilarious.

James: Right.

Me: *grunt*

James: What? Oh. I get it. You’re clenching your buttocks, aren’t you.

Me: *in a strained voice* Sure am. Hey, I’m going online to find a blood pressure monitor that attaches to my bum.

Some Days, I’d Just Like To Be A Labrador.

Not a good day, I tell you. Not a good day.

Some days just aren’t. And there’s not always a funny bit at the end that makes it all better. Sometimes there is no light at the end of the tunnel. And when there is, sometimes that light *is* just an oncoming train.

Most days, I have a lot of things knocking at my door. I’m very good at not letting them in.

Hope comes knocking, wearing her tartan skirt and flat shoes and knitted twinset and I tell her to fuck off. I’m a pretty kickass bouncer. I totally missed my calling. Hope is lovely, and flattering, and great to be around… but underneath it all she is a cold-hearted bitch who can turn on you like *snaps fingers* that.  

Anxiety comes over a lot just to hang out, and I mostly let him in. He’s very big, and likely to smash my lovely glass—panelled front doors if I denied him entrance anyway, so I invite him in for a cleaning frenzy or just sit on the couch or lie in bed with him until he leaves. For the sake of my front doors.

Sadness visits a lot. He lives under a cardboard box in the gutter outside my house. He always wants to come in. And when he knocks, and I open the door to find him standing there, just a kid in his ripped jeans and torn Kurt Cobain T-shirt, all skinny and yellow looking with scabs on his lips and big brown eyes, I can’t help but embrace him. He prefers to be known as V-Sad. He doesn’t say a lot.

Jealousy tries to come over, but her heart isn’t really in it as I can see her coming from down the end of the street and chase her off my property with the rolled-up newspaper before she even gets near the front door.

Dr Disappointment comes over sometimes. Usually when I least expect him. I’m caught out with no Arnott’s Scotch Fingers or milk to make tea. He nods and pats my arm a lot, but there’s nothing else he can do. He is what he is.

Anger hasn’t been over for a while, but then he is very unpredictable. Usually if I open the door and it’s him, then I just yell and stamp my feet louder than him and he gives up and goes away. But sometimes, sometimes when I’m tired and stressed and can’t be bothered fighting, he picks me up in his big strong arms and sweeps me away with him.

Miss Stress doesn’t even knock. She’s got the key. And the spare bed is always made up for her. She practically lives here. She sits behind me, holding her clipboard, tapping her earpiece, barking orders, her mobile always ringing, her Blackberry always pinging the arrival of a new email. I’m surprised she hasn’t slipped on our tiles in those heels. And that is a fabulous Versace suit.

Today I opened the door.

And everyone was standing there.

Even Mr Reminiscence, and his constant loud stream of stories reminding me of when I fell over in front of my entire class at high school that time… when that girl at Uni said I was fat… when that story I wrote was rejected…

They were all there.

And sometimes I just wish they would all go on holiday. Just for a bit. Just for a day, even. That would be nice. Just for one day.

And then I think that I should stop thinking about these things.  

Because dogs are always so happy because they are so dumb. They don’t know any different. They don’t have the intelligence to feel sad, anxious, stressed, shattered.

I’m not Einstein. But I’d like to be Labrador dumb.

Just for one day.

It Wasn’t Me That Farted.

I had to go and pick up some more hormones. As you do.

And it’s not been a good day. Too. Many. Hormones.

So I’m riding along in the taxi. And we go past a certain factory that makes frozen chips and meals. Let’s call it SchmaCain.

And it stinks.

I mean *really* stinks. Like they have a thousand cows out the back and they’re busy squeezing all of the methane out of them.

And the taxi driver looks sideways at me.

I can tell.

He doesn’t come past here often.

And he thinks the smell was me.

Me: *in a loud sing-song voice* hey, that SchmaCain factory sure smells bad, doesn’t it?

Taxi driver: Sure it does.

*awkward silence*

Me: I mean, the poor residents. It must be like living in fart country out here.

Taxi driver: Mmmm.

Me: hey, I bet lots of people fart in taxis and pretend it wasn’t them.

Taxi driver: um, actually… that’s never happened to me.

Me: Oh. How long have you been driving taxis?

Taxi driver: 25 years.

Me: Oh.

*awkward silence*

Me: I think it’s from all the potatoes.

Taxi driver: maybe.

Me: They must go through a lot of potatoes.

Taxi driver: Betcha.

Me: It really smells like someone farted.

Taxi driver: Sure does.

Me: But it’s the factory.

Taxi driver: yeah. The factory. Smells bad.

Me: *sigh*

And so the moral of the story is to not be so OCD about convincing taxi drivers that you didn’t fart.

Maybe instead I could have explained to him all about the hormones and fertility treatment. Maybe *that* would have gone better. Okay. Done. The next taxi driver that thinks I farted is going to sit there and listen to a long story all about my ovaries and follicles and internal scans.

I hope that doesn’t give me bad fertility karma.

Seriously, I haven’t even been near a monkey in years.

So there I am standing in the shower, which you would think would be the most opportune place to have a nosebleed, and… well, it’s not. Washing my hair one-handed. Washing myself one-handed. All while holding a facewasher full of blood against my nose. I know, I know, I should have just gotten out of […]