Tag: IVF

Winning at Aqua-Natal

Pregnancy is a new world to me and, due to previously mentioned fertility problems[1], it’s a world I never imagined I’d have the fortune of inhabiting. So that’s my first excuse for why I suck at aqua-natal. Secondly, it’s the realisation (come on let’s be honest here) that I’m just not like most women. And I’m fine with that. It just needs saying.

I was reminded of this the exact moment I rounded the corner at our local leisure centre onto the training pool, where a line of yummy mummies sat elegantly at the pool-side waiting for the session to start. I was first of all aware that my costume was different to theirs. Mine was by Speedo and in sensible shades of blue and navy (so I could be camouflaged in the water?). Theirs were colourful, pretty and frilly and all halter-necks, underwired and showing off voluptuous pregnant breasts. Mine was designed for swimming galas.

Manicured and painted nails tipped feminine limbs, attached to slim and pregnantly curvy bodies, and smiling gossiping faces beautifully adorned in makeup. Their immaculate hair was done stylishly above their heads. I was briefly confused and worried on their behalf about how much their makeup would run once we were in the water. Hmmm. As my goggles swung from my hand I noted I probably wouldn’t be needing them. I felt relieved I’d left my swimming cap in my locker. It’s not one of those classes. I sensed I was in completely unfamiliar territory.

My walk from the end of the pool to where they were all sitting seemed agonisingly long and I became aware of every muscle in my body for some reason as I walked sheepishly past them to take a seat. Be graceful, Rach. Try.

When the instructor (or class leader or midwife or whatever you want to call her) told us the session was beginning, I successfully resisted a strong urge to jump into the pool. Instead I watched the other mums-to-be carefully descending the pool steps. I never use pool steps, I dive. And I was only half paying attention, so I got it wrong. I descended them facing into the pool rather than facing the steps so I couldn’t possibly achieve gracefulness. Plop. Water everywhere. Some may even have touched some of the other women. Bloody hell.

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We arranged ourselves in a circle and the exercises began. I pumped my arms and legs enthusiastically, enjoying the feeling of being pregnant in water for the first time. A really funny feeling. My hair was drenched in moments, of course. My eyes stung. I wished I hadn’t self-consciously left my goggles by the pool-side.

The women chatted. They all seemed to know each other. I looked for a face I might know, a girl I perhaps went to school with. It’s not a big town. But alas, all strangers. So instead of trying to catch the eye of a friendly face I concentrated on the exercises. I listened out for the instructor so I could quickly change direction when she shouted “change”. More splashing.

After our warm up we had to pick a float and we began doing various gentle exercises over lengths of the pool in shuttles. After the third length, I realised to my horror that I was winning aqua-natal.

Far, far too late I realised that I was arriving back at the side much quicker than everyone else, sometimes an entire length ahead, even beating the instructor. I looked over my shoulder and saw a tableau of pretty colour and dry heads paddling serenely towards me as I stood there, hair dripping, patiently waiting.

It’s not that I thought it was a race… as such. It’s just that it’s hard to swim really, really slowly. Besides, I’d assumed this class was for fitness so I had to push myself, right? Well yes, if you want to look like a competitive tw*t.

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What on earth did the seasoned aqua-natal mummies think of the new arrival in her needlessly streamlined swimsuit? I could just tell they didn’t like me. I’d read the situation completely wrong. And I was going to pay for it. The instructor told us to get into pairs and obviously no-one wanted to go with Rebecca Adlington over here. I had to pair up with the instructor. The shame.

Eventually my excruciating ordeal came to an end as the clock struck seven and we got out of the pool. I at least remembered to use the steps the right way round, rather than heaving myself out of the pool via the side. Every face was still immaculate and every hair in place. I marvelled at their self-restraint and care as my own hair dripped into stinging eyes. So as to avoid not being included in post-aqua-natal small talk (if that’s even a thing) I headed straight for the changing rooms alone.

I did not win at aqua-natal. I suck at aqua-natal. Next week I’ll try harder. Next week I might wear a bikini and mascara which may help me bond with other expectant mums. Or maybe I’ll just do an hour of lane swimming before the class starts so I’m suitably knackered in time for our gentle and dignified floaty activity. We’ll see. I know one thing for sure; I won’t be bringing my goggles.

[1] A proper update on how we got from there to here via IVF is coming soon.

Not Good Enough: When Enthusiasm Alone Won’t Do

Written in August. Mulled over ever since.

“Is now a good time to talk?”

“Well, I’m on a bus, and it’s very noisy, but I can hear you alright if you can hear me.” I was very excited to be getting this call. We’d been waiting ages.

The sounds of my team mates’ laughter and chatter filled the top deck of the city tour bus. We’re a rowdy bunch.

“It might be best to call me when you’re free. It’ll be a longer conversation.”

“Not a problem, I’ll call you when the tour is over. Speak soon.”

I thought nothing of it at all. A longer conversation? It didn’t register. I was so thrilled to hear from the clinic that I’d have happily taken the call on the tour bus as we zigzagged the city, peering out at the murals on the walls and the flags that seemed to adorn every lamp post. The clinic was ringing to tell us when we could start treatment. I quickly called my husband to ask if he’d contact the clinic instead, but there was no answer.

So at the next opportunity, as half the group alighted near our apartment block, I rang the IVF clinic back.

And that’s when she told me. “I’m sorry Rachael, but your eggs aren’t good enough.”

I didn’t understand. There was nothing wrong with me, our infertility was to do with antibodies on my husband’s sperm, and this was easily fixable with ICSI treatment. She was saying my blood test results showed too high quantities of something, and the acceptable level was 10 and mine was 12.9, and that meant my eggs weren’t good enough. She started telling me about how even if it worked, which was unlikely, she said, there’s a much greater risk of miscarriage.

I didn’t understand.

Whilst she was saying more things to me on the phone, my brain was reacting too slowly to keep up so I was stuck on my blood test result showing levels of something or other that were too high. So I was expecting we’d begin talking about some drug I could take to get them lower. Like when patients have their blood pressure taken but they’re nervous, so they get a high reading. They can just go back and try again another day. I thought the conversation would go that way.

I didn’t understand.

She was saying that although I produced a lot of eggs, they weren’t of a good enough quality. So, she was sorry but they weren’t going to be working with us as patients. She kept saying sorry, and so eventually it clicked that this was her telling me that we would not be going through with the treatment. We would not be going through IVF with this clinic. My eggs aren’t good enough.

Then, whilst these words rung in my head, she was saying something about donor eggs, and other possibilities, but also about risks and disappointments and cost and other things. I don’t know. Donor eggs? What did she mean? For a split second I thought she was referring to the scheme where you can donate your eggs to other women who can’t have children, thus reducing the overall cost of your own treatment. Some clinics offer this. It was something we’d considered early on in our treatment journey. But then that flash of a thought disappeared, when it became clear she meant we could use donor eggs. Because mine aren’t good enough.

It was too much. I’d slowed down and was now a dozen paces behind the group. I stopped by a low wall and leaned against it. She said sorry again and that I could call her back later in the week when it had sunk in. In a very small voice I told her I would. I hung up. And then I got a bit hysterical.

In a total daze I managed to calm my breathing and start walking again. One foot in front of the other. The group were now far ahead. One of my friends hung back to see why I was dawdling.

I cried and cried and in a crumpled mess she hugged me and listened. I told her what the clinic told me: that whilst I produce a lot of eggs, they’re not of a good enough quality. This fact seemed so horribly me. So characteristic of me. Bloody good effort Rach, bags of enthusiasm, loads of eggs, but the finer details aren’t quite there. It’s very much my rugby playing style. Natural strength plus lots of energy and enthusiasm, but little finesse or grace in passing the ball. No fancy footwork or finely tuned technical ability. Just big hits and determination. But that’s not enough here. Plenty of eggs. But not good enough quality.

The walk back to our apartment may have taken ten minutes or thirty. I don’t know. I cried. I walked in silence. I told my friend all the details I could remember in great big sobs, or in silent tears. There were long pauses. We realised we’d have to walk an extra ten minutes down Lisburn road to the gym my husband was at, so we could get the key. I wasn’t going to tell him until we’d all got back to the apartment but, as I stood in front of him in the warm sweaty gym, he saw something was wrong so I told him it was the clinic, and it was bad news.

My friend left us two to talk. I heaved sobs into my husband’s chest as he held me on the busy road in the afternoon sun; coffee shops and buses and pedestrians fading into the background. We went to the park over the road, where earlier in the week we’d taken part in a very wet rugby training session. It had attracted local attention. They love rugby in Belfast. I’d been so happy and carefree, sliding in the mud.

Not so much now. Sitting on a bench I recalled as much as I could remember but there were so many details missing and unanswered questions. What exactly was the thing in my blood that was too high? I couldn’t remember. Could nothing be done about it? Was it hereditary? No, all my family have had lots of children. What was the scale? 10 was acceptable but 12.9 was too high, but how high does it go? How bad is it? What do we do now?

Nothing. There was nothing we could do. We were in Belfast at the Rugby World Cup and in a group of 20 fellow Sharks. Whilst many of my team mates are very close friends that I’ve known for over a decade, this wasn’t the kind of news we wanted to broadcast, and put a dampener on everyone else’s summer holiday. We still had 5 days to go before returning home. We’d keep quiet about it.

In a bleary mess we got back to our shared apartment where my friend, who was with me when I got the news, was waiting. I informed the two other girls we were sharing the apartment with by text, and opened a bottle of Rioja.

We didn’t discuss it again. We didn’t call the clinic back. We didn’t even call my parents. It was too painful. We put this enormous sadness away in a box and shoved it right to the back of the cupboard. This was far too much to handle, so we’d deal with it when we got home.

Well, now we’re home. So we’re going to have to deal with it.

Note to readers:
If  you’re the praying type, then please pray. I’m not ready to discuss this in person yet, because I have to function at home and at work and I can’t do that if I have to confront it. Writing is cathartic, so I’ll continue to do that, for as long as it is helpful. Your patience, prayers, friendship and understanding are greatly appreciated.

“With God, all things are possible.” Matthew 19:26

The Girl With The Sadness

There was once a girl who had a big stone in her tummy. The stone was Sadness. Sometimes it was hard and heavy and dragged her right down. Other times it was gooey and gravy-like and sloshed around inside making her feel sick. Sometimes it was a coloured silk handkerchief, the sort that magicians use, and she could stuff it into her fist and it would seem to disappear.

She very rarely talked about the Sadness. It was far too big to talk about, and she was certain it would crush her. When she did mention it, she talked in a detached way, as if about someone else’s life. She was very good at putting the Sadness away in a carefully crafted box that locked in several ways. Mostly, this worked very well, and she could experience much joy and happiness elsewhere in her life. But occasionally the box itself turned to gravy, or to stone. Or she pulled at the corner of one of the pretty silk handkerchiefs and the lot of them came streaming out of her closed fist, just like a magician.

The girl could not be a mother in the conventional way. This was the Sadness. The girl had desperately wanted to be a mother her entire life. As a child she cared greatly for her many dolls, and was a proficient nappy changer of her beloved Tiny Tears and later, her Timmy Tears. The girl had always known she would one day be a mother, and she very much looked forward to that day. She’d planned motherhood and dreamed of her future children and excitedly filled her personal library with children’s books in preparation. Peter Rabbit was waiting to be read.

Continue reading The Girl With The Sadness