down down down doobie doo down

Week 3 of down-regulation. Oh look, let’s not beat around the bush. I loathe, loathe, loathe everything about buserelin.

Bad things about buserelin

  • Knackered.
  • Headaches.
  • Sick.
  • Head of fuzz.
  • Temper of barbed wire.
  • Patience of toddler.
  • Rage.
  • Depression.
  • Apathy.
  • Lethargy.
  • Hot flushes.
  • Reduced interest in Great British Bake Off.

Good things about buserelin

  • Absolutely nothing.

Well, all right, I can see that this isn’t quite the outpouring of positivity and hope that it should be.  On a less miserable note: it’s all going quite quickly; the injections are a piece of piss this time round; no household appliances have been damaged; everyone is still alive.

Down-reg scan on Friday. Prior to that: my thirty ninth birthday. Let my 40s kindly be the years where I do not have to self-inject synthetic hormones.

Leaving all the crap to one side for a moment, I am actually finding this part hard. This is probably mostly due to the incompatibility of my constant desire to lie in bed and pull the duvet over my head with the more pressing demands of e.g. the Nipper, work, etc. However, I am also forcibly reminded of the last cycle and its unsatisfactory outcome, especially as, had all gone well, I would have been due this week.

Still, nobody likes a wallower, so best pull myself together and concentrate on important things, e.g. the long overdue (and fanciful) escalation of my music career when H presents me with a USB midi keyboard for my birthday on Thursday, if the confessions I have extracted under duress are accurate. Now that has perked me up.

A day in the life of a woman down regging for FET

OK let’s do this.

0600: Up. Buserelin. Washed up, loaded dishwasher, did laundry. Hey get me!

0630: Fertility yoga sequence. Terminates when Nipper stands on me shouting HELLO DADDY.

0700: Meditation (cuddling Nipper in bed whilst watching Peppa Pig).

0730: Shower. Dress. Dress Nipper. Remove pyjamas Nipper attempts to put on over clothes.

0800: Hand over Nipper to H. Make breakfast smoothie (banana, oats, organic milk). Take supplements (multivitamin, probiotic, digestive enzyme, vitamin D, omega 3, metformin, chromium). Tea (necessary to activate brain).

0830: Drive to work. Sing Ella Eyre’s “Comeback” loudly several times. (In car not in work – this is a rude song).

0915: Emails conference call urgent reports etc etc etc.

1215: 30 minute brisk walk about town. (Exercise).

1245: Lunch. Berry smoothie (yeah?), smoked salmon on brown (omega 3? fibre?), yoghurt with granola things and honey (er… glucose?), water.

1300: Emails conference call urgent reports etc etc etc.

1700: Struggling. Herbal tea.

1715: Really struggling. Cup of coffee with milk and sugar.

1900: Finish bastard report. Start next one.

1910: Have to leave work. Drive like maniac.

2000: Meeting with IFA re: mortgage.

2100: Nipper still not asleep. Slice of toast with marmite (vitamin B?)

2130: Irritating conversation with parents. Gin. (COME ON).

2200:  Burnt chicken. Out of date rocket. Leftover couscous. 2 x glasses Malbec (fuggit). Season finale of Humans on Channel 4 (WTF?). Sit in cobbler pose to promote flow of prana to nether regions. Dog sits on lap. (Dog is a big guy).

2300: Metformin. Glass of milk. Bed.

Success? Probably not.

Ah well, another day, another…dunno

Third time lucky

Hello, and welcome to IVF round 3.  You can read about round 1 here, which resulted in 1 x Nipper (age: 2; height: too quick to measure; favourite word: NO; least favourite word: bed); and round 2 here, which resulted in a brief temporary surge in profits for the HPT market, and then a corresponding rise in sales of gin.

This shall be the fascinating, detailed, well-maintained journal of round 3,  a frozen cycle with our last embryo, which I believe shall be our last foray into the world of assisted reproduction, whatever the outcome. In contrast to the exquisitely crafted, self-absorbed navel-gazing tenor of the previous logs, this will just be self-absorbed navel-gazing, as quite frankly I’m too busy and/or tired and/or grumpy  to try and be meaningful or amusing.

Yesterday I spent approximately 2.6 hours planning an intensive regime of organic produce,  visualisation, mediation, fertility yoga etc to commence at dawn each day of this final cycle to maximise success, starting today.

Today I got up at six after a shite night’s sleep (SODDING cat), did my buserelin injection, went back to bed for precisely 3 minutes,  was woken up by being punched in face by the Nipper, sat in the bathroom fantasising as to how I might hand in notice at work whilst H checked lottery ticket,  got dressed when (but only when)  H confirmed no win and I therefore had to go into work, arrived at work thirty minutes late, starting writing week plan, picked up urgent client call spent all morning dealing with said call, went out for lunch with said client, ate salad, ate cake (to counteract salad),  spent afternoon scrolling through overflowing inbox, came home, spent four hours trying to get the Nipper to go to sleep, had pointless conversation with parents, and now this. To sum up:

  1. Organic produce eaten: zero
  2. Visualisations/mediations performed: zero.
  3. Minutes spent doing fertility yoga: zero.

Down reg scan on 21 Aug. One day after my birthday, fact fans.