Yoga with a dog and toddler

So, day 3 of the oestrogen regime. Memory is a weird thing isn’t it? In my mind it’s always buserelin that has been the utter bastard, but actually last week wasn’t too awful in the end, despite my grumbling. Then I started on the progynova and, man alive, it’s shite. All I want to do is lie in bed and eat marmite toast, and the world won’t let me.

Anyway, to help build up my lining to optimum levels for transfer, and being unable to extract myself from either work or the Nipper for long enough to be acupunctured, I have been reading this book on yoga for fertility, which I was a little fearful of, but it’s very very good. There’s not too much theory or “beardie-weirdie” stuff as one of my friends calls it, just suggested programs for various times in one’s cycle and guidance on how to fit it in around ART. And loads of other stuff on diet, affirmations etc that I haven’t really touched on yet, but will probably get round to during the 2ww when it’s too late.  An experienced yogini I’m not, but I did find yoga very helpful during pregnancy and labour, and on the rare occasions in the last few weeks when I’ve organised and motivated myself sufficiently to spend half an hour or so doing the poses (which are all well explained and simple), I’ve felt a real benefit.

Exceptions to this are a) when the dog decides to join in b) when the Nipper decides to join in and c) when both decide to join in, as there is only so much labrador spit and being punched in the face by a plastic tractor  that you can take when trying to increase your prana levels (yeah?) until you decide it’s better to just get up and turn CBeebies back on and make another marmite sandwich.

So, one more full week at work and then 2 weeks or so of “holiday” (i.e. dealing with work from home) during which time hopefully I get the old size 8s into the stirrups again and display my nether regions to the kind embryologists for our final transfer. Obviously, I refuse to acknowledge the possibility of either a) the oestrogen not working or b) our final frostie not making it out of the freezer, as neither of those options is acceptable.

I should really listen to a Zita West cd and go to bed early, but you know and I know I’m going to look in the cupboard for a chocolate doughnut and then watch Streetdance.


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