My Embarrasing Little Habit

Ok Guys, here goes. As you may or may not know, the road to conception for me and David is a bumpy one (pardon the pun) which basically boils down to the fact that my ovaries are shot to hell with cysts. As I result I don't ovulate naturally and I have to take a medication called Clomid which is supposed to stimulate this sacred action only bestowed to the luckiest of women. Clomid has the most fantastic side-effects, my normally cheerful and sunny dispostion is replaced by frustration and paranoia. I can't fit any of my regular clothes. I am regularly tired and demotivated. I also have the joy of regular headaches that creep up and smack me right between the eyes.

To check this drug is working, I have weekly bloods taken from day 21 of my cycle to measure my progesterone, FSH and LH. In a nutshell, if the LH levels are above 20, a woman is about to ovulate (normally around day 14). If the progesterone levels are above 30 at day 21, ovulation has taken place. FSH levels that are lower than LH levels are commonly indicative of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, my chosen condition. So, by day 21, I should have had a progesterone level above 30, an LH surge should have taken place and my FSH levels, well I really couldn't give a shit. Are you still with me? Yesterday I got my day 28 bloods taken and was given the results of the day 21 bloods over the phone, in the middle of town, with my dear friend Michaela at my side.

As it turns out, my LH levels for day 21 were all of 6.1, my FSH was 5.0 and my progesterone, a staggeringly low 8.9. Other than the FSH, these results are typical of a woman at day 3 of her cycle, when she should still be menstruating. At day 21 I can only think of this as fucking dire. As my results were being read out over the telephone, I could feel that familiar knot tightening in my stomach whilst my shoulders drooped after the anticipation. I swallow hard and ask this new and lovely GP if she had seen much success with Clomid. A short pause followed, a simple "No" was her answer. She had seen maybe 1 in 20 women conceive on this awful drug when she was an SHO in gynae, although studies usually claim it to be higher. "Would I be likely to ovulate on this cycle based on these results?" Again, pause, "No, not this time, although it's not impossible." I quickly wrap up the converation with my GP, I got all the information I needed for this week. Another cycle, another month of mood-swings, lethargy and crap. Yes, I fell sorry for myself. So what, this is my blog and I'm going to be self-indulgent about it today. Remember last week when I spoke about the fact that I was getting all the signs that maybe ovulation was going to happen, well, bollocks to it.

I told a worried Michaela I'm going to be ok, she should get off home. This is a situation that can be solved with shopping and a carrot, apple and ginger juice. I lied and told her I needed to buy stuff for the house and it would all be very boring. The truth was too embarrasing at that point. I got my juice, it always seems to perk me up, the zing of the ginger and the promise of wholesome vegetables always make me imagine that maybe this is the thing that'll make me ovulate, not those horrible bitter pills. Then I realise it's time to indulge in my masochistic habit. Mothercare.

Whenever things go wrong, I get my period, I don't ovulate, I find out some other lucky woman has beat me to it in the race to get sprogged up, my homing beacon sends me there to look at prams, cots and baby clothes. It's like a drug. I get in there and the smell of baby hits me and my uterus skips a beat. I walk in to find women, pregnant ones, not obviously pregnant ones, mothers with toddlers, mothers with babies, tiny ones, you know, that look like old men and have little white milk spots on their noses. Here no-one knows I'm not normal. As far as they're concerned I could be any woman in the early stages of pregnancy, taking joy in contemplating prams and cots and imagining where they would fit in my house. For a few minutes, I believe this is true and look in awe at the joys of parenthood, deluded, thinking it'll soon be me pushing my beautiful baby in a pram, stopping briefly to ask where the nursing rooms are because it's hungry and needs a feed and a cuddle from Mummy. Then I feel sick, a shop assistant, often an older woman approaches and offers her advice on the best pram to buy. My lovely dream world screetches to halt. Of course I don't need any help here, I don't belong here. I'm not in the "motherhood gang". I make my excuses, say I need to bring my husband for his opinion and leave. Yesterday was different, no-one approached, I think they recognised me from a few months ago. The most I got was a fleeting glance at my not pregnant stomach, a head cocked to the side and a pitying smile. That made me feel sicker than usual so I headed downstairs where I was met by the maternity clothes. Here I saw a black t-shirt with pink foil writing questioning boldly "DOES MY BUMP LOOK BIG IN THIS?" It was only £15 I though, what the hell. I picked it up and went to the cash desk. When it was my turn to get served, I flustered, the fraud that I am, why am I doing this to myself? I made an excuse about not having my bank card, "baby brain" the cashier called it. I then left the shop, my heart beating loudly in my chest. I had had my fix and the come-down all within 10 minutes. It was time to go home and admit my transgression to David.

I feel better today, still sad, but better. A really wise woman I know said to me that the problem with the strongest tree is that it has to survive the strongest wind. I guess that means I just need to suck it up and get on with it.

Hopefully a happier story soon
Jojo x