Holidays and hormones

I am sure there is handbook out there that prepares you for the challenges of IVF before you embark on it. We haven’t read it if it does exist, so we are learning the hard way that the road to IVF is not only full of potholes, there are quite a few dead ends and it is unbearably long.

First of all on our journey, I had a blood test taken in Hong Kong a couple of days after my ERCP for the last miscarriage, to determine my AMH levels. It’s a nifty little test that can tell a woman what her ovarian reserve is, simply put – how many eggs you have got left. As I had got pregnant every time we tried and had 6 pregnancies in the last 18 months, I was fairly sure mine would be ok and therefore didn’t give it a moment’s thought.  I was more concerned with the sub zero temperatures the UK was experiencing at the time. As we have lived in Hong Kong for 5 years we are officially pathetic when it comes to the cold and my wardrobe is not sufficiently equipped to deal with such temperatures. 

The trip had been organized in a rush – which I am sure my mother will say is the story of my life. Impatient. Can’t possibly wait. Thing is, when you already have a child and you are trying for another the age gap between brother and brother/sister becomes an obsession. There are those that will say having a bigger age gap is brilliant as the older child will cope far better with the baby, but for the couple trying, every month that passes is a month separating the children and their potential friendship further. Love any sibling as I hope my son will, I have no doubt that if I am still trying when he is 7, a newborn who will become a toddler who will become an irritant is not what he would like – and you can’t really blame him. He wants a playmate now, and in an ideal world, we want that for him too. Our doctor in Hong Kong had played a blinder and contacted the Doctor in England who was the world leader in this field – they’d gone to Uni together - and he had agreed to see us. He had one appointment before Christmas and even though that meant uprooting my son and I last minute and flying to the UK alone, my husband joining later as he had that rather large commitment called work – we accepted the appointment. We already had a holiday booked to Dubai for a couple of weeks before, and so we went on that full of hope and optimism. The downside was the fact that hormones and an exercise ban for the past 18 months have taken their toll on my body and I have gone from relatively acceptable in a bikini to definitely not.  However, fat and all I had a week to soak up the sun, be with my family and enjoy life without thinking about babies. Which I did, if you ignore the tears around the pool as I realized my son was pretty much the only child staying at the hotel who didn’t have a brother or sister to play with. There were a few misty eyed moments as the lovely proud pregnant lady rubbed her tum in her bikini – although it’s debatable if I was sad for my lack of bump or my definite collection of bumps plural that made up my wobbly thighs and tummy. But I could have a glass of wine, which was nice (should be for the amount they charge for alcohol in Dubai – criminal) and I was grateful that I was able to spend quality time with our fast growing up little man.

Restored and recharged I flew to England.

First thing that happened; an e-mail with my AMH results had come in overnight, and I woke up on the first morning to read that lo and behold, this fertile creature that I envisaged myself to be, was in fact verging on infertile. My score was 3.62, which is interpreted as low fertility. So low that some IVF clinics won’t even let you through the door.  Fast as you like, I was googling madly to interpret the results and see what the prognosis was. Bad. Awful. Not even a tiny bit ok, just dreadful. My poor Mum, who was struggling to come to terms with the whole IVF process already “just explain it to me one more time darling” got the brunt of my horror with incoherent ramblings through a torrent of tears, which I swiftly followed by a panicky e-mail to a friend of a friend - who happens to be an embryologist (you never know when your friends careers will come in handy, but at some point they all tend to. Even my friend who is a taxidermist) - asking for her view. My husband was 8 hours ahead in Hong Kong – so he got a hysterical call from his wife. Well his answer phone did – he was at a meeting, which just left me alone with my thoughts, which with an imagination like mine is a dangerous place to be. I felt physically sick. I was in England to have IVF that can screen for Chromosomal problems, which would in turn result in a successful pregnancy and we could complete our family. Yet here I was in my thermal PJ’s, jet lagged and cold, husband other side of the world, facing the stark reality that my baby making days were over. I cannot describe the feelings I had. As dramatic as it sounds, I honestly felt like part of my world had ended - and this fear of IVF not working has never gone away. For the first time it was abundantly clear that this was not a guarantee, far from it - we could end up spending a tonne of money, investing a year of our lives, and putting my body through a rigorous medial trial, all for nothing. I felt such a stab of disappointment - and I still get that same breath taking panic. It tends to wake me up in the night in a dripping sweat, and more regularly than I should admit. Stupid thoughts that shouldn’t even be in your subconscious surface at these times of panic. Should we look into adoption? Is this fate saying enough’s enough, just be content with the son you already have? Would my husband leave me for a woman who can have children? For the record he said no, unless she was a movie star in which case he said it would only be fair to consider his options. I felt numb. On that occasion, my saving grace was my son, who roused from his bed, gave me a sleepy smile and when I asked him if Mummy could have a cuddle, he obliged - wrapping his chubby little toddler arms around me. I went from despair to gratitude fairly smartish - we do have a son and we are so incredibly lucky. Yet when the lovely warm fuzzy moment had passed, reality started to sink back in again. As wonderful as he is, we DO want to have another child, this was not supposed to happen. I'm not brilliant at being down in the dumps or negative - I get rather bored with the whole glumness - probably because I have a very short attention span and it bores me, so after a little while of woe is me I did what is now predicable. Google.

It appeared with further investigation (well past page 5 of the search results) that all might not be lost – an e-mail from my embryologist friend confirmed this. The AMH test it appears has flaws, and while my score was undoubtedly low, it was not necessarily the end of the world. Women with lower scores had responded very well to the hormone stimulation drugs and produced just enough eggs to proceed. I’d been pregnant 6 times in 18 months for goodness sakes – surely that was proof enough?

We had a week to wait before our appointment and it was frankly an uphill struggle. I dealt with it by taking advantage of the exchange rate being in my favour and emptying all of my favourite UK shops of their wares. I didn't really want to talk about it - and when the nasty niggle of AMH levels, infertility and general despair crept back into my mind, usually after my son had gone to bed; I helped them disappear with a dose of red wine and British TV. Doctors should actually start prescribing that as a cure – it really does work. For a little while anyway, just long enough to gather one’s sanity back and at least create a calm exterior.

We had 5 days until my husband landed and 7 days until the appointment. I can honestly say it was one of the toughest weeks of my life. I did a lot of soul searching, a lot of secret crying and more praying than I think I have ever done in my life. When my other half, and I mean that literally not figuratively -I really don’t work without him - arrived, he did as he always does, calmed me down, talked rationally, and shared the burden away from me. We had a wonderful weekend, and by Monday, D-Day, we set off for our meeting.