Thursday, 27 April 2017
Wednesday, 26 April 2017
Tuesday, 25 April 2017
You might have noticed that, along with my thing for rainbows, is that I've got a bit of a thing for unicorns. And that's all because of you.
Unicorns are a bit of a symbol for people undergoing fertility treatments. the saying to 'chase unicorns' means going after the impossible, and let's face it, that's what we were doing when we underwent treatment to bring you into the world. We were told that the likelihood of achieving a successful pregnancy was slim to none. Sounds like we were chasing unicorns to me.
By the same token then, if a person who was told they couldn't possibly get pregnant and then they do (even if it took a lot of time, money and professional help to get there), you might say that they've caught that unicorn they were chasing for so long.
And that's why they became a symbol of something bigger than ourselves during treatment.
Your Dad got me a little stuffed unicorn, with a rainbow mane, who came to all of our appointments as a good luck charm. Each time we went to an appointment and it went well or things turned out better than we were expecting, we knew that Ixi had done his bit.
When I picked out slippers to wear to theatre, the ones I selected were unicorn-themed. We played spot the unicorn when we were out shopping, or watching TV, or surfing the internet. Other people got in on it too; sending unicorn-themed gifts and surprises.
Did it help any? Well, if you're here, perhaps it did. It didn't hurt, and spotting unicorns isn't a bad pastime.
And if it seems especially superstitious, well, forgive us for our quirks. I'm sure you'll have a whole host of your own too; you are my kid after all!
All my love,
Monday, 24 April 2017
The first time you see me will probably be a bit of a traumatic experience for you. Thankfully, years from then, as you are reading this letter, you won't have any recollection of it, so I'm going to take you on a little time travel adventure.
Let's go back in time for a minute.
On the day we meet properly you will be forced from the safe, if somewhat cramped, place you have been calling home for nine months, into somewhere bright and loud and scary. You will cry. So will I. And we'll get to meet each other face to face for the first time.
But it won't be the first time that I'm seeing you.
Thanks to modern technology I'll have been keeping an eye on you (along with yet more medical personnel) over the duration of your stay with me. But would you believe that even on the very first scan I have, the one where we double check you're actually in there, that won't be the first time I'm seeing you?
Oh no, that first glimpse of you will happen roughly four weeks beforehand on the day of your transfer. On that day you'll be able to count almost six days of existence (five of those days taking place in February 2017 and the sixth one taking place in whichever month and year you're thawed out, my clever timey-wimey offspring).
I'm hoping that day will be taking place around a month from the date I'm writing this letter. Your father and I will go to the hospital, full of nerves as we wait to find out whether you have defrosted successfully. I will drink roughly a bottle of water in order to fulfill the requirement of having a 'comfortably full bladder' (there's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one, you should try spending an hour with a comfortably full bladder sometime, preferably when you're old enough to do your own laundry, just in case you find it a bit tricky!) and then we will be summoned through to the room.
Beforehand they will have asked if we want to see you on the screen and of course we will say yes! There will be a brief wait (an excited one for your father; slightly uncomfortable for me) and then you will pop up on the TV screen on the wall.
You probably won't be much to look at for most people, but to me you will be beautiful. You will be vaguely circular and kind of lumpy looking in the middle, perhaps with a bobbly bit around the outside where you are starting to hatch. I could gaze on you all day but there's not time because there's somewhere you're supposed to be (and I'll be desperately in need of a bathroom by this point).
Sunday, 23 April 2017
We did the usual boat then train part of the journey but we knew we'd be cutting it fine if we'd tried catching the bus. If I'd made the appointment myself I would've asked for one around 9am but this was made for me by a nurse along with a second a couple of weeks later at 4:30pm (which is equally awkward in terms of getting back). I did make one phone call to try and get the first appointment changed, but then decided I couldn't be bothered playing phone tag so we just forked out the £5 for a taxi up to the hospital. It was all good.
This appointment is the first in our series of appointments for the frozen embryo transfer (which will hopefully take place some time in May). I knew it would involve an injection but I wasn't sure what else would need to be done while we were there.
There were consent forms to sign and paperwork to go over. I came away with a sheet listing the medication I will be on (two drugs longer than the last time), a protocol sheet (detailing what needs to be done when) and a leaflet giving an overview of the frozen embryo transfer process.
I was also weighed, which I wasn't expecting. I briefly regretted all the Easter indulging I'd been doing over the weekend, but my weight was pronounced good. Thankfully!
And then it was time for the injection.
It was a Prostap jab which acts to put my body into a menopausal state, so that the hospital can take over and give me medication to make my body do what they want it to do, rather than what it wants to do. It's a stingy, burny injection which is given intramuscularly. I felt really aware of it for much of that day, in the area where it was injected, up towards my rib cage and down towards my groin. Walking helped to ease it but sitting for too long brought back the weird sensation.
As it puts you into a menopausal state, you can expect to get menopausal symptoms; hot flushes, headaches, mood swings, vaginal dryness (it's so glamourous). One of the ones I clearly remember from the last couple of times I've had it is the spots. I guess since your body is kind of going through puberty backwards, the zit fairy decides to pay a visit.
I've never been a particularly spotty person. I get the odd spot or two around the time my period is due (though I'm never sure if that's linked to the fact I tend to eat loads of crap around that time too), but my spots on Prostap are something else.
And sure enough, on Thursday I started to feel that telltale bump on my chin that heralded an impending spot. I dabbed at it with some TCP (which usually works to quell my spots) but this was not going to be quieted so easily.
By Friday it felt like I was growing a new nose. On my chin. I spent the day at work feeling incredibly self-conscious of the flashing belisha beacon I was sporting on my face. At one point I honestly considered feinting illness to be able to go home early and hide my head in a paper bag.
Friday evening I went to dab it with TCP and it erupted in anger. It was not pleasant. Even now, typing this, I still have an attractive patch on my chin where my skin has decided to rebel against my lack of enthusiasm for my zitty friend.
At least I know the meds are working.
We wrapped up our trip to the hospital with a trek to buy me some much needed new jeans (after one of the boys nibbled a hole in my best pair) and also swung by Paperchase where I became the proud owner of some unicorn stickers and a pencil case. Because if I'm going to get zits like I'm a teenager, I might as well shop like one too!
Now it's just a question of waiting for my body to do its thing. I'll get a bleed after which I'll go back to the hospital to check my lining is nice and thin, ready for them to start artificially plumping it up.
And while I'm not exactly thrilled about my new, spotty face, I'm pretty pleased to be getting things underway again.
Saturday, 22 April 2017
When we moved into our first home together, your father and I, we were delighted to find a little cottage with a spare bedroom. This was back in the early days when we had only been trying to bring you into existence for about a year and a half, and we were optimistic that you would soon be joining us to take up residence in the spare room.
Of course, you didn't. And so it became a general dumping ground.
Occasionally we would talk about having a clear out, or we'd go up there with bin bags and be ruthless in sorting out the junk that had accumulated, with a view to making it ready for becoming a nursery.
I'll admit. We had a couple of wobbles. There was a worn out old desk, covered in junk, up there for the longest time because our first go at IVF had been cancelled and we weren't sure we were going to give it another go.
We decided to stick a bed in there so we could actually use it as a bedroom if guests came to stay and secretly hoped that some day it might be your bed. For a while it was 'the boys bedroom'; the rats had a bedroom all to themselves. I stuck a couple of bookcases up there, optimistically filling one up with children's books that I hoped to be able to share with you some day.
But I planned for the day when that room would become a nursery. I thought about where things would go as you grew, how we would fit more than one of you in there should we need to. I looked at that room as a child would, as a teenager, and I panicked about where the hell we were going to put all our crap when that day came!
It would be nice if we've been able to raise you in a house with a spare bedroom, but if not, I hope we've been able to drop the 'spare' bit of its title and that for you it's just your bedroom. Perhaps it's not the biggest. Perhaps you're limited on where your wardrobe can go because of those sloping ceilings. Perhaps it sucks being right opposite the bathroom. Perhaps you bang your head occasionally getting in and out of bed (those sloping ceilings again). But it's the one spot of the house that is truly yours, and we've been planning it that way since we first set foot in the door.
And I hope I finally found somewhere else to keep all those books!
All my love,
Friday, 21 April 2017
You are probably fully aware that I have a bit of a thing for rainbows. I like to point them out when I see one, whether it's on TV, on someone's T-shirt when we're walking down the street, or an actual real life rainbow in its natural habitat. I like seeing rainbows.
But I wonder if I've ever told you why.
You, my precious Bubbles, are my Rainbows.