Testing Times: poked, prodded, cupped and 'the danger wank'

I quite enjoyed my first blog experience.  Writing was very therapeutic and receiving positive feedback from my 3 (enforced) readers was really encouraging.  So I am back for more...


Our quest for a baby began with a mutually agreed date: 1st October 2008.  An emotional conversation the previous valentines day led to the defining of this deadline.  That v-day one of my best friends told me she was pregnant.  Me and the husband (herein DH ('dear husband' for those unfamiliar with fertility website acronyms)...apologies to all the acronym haters, but DH is easier to type and I have promised eternal anonymity for my lovely DH....the reason for this may well become apparent as you continue to read...).  Where was I?  Oh yes, my lovely DH and I had been married for 7 weeks and I was 100% ready for the baby-making party.  I broke this news to him as we were enjoying a romantic dinner and, even in the dim candlelight, I saw the colour drain from his face.  You see, no one ever told him that getting married was simply the gateway to making babies.  Just like no one told him that getting engaged meant using words like 'marriage', 'wedding', and 'table centre-piece theme colours'.  He needed some time to adjust to this big news and so we agreed to continue to play it safe until the aforementioned October d-day.


I so clearly remember the utter conviction I held that the very first time we did the deed without protection would result in a tiny human.  Proof, I believe of the quality of my high school sex education  (the promotion of fear-induced celibacy).  Little did I know that there were only 2 days each cycle in which my eggs would be in the right place, and for me those two days only happen ever 5-6 weeks due to my long cycles.  So in October 2008, we gave it our best (although somewhat ignorant) shot.  And in November too.  By December, I was desperate to give everyone the news of an impending birth as a Christmas gift (no, not religious, was just lacking present inspiration that year).  But the month came and went and no conception had occurred (apart from the immaculate one).  So I decided to investigate (hello Dr Google!) and ultimately invested in a BBT thermometer with accompanying log book and a handful of ovulation predictor tests.  With the exception of some peeing-on-sticks rookie errors (oh, there are many ways to do it wrong...this perhaps needs a full post to do it justice), all went well with the temperature-taking, ovulation predicting and appropriately-timed sex.  But the months continued to close with the disappointing arrival of Aunt Flo (AF - fertility lingo for a bleed, or 'peter period' as a friend of mine used to call him).


By May 2009, I had a feeling something wasn't quite right and so went to see my GP, armed with the insider knowledge that they wouldn't do any tests until we had been trying for a year.  Cue little white lie.  We were referred for tests - mine were the blood variety, DH's required an aim and fire into a questionably small container (someone having a laugh?!).  He had to submit two samples.  I am sure this is because most gents' first sample ends up on the bathroom floor.


The day we got the results, our lives changed forever.  I know that sounds terribly dramatic, but it's true.   Everything looked fine with me, but for some inexplicable reason, DH didn't have enough swimmers.  There probably isn't a bigger assault on a man's manhood and, as I am typing this, I am overwhelmed by the strength, dignity and courage he has shown since that horrible day.  He is my rock.  And this infertility cross we have been given to bear is ours.  It's not his problem or my problem.  We own it together and will beat it together.


Following results day, we were guided (shoved) into the 'assisted conception services' maze.  This meant a three month wait for a gynaecology appointment, which consisted of me having to attend an appointment ON MY BIRTHDAY (shouted in horror), which encompassed a comedy journey to a nearby hospital, in which we drove past the hospital three times but couldn't manage to find the entrance (cue hysterical meltdown).  We then fought for a parking space, waited a long time to be seen by a receptionist, only to be told we were at the wrong end of the hospital and had to sprint (literally) to the other end so we didn't miss our appointment.  I tell you all this seemingly irrelevant detail to illustrate the absolute pointless-ness of it all, as the gynaecologist looked at the referral info and simply said she didn't know why we had been given the appointment, as on paper there was nothing wrong with me.  And gynaecology is all about lady-bits after all.  So she referred us on to another hospital, where we were unceremoniously plonked on a waiting list, where we remain to this date.  Three whole years later.


Now, I am incredibly thankful for the NHS and the accessibility of free health care in the UK, but my eggs were not getting any younger and I don't think my emotional health could have taken three years of waiting.  So I began to research private clinics.  There are three options for private fertility treatment nearby and it was difficult to decide which would be best for us.  Success rates seem so arbitrary - there are so many factors to take into consideration.  Prices gave more food for thought, but these needed to be balanced with distances, petrol costs and the whole thing became a bit tricky.  Then one clinic invited us to an open evening.  DH was horrified at the idea - he told me all he could picture was wine and nibbles and a room full of infertile couples - his idea of hell on earth.  I reassured him that it would be the opposite, given the sensitive nature of the subject matter, I was sure it would all be very discrete.  However, we arrived to wine, nibbles, and a room full of apparently infertile couples.  I actually felt massively reassured by this - they looked normal!  And there was wine.  Thankfully the evening included a free consultation with one of the doctors and we got to meet with Dr C and hear his thoughts.  


A couple of weeks later, we met with Dr C again for a more formal consultation.  He reviewed the info from the other hospitals and explained how he would approach treatment.  At one point he stopped to ask DH if he had ever been "examined".  "Errm, no" was the cautious response.  Followed by Dr C's "do you mind if I take a look?".  Now, DH's mind was an open book for me at that moment and page one said "not in a million years are you coming anywhere near my special place" (include expletives as you wish).  In spite of this, he replied with a small yet brave "ok".  Dr C took him behind a curtain, leaving me sitting the other side.  There was the sound of a zip, the snap of a latex glove, an awkward cough and it was all over.  Later that night, DH advised there was some light 'cupping'.  The outcome: all anatomically correct.  And sizeable (my assessment).


So with DH suitably violated, it was my turn.  Throughout a course of treatment like ICSI it is necessary to have several scans to look for things like follicular development, uterine lining and, if everything goes to plan then a small, flickering heartbeat.  When I went for my first scan, the nurse took DH and I into the scan room and left us so I could get into my gown.  We looked quizzically at the scanner, with its large penis-shaped probe - we'd seen lots of baby scans on various films and TV programmes and had pictured gel on my tummy and a grainy picture on the screen.  With the nurse back in the room and my legs in stirrups, the realisation that this was an 'up the way' scan hit and DH mumbled something and made a quick exit.  The nurse asked if I was ready for my dignity to go out the door and the only suitable reply was "I think he already left".


My all-time favourite moment of the pre-treatment testing times was when DH had to take another sample to the hospital.  With his aim much improved, this should have been an easy task, but he was given a specific time on a weekday to submit his sample.  He wasn't quite ready to use the "men's room" at the hospital (for fear they might know what he was doing in there.  He is a bright man, I promise.  In fact, his later evaluation of the men's room supporting materials may feature in a future post, so stay tuned).  He therefore planned to 'do what he needed to do' at home and then take his sample to the hospital.  I had been courier on a previous occasion and would like to note that this is not a simple job due to the need to keep the sample warm so the wee guys don't die.  They recommend you put the container in a pocket.  I expertly managed to choose a pocket-less outfit that day and had to traverse hospital car parks and corridors with semen in my bra.  Fun times.  Anyway, back to DH and his specifically-timed sample submission.  Meetings at work meant he was too pushed for time to get home and then to the hospital.  I assumed he would grow some balls and use the "men's room", but no.  I later found out that he chose to have what we have since termed "the danger wank" at work, in a toilet stall.  How he wasn't caught and fired, I have no idea.  Although having shared this little anecdote with a few others, I have been advised that men need to 'relieve themselves' at work fairly often.  I am still traumatised by this news.


Fast forward to the present and, while our tests may be over, the testing times endure.  I am currently waiting for a bleed so that our third ICSI cycle can begin.  I have spent almost 4 years willing AF not to show up.  Begging, pleading, bargaining on a regular basis to not have a period.  And now I am desperate for one.  It's a bit of a mind f*ck.  It's not that I am being unreasonably impatient - I have olympic games tickets and need to be in London on a certain date, so really need things to get going.  Plus I am impatient.  So if you know of any special dances you can do to make things hurry up, please let me know.  Thank you x