Return of the King?

Confession time. I’ve only seen two of the three Lord of the Rings movies. The first two, obviously. I’m not some sicko that’s seen one and three because the middle seemed irrelevant – although I haven’t seen the last instalment, so it very well might. And look, I know declaring my apparent disinterest in finding out what happens to bigfoot, his goblin mate and a piece of jewellery warrants a resounding “who cares?” but it does give me cause to say two things:

I do care.
I’m not very good at finishing things.

So why, after almost two and a half years am I finally sitting down to tell you how my story ends? Well, because Froddo finally got his baby. (That’s how LOTR ends right? Or am I confusing it with Bridget Jones’s Baby…again?)

It worked. IT FUCKING WORKED.

In February 2021 in a seemingly almost post Covid world (ha, so naive) we welcomed a 3kg human hobbit into the world. It was an incredibly happy ending to what felt like a desperately long journey, although by comparison to the current pandemic, it feels like a trip down to the letterbox and back. But I’ve been paying the domain on this blog for an equally long time and I figure that while there’s a whole lot of noise on the internet. Not much of it is good noise. So here, hopefully, is a little morsel of sunlight amongst the iClouds.

Let’s take ourselves WAY back to October 2019. Dance Monkey is #1 on the charts, you can safely have 30 plus people in your own home without causing damage to anything except your toilet cistern, and the idea of wearing a mask in Woolworths suggests you’re there to steal the contents of the cigarette counter. *sigh* simpler times y’know?

After a big hiatus, we had our fifth stab at IVF. My parents had been living with us in 2019, in a small..ish two bedroom unit. And now, I don’t want to say that because my parents were living with us that we put our attempts at conceiving on hold – but we have very a small fridge, there was not enough room to house my Mum’s thyroid meds and my IVF drugs. So we waited until October. We’d waited so long between attempts we’d all but forgotten how exhausting and emotionally taxing a “cycle” could be.

Between the injections and the acupuncture I once again became a human pin cushion. I took time off work in an attempt to reduce stress levels. And in the lead up to the harvest, everything looked promising. Until we didn’t get so much as a glimpse of a viable embryo. I had low numbers and soft eggs – as if they’d been poaching at 63 degrees all morning at a brunch spot you could never get a table at. They’d perished before I even got the chance to rouse from my drug induced slumber. It was brutal. I spent days on the couch (when it was a novelty and not state mandated – cute), trauma watched a documentary about IVF on Netflix and felt the crushing injustice of our fertility journey going backwards.

We embarked on our notionally “FINAL” attempt of IVF in – what we thought was – the middle of a pandemic. It was June 2020. There were no complimentary treatments. There was just a whole lot of exploring your own 5km radius and the contents of your fridge. We’d agreed that our sixth attempt would be our last. We’d been told it was normal to take between 4 and 6 attempts before we might expect any success. It was a lot of money, a lot of energy and a lot of hope. The first two are renewable resources. The hope? Less so. But it was a pandemic. We were going to be stuck on the couch for at least a little while (lol), might as well do something semi-productive.

I was still under when our doctor rang Nick to apologise. The procedure hadn’t gone to plan. She hadn’t been able to retrieve much, despite me having a promising number of follicles ripe for the picking. She’d never called after surgery. It was the first time he’d heard her say “sorry”. But there were three of us on this journey and our success mattered so greatly to her. We had, after all, been in a medical three way for two and a bit years.

Still, we got one. We got one good egg. And it fertilised. It was a nice looking embryo too. We had every reason to feel hopeful.

You’re warned against home pregnancy tests. Your body is pumping more hormones than a year eight netball round robin. You can quite easily get a false positive, so I’d never tried. But I’d gotten so tired of being told by a compassionate stranger over the phone that my blood test revealed I wasn’t pregnant that I was willing to risk it. And six days after the transfer – I saw my first ever second line. I was pregnant. No matter what happened, for that day, for that minute I’d been pregnant. I didn’t tell Nick of course, I just secretly pissed on sticks morning and night. There was literally nothing else to do except avoid House Party invites from an Aunt and bake sourdough, it was a highly covidSafe way of passing time. As the two week wait for the pregnancy blood test got closer, the lines got darker.

The compassionate stranger finally had good news for us. I was pregnant. Only just pregnant though. I had to go for another blood test in 48 hours time – but that part of the story isn’t the least bit romantic. When I was welcomed by the early pregnancy nurse, I felt like I’d been given keys to the executive wash room. I had levelled up and it felt amazing.

Of course there was no guarantee that we’d see this pregnancy through to the end. But I welcomed the nausea of the first trimester with open arms and with every pregnancy milestone met, the pain of infertility became a distant memory.

We were incredibly fortunate. And we didn’t do anything different. That’s always been the most difficult part of documenting this journey. It’s a lot more of the same until it works. There’s a tweak to meds here or there. But for the most part, it is a lot of the same. Of course I can only speak from my experience, and I’m painfully conscious of how different it is for every person engaged with assisted fertility.

I’ve been overwhelmed by people who’ve reached out either in person, via email, on facebook, having enjoyed the blog and/or been on or about to embark on a similar journey but no one will top Samantha. A beautiful woman who recognised me in the queue at our IVF chemist in June 2020. I was there to collect progesterone pessaries — which became a whole lot easier to stomach?…injest? absorb?… once you’re pregnant. You best believe I declared I was “feeding” the baby every time inserted those bad boys.

I truly digress.

Samantha was embarking on another IVF attempt. She, like us, was a long time IVFer. I was able to share with her that we were two weeks pregnant. Her eyes lit up, full of hope for us and full of hope for herself. Turns out I was wrong, turns out hope is a renewable resource.

As a pandemic parent, in and out of constant lockdowns, raising a small human with a tiny immune system, alongside a climate crisis has been challenging to say the least. Feeling hopeful after two hundred and eleventy thousand days in lockdown is almost impossible. Grateful? Yes, of course. That’s easy. But hopeful? Not. So. Much.

Samantha was so often in my thoughts, but we hadn’t spoken until recently. She heard me mention her in an EXCELLENT podcast Mummafication (don’t worry, I know how this shiz works, I’ve linked it below). She reached out to tell me, she’s pregnant and due in November this year.

Thank you Samantha, you’ve made me feel hopeful again. You’re going to be a truly wonderful parent.

For those of you who might be struggling to feel hopeful, for whatever reason, hold the line. You’ve felt hopeful before, you will feel hopeful again.

As for me? I’m off to (half) watch Lord of the Rings: Return of the King with the love of my life, my seven month old baby Matteo.

Thank you for reading.

Nicolette x

ride like a girl (not the box office smash).

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“Getting back on the horse” has never enticed me. I don’t like failing. That’s not abnormal. But truth be told, sometimes I feel like even when I do eventually succeed at something after multiple attempts, it never feels quite as satisfying as nailing it first time. I don’t want to be applauded for my resilience; I want people to be ASTOUNDED by my humility when it seems I fail at nothing!

Of course, over the course of the last year, we never really got off the old IVF horse. Since our initial attempt in September last year we’ve had three more attempts. And three more fails.

I stopped documenting it for a number of reasons, namely because it felt repetitive. Even I was bored. Because it really is a lot more of the same shit. There might be a tweak to your meds, or another part of your body they can use as a pin cushion. There’s always food to avoid, coffee to quit, and too much and not enough exercise to do. There are always more supplements you can take and more people suggesting you try to avoid feeling stressed in the same breath as telling you you’ve reached your rebate limit.

So yeah, as far as the “horse” goes it’s been dragging us along by our ankles the whole time.

Also, writing, my one true love – kinda blossomed.

So “blossomed” might be the wrong word. It feels like the kind of thing you’d hear from a distant relative at family reunion, because for Christmas, Santa finally delivered you some tits. *shakes head*

What I’m trying to say is, despite me being entirely unable to get my Woolworths Discovery Garden to sprout so much as a weed, my toiling away at my keyboard is finally bearing fruit and not merely catharsis (there’s that HUMILITY).

But anyone who is privileged and fortunate to have their love/therapy boosted by income knows it’s complicated. I imagine it’s exactly how Nigella Lawson feels about butter, torn because she loves it so, but she also has to work with it everyday.

Look, that was a terrible comparison because…well, because butter.

ANYWAY – what I’m trying to say is, I’ve been busy doing what I love and it’s been great. I’m very grateful. Please nothing change. But as a result I have a love/hate relationship with MS Word.

So why now? Well, because it wouldn’t be our whole IVF story if I’d stopped writing about it. And so much happened over the course of that twelve months that definitely bears repeating.

So here it is. A somewhat montage/highlight reel/mega cut of our three failed attempts at making a baby last year.

Spend a shit tonne of money, get a shit tonne of reward points on your credit card. So whilst no bambino, Nick got some swish new boots. Which I remind him technically cost us $10,000.
When left in my father’s charge, following harvest surgery, I suggested we order Uber Eats for lunch. His request…”just some soup”. And it was delivered with the most exquisite amount of ignorance it was almost perky – I very nearly applauded. Of course in reality, I politely explained that “just some soup” could be hard to come by on Uber Eats and attributed my rage to having just been milked for eggs. So I made an omelette and we watched Mission Impossible: Fallout – which felt almost ironic.
I helped a mate take her injections for egg freezing. Which felt wonderful and empowering and part of the Trainspotting franchise that I’d like to see immediately please.
And four no’s. Not even so much as a short lived pregnancy. Just a very polite nurse at the end of the phone saying “sorry” followed by the most expensive period you will ever have in your life, as your investment literally falls out of you.

Of course, the odds are rarely in your favour. It takes 4 – 6 attempts on average. There are horses with better odds. Despite all this, we’re back at it. With renewed positivity, sense of gratitude and appreciation for having access to IVF and a list of things I’d like to buy with the rewards points.

We’re often asked if we can imagine our life together without children. Yes. Of course we can. I’d never want to bring a child into a relationship that didn’t consider itself whole without children. But I do assume I’ll be the perfect parent and you’ll all agree whilst you gasp at my humility. So yes, we’re going again. Attempt number five. Not yet saddle sore.

And for anyone else out there, who is still on this journey. We’re still here too. Right beside you. Yet still practicing the fundamental principles of personal space.

No, I can’t seem to get butter off the brain either. So let’s feast on these shall we?

https://www.theguardian.com/food/2018/oct/31/nigella-lawson-peanut-cookies-butter-fingers-justin-gellatly-biscuits

in conclusion.

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For most of my life, I’ve been “on a diet”. So much so that I struggle to remember a time when I wasn’t “on a diet” and, whilst I didn’t have my first official dietitian approved meal plan until I was around 13, the diets haven’t really stopped. In a few weeks I’m thirty five and I’ve easily spent more of my life “on a diet” than not.

I know what you’re thinking…I do not look thirty five. My mother’s genes are to thank for that. And before you get stuck into her for putting me on a diet at 13, she didn’t. I did. It was also me who insisted I eat a Shepherds Pie for play lunch most days. I was a growing girl and consequently growing outwards.

I’ve been Paleo, Keto, Vegan and Vegetarian. I’ve dabbled with The Plant Paradox, The 4 Hour Body, Lite n Easy, survived juice and soup fasts and even lasted 36 hours on Cayenne Pepper, Maple Syrup and Lemon – cos Yonce.

There was also the time I fabricated a potato allergy to prevent me from ordering hot chips, claiming they made me “inflamed” – which is just Pete Evans for “fat”.

What I’m getting at is that now, having spent the last two weeks on a “listeria precaution pregnancy diet”, I can officially say, I’ve tried them all.

Now, I’m gonna go ahead and assume that MOST people don’t start listeria precautions until they get the double lines OR the thumbs up from their pathology results. Because unless you are pregnant there is literally NO GOOD REASON for ordering your eggs hard poached. NOT A SINGLE ONE. I WON’T HEAR IT.

You’re encouraged to follow a diet to prevent listeria the second that embryo is transferred. So naturally, mere minutes after the embryo transfer I was boldly ordering my eggs hard poached at brunch. By that afternoon I was turning my nose up at soft cheese and come dinner time I was wishing I’d eaten more sushi. Despite not technically being pregnant yet – during the two week wait (or 2ww, if you want to go play in the hell mouth that is online IVF fear forums) you eat and live as if you are.

I know the jury might be out for some regarding the likelihood of contracting listeria from a $4 lump of Meredith Goats Feta but when you’ve just dumped 10k on the promise of a baby human, you’d like it to be a healthy one, so ordering your Avo Smash sans Feta seems like a fair sacrifice. Best case scenario it would stick, worst case scenario there was just two calendar weeks and a mandatory blood test that stood between me and a plate of cold cuts and a 7-11 chicken sandwich.

It wouldn’t be an honest recount of the 2ww without mentioning anxiety. The constant fear that at some point an embryo, far too small to be seen by the naked eye might just fall out of you at some point. Like I could fart too hard and bye bye baby. I’d just think it was a regular fart I gave a touch too much gusto and be none the wiser.

Despite being put on twice daily doses of progesterone (a cream that goes inside you and what your body doesn’t absorb it spits out in white clumps not unlike cottage cheese) there’s also the chance you’ll bleed. So the fun is really zapped out of toilet time. Which, of course, is my all time favourite time.

Throughout the two weeks I couldn’t shake the feeling of being somewhat of an imposter. Especially when two weeks later, a blood test reveals it hasn’t worked and we’re not pregnant.

It failed.

The 30% chance of success wasn’t enough for us. So we’re not pregnant. Not for now at least.

We’re also not devastated. We’ve spent the better part of 18 months finding out we weren’t pregnant. We’ve become accustomed to being disappointed every 28 days or so. And as you can expect, we did a fair bit of mourning when we learnt, that according to science, we wouldn’t be able to conceive without it.

What we are is grateful to have even had the chance and means to attempt this. To have had each other. To have had such an outpouring of affection and encouragement in response to having shared our journey. And we’re just one in the countless and ever increasing number of couples engaging in IVF or learning they might need too.

If all we got from this round was learning that our story has resonated with some of you who have reached out, thank you. Please keep the conversation alive.

So what’s next?

We don’t know. And that’s okay.

Obviously, once we got the news our IVF cycle had failed, within the hour I had a glass of skin contact wine in one hand and a fistful of ricotta in the other.

And hot chips. Heaps. Of. Them.

_______________

And because NO ONE should prefer their yolks poached hard – here’s a refresher on how to make the perfect poached eggs from Jamie Oliver.

Remember Tamagotchis?

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Remember Tamagotchis? Digital distraction of the late nineties? Remember THAT precious time before the constant digital distraction of the NOW? I reckon I was 12 when I had my first one. I say first, because of course with anything that has limited lives and comes in assorted colours, you will obviously have multiples.

Unfortunately for all of mine, I lost interest pretty quickly, and I either forgot to vaccinate them as infants or fed them so infrequently that they evolved into moody teenagers and I grew apathetic of them…until they died. Dead. Suffice to say I was never allowed Sea Monkeys and it won’t come as a surprise that my indoor plant game needs some serious attention.

Don’t @ me. It was an egg shaped game and I was 12. OBVIOUSLY I will remember to vaccinate all of my children, and I married an Italian – nobody is gonna starve.

Now it could be considered a long bow to draw, finding similarities between Japanese gaming technology of the late nineties and the IVF process – despite the fact that both their creators have received Nobel Prizes. BOOM! BET YOU DIDN’T EXPECT TO LEARN THAT TODAY!?!

What I’m getting at is that all those years ago, at age 12, “life” was cycling away in the pocket of my school uniform and now, in some ways – albeit it’s a tenuous link – a similar cycle was underway, in a lab, in a glass dish, 150m from the MCG.

We didn’t harvest as many eggs as we would’ve liked – see above note about indoor plants – your girl doesn’t have a natural green thumb. BUT we got one. We got one fertilised embryo. Some people get none. We got one. The sperm that we were told couldn’t, with a little bit of science, seemed to have done it.

One of the most overwhelming aspects of your first bash at the IVF palaver is that you could be pregnant come the end of the month. I know, obviously this is the end game, however after a solid eighteen months of trying and failing one becomes so accustomed to NOT being pregnant that it all feels a little bit like voodoo magic. Stick a few pins in and you’re up duff. Explain to me what’s not voodoo about that.

Our process had an extra step called ICSI, which is level up from classic IVF – the Petri dish party where the best man wins. ICSI is where the single, most attractive, strongest looking sperm is picked out from the bunch and physically inserted into the egg. It’s the fertility version of leading a horse to water and saying DRINK BITCH, and then forcing it’s head under water I suppose. As it turned out, one was clearly thirstier than the rest.

As the clock turned and a handful of fertilised eggs were no longer viable, one embryo thrived and naturally, this was all happening whilst we were sitting on the couch at home in Collingwood watching Goodfellas. Of course, the Petri dish is never far from your thoughts during those 72..ish hours post harvest and pre transfer.

It’s truly astounding just how much comfort Scorsese one can consume in that time. Almost as astounding as the concept of “comfort Scorsese”.

FACT: it is preferable to have a full bladder for the embryo transfer.

Makes sense that there should be a water cooler taking up prime real estate in the waiting room of the transfer clinic. Above it sits a radio and 3AW plays at a volume best described as obnoxious. I wonder if Neil Mitchell knows just how many pregnancies he’s been present at. It’s mid morning, and the waiting room is wall to wall with anxious couples. I assume the volume of the radio is to conceal the sound of rapid heartbeats, dry mouths and muted conversations.

At first, I’m unaccompanied in the waiting room. That is until my husband arrives, carrying one shoe in his hand as the shoe that should be on his foot has been replaced by a moon bootie of sorts. Not the hard case moon boot you can usually expect to see on the middle class signaling it’s snow season, but an almost entirely fabric sock boot monstrosity that looks as if he’s just emerged from invasive ingrown toe surgery.

I give thanks that the “conception” has already occurred because I can literally feel my clitoris deflate.

He’s come from the podiatrist. Turns out he broke his toe a few months back during a game of mixed netball.

At this point we can confirm the radio is there to conceal my “sighs”.

My doctor likes my jumper. Good. I changed outfits three times. It’s quite a thing to work out what is best to wear when you’re about to be made three days pregnant.

Then there it is on the TV. The embryo. It’s there for us to see under a microscope, projected onto a TV. The moment feels utterly Wonka-esque as we become the parents of Mike Teavee. Of course it’s not a small boy from middle america that dreams of fame. Not yet anyway. Instead, it looks exactly like it does in google image. I know this because I google imaged what it should look like, in between Scorsese’s.

My scientist returns. The catheter is locked and loaded and within minutes it’s inside me. With just one embryo, and none for the deep freeze, our eggs were in one basket. I had just become the basket and am officially three days pregnant.

“Fingers crossed” (There it is again)

Because this might be as pregnant as we get. Or maybe we’ll defy the odds and make it to nine months. But crossing fingers is literally the only thing that we and science can do from here.

As we leave, shoe in hand, and thousands of dollars poorer, my husband and I appear, to the untrained eye, like just another couple coming home from a day at the races. What sets us apart of course, it that we have zero regrets.

So yes – fingers crossed indeed.

I really dropped the ball on the recipes with the last post – COMPLETELY neglecting to post one at all. So to make up for it, I’ve found a guide to All the Food & Drink in Scorsese films. God. Bless. The. Internet.

https://www.bonappetit.com/entertaining-style/pop-culture/article/food-martin-scorsese-movies

Special mention to Martin Scorsese Eats a Cookie – a short film by George Clooney.

“I know you from somewhere…”

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It’s 6am. I’ve rolled out of bed. I’m puffy eyed, unwashed and I’m claiming my eleventy hundredth “intro week offer” at a boutique yoga studio. I am literally doing everything in my power to be unrecognisable. Not even intentionally. Despite having had my mug in a couple of comedy sketches that have gone viral…ish and having sold you everything from property to insurance to dip and back to insurance, I am VERY RARELY recognised. And I am 100% okay with that.

Because for anyone who frequently cops the old “I know you from somewhere” you’ll have experienced first hand, the painful and diminishing experience of having to recite credits from your CV only to be repeatedly told “no…that’s not it” . Fortunately, mine doesn’t take long to get through and I’m halfway as it hits her; she’d just remembered me from another fancy yoga studio that I’d previously swindled. I’m nothing if not consistent.

It’s 6am. This time I have washed and I’m handing over my credit card to pay the bed fee for the egg harvest procedure. Alas, no “intro offer” here. As I sit in the waiting room, it strikes me that “egg harvest procedure” sounds like something out of a Margaret Atwood novel. I really do love how it sounds equal parts puritan and clinical.

The “harvesting” itself will take just fifteen minutes. It’s hard not to imagine it won’t involve a sickle. But I’m assured it won’t. It will involve vaginal walls, a catheter and some suction, which is as invasive as it sounds, so you get a drug induced nap time. You don’t “go under” per se, you’re just sedated enough to be unaware of your surrounds, and what’s going on in and around you. It’s the kind of stuff you might need/want at your disposal for a family Christmas lunch.

By 6:15am I’m in a hospital gown. The nurse is showing me her pen.

“DO YOU LIKE MY PEN?”

It feels scripted.

But yes, I like her pen.

She thrusts the pen in my face. It’s one of those drug company pens with stuff that floats around in it, bit like those rudie nudie pens where you got to see boobs depending on how you tipped it. Except this one was full of little sperms swimming around, we assume, towards an egg – but failing the seal the deal.

“Oh – this is our problem” I say.

She laughs. She’s right to. It’s a good joke.

(Later on I’ll overhear her use that joke on someone else. As if it twere her own. I’ll be too high to say shit, but in my head, I’ll draft a strongly worded Yelp review.)

For the first time in this whole process, I feel very small and not just because I’m dwarfed by the enormous vinyl armchair they have me sitting in. My doctor can smell my fear. To be fair, I reek of it. She grips my hand as I lay down on the table, introducing me to “my scientist” whom is, for all intents and purposes, a woman with her hands in an incubator in the room next door.

I. Have. A. Scientist.

SHE IS MINE. MY SCIENTIST. She’ll be taking care of my eggs. Which is a huge and important responsibility. I have this sudden urge to ensure that she’s had a good breakfast.

It’s all a bit overwhelming, I’m in a room full of people trying to help us have a baby and now I have a scientist on the payroll.

My doctor grips my hand tight as that warm nigh nigh rush of anaesthesia hits and as the room darkens, she leans down and whispers…

“You were great in Back in Very Small Business”

With my last ounce of energy I reply; somewhat panicked “should I be able to taste it? I can taste it” and I’m out.

It is without doubt. The best nap I’ve ever had. A clear chart topper in my top five naps. Would recommend. Whatever that stuff was, I need more of it.

I’m back in the enormous armchair. Beside me is a plate of snacks. A Tim Tam, Monte Carlo and Le Snack. I’m offered a juice box. Eleven year old me is most pleased. I redirect the juice box to my scientist. I want her comfortable at all times.

My doctor has left me a note, letting me know how it went. She signs off “fingers crossed” and we enter what I like to call PHASE THOUGHTS & PRAYERS. Because of course, nothing is guaranteed. And this is just one of many hurdles in making a human.

A few days later – we’ll be in another waiting room where a cop A LOT of side eye from one guy. He’s recognised me. He can’t work out where from and it’s annoying him. He’s not the yoga type, so it’s definitely not that but it’s really annoying him.

I know this because he says it out loud after his partner begs him to stop staring.

It’s the last place you expect to find your audience – in a fertility clinic. Infertility doesn’t discriminate. You don’t swindle one too many yoga studios and find yourself on a list. And you’re not protected because you did that thing that made people laugh.

I suppress the desire to say “see, I’m just like you” instead giving them both a smile that says good luck, this is terrifying.

one man. three cups. (part 2)

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**he’s back. ENJOY HIM.**

“Hmmm”

“Hmmmmmmm”

It’s all I can hear as I lie on a table, pants around my ankles, as a septuagenarian (who is a week off retirement) fondles my balls. No – it’s not a fetish I’ve been keeping from my wife. It is in fact my Andrology appointment and right now, I’m the only thing that stands between an expert and his long awaited trip around Australia in a Winnebago.

I’ve been sent to this guy to try and deduce what might be going on, because despite my swimmers being coached by Eric Moussambani, all other tests had come back a-ok. Not only were they ok – apparently my testosterone was through the roof! I mean I don’t know if that means I’m any better at wrestling bears or chopping down trees or doing either of those without crying, but anything positive was gratifying to hear at this point.

The Andrologist continues to murmur to himself as he potters around in the small corner of his office that he’s curtained off. My wife sits on the other side, a cocktail of mild concern and amusement.

I hear a rattle from nearby as my new best bud picks up a mystery object and swings back around to once again fondle my balls – don’t worry, despite his hands being riddled with rheumatoid arthritis, he’s very gentle.

It feels as if he’s measuring my testicles against something… something that suspiciously sound like large beads one might find at their local Sexy Land. I find out later they’re a tool used to measure the size of your balls and apparently mine are “a good size”. Not something I ever thought I’d hear out loud but in the circumstances – happy to call that a win.

The down side is there seems to be no clear medical explanation for why my boys are performing at a local swim school level and not an Ian Thorpe circa 1998 – 2004 level. So with the fellas safely tucked back away until the next time I have to get them out in a strangers room, my wife and I begin our IVF journey whilst our Andrologist heads toward the open road, driving across the Nullarbor with his trusty ball beads hanging off the rear view mirror.

Attempt Number 03

Once again I had to head to a wank house (my term, not theirs) and once again, there was a time limit. Whilst my wife had already endured two weeks of drug injections (the IVF kind, not the recreational kind) and was about to have day surgery to harvest her eggs, I had one job. And that job needed to be done at 8am on the dot. I’d gone from 60min, to 15min, to trying to time a wank to a schedule. I’m normally half an hour late to most things so this was going to be a challenge.

The room was fairly similar to the last place (red couch included – oooooo sexy) although this time I didn’t get the grand tour. The only thing they pointed out was the door lock and the light that you switch on so people outside knew that you were “in session”. I think I would’ve preferred the ol’ “sock on the door handle” – I had my pineapple happy socks on and they are made to be shared.

I went through the process a third time – this time trying to get out of there as quickly as possible as I was well aware of the line forming outside. Turns out there was only one room so the turnover had to be pretty quick. No time for easing yourself into it fellas – it’s go go go.

And as I stepped out of the room, dropped off my sample and headed casually for the door, the shame having subsided seeing as this wasn’t my first rodeo – I walked past the line of nervous men hunched over, waiting for their time to flick the switch.

They were men of all shapes and sizes and all walks of life. The ones that made eye contact with me opted for the kind of nod-smile combo you get at a urinal. It’s a funny sort of nod – one that says “I know why you’re here. Best of luck mate – hope it all works out.”

And it makes me sad.

Sad because the shame I thought had subsided suddenly appears again.

Sad that I came to the realisation that most men don’t feel comfortable talking about their health and wellbeing as much as women do.

And sad that men have trouble supporting each other when stuff like this happens. They can’t call a mate and say “hey – can we talk about the fact that I just had a doctor tell me Go Bombers whilst simultaneously delivering the near fatal blow of telling me I’m potentially infertile.”

I have spoken to a lot of male friends about what’s been going on and they’ve been a mix of unbelievably supportive, supportive at an arms length, and uncomfortable. Of course I don’t begrudge the ones that have been uncomfortable. Talking about jerking into a cup and male infertility isn’t everyones cup of tea. I’ve just found that it’s the men in my life that have found talking about this with me the hardest.

I pick my wife up from the hospital shortly after cup number three (I’m pretty sure I orgasmed bang on 8am by the way – I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t VERY impressed with myself). I had an almond milk flat white for her and an enthusiastic smile that was covering the concern one has when their partner comes out of any kind of surgery. She’s beaming when she walks out and tells me about the experience. How she cracked jokes with our fertility specialist. How she kept talking until the anaesthetic cut her off mid sentence (classic Nicolette). And how she needs more of whatever that stuff was that knocked her out.

And as she talks I think about all that she’s had to go through on this journey thus far and how much she still has to come. The multiple injections every day, the surgery, the mood swings, the bloating, the understanding that even if this works theres another 9 months of being uncomfortable to go before she has to push a small watermelon out of her vagina – and all I’ve had to do is jerk in a small cup a bunch of times.

And suddenly all my anxieties, all my shame – the emotional breakdown I’ve been having over this making me any more or less masculine start to disappear. Because compared to my wife and what she must be feeling both physically and emotionally throughout all of this, my issues seem somewhat insignificant.

So do I feel any less masculine?

No.

Instead I feel incredibly fortunate to have a partner like mine to tackle this with. One that does so with good humour and fight whenever it gets shit (and believe me it gets shit). And I also feel fortunate to feel comfortable enough to talk to people about whats going on – it’s helped a lot. Even if it means that I’ve forced the image of me whacking off on a sexy red leather couch into all of your heads… and If I haven’t then I’m deeply offended.

So make sure you find people to talk with.

Doesn’t have to be your closest friend or family, just someone who’ll listen. I promise you it won’t hurt and the path to having a little one of your own will feel far less isolating and intimidating.

Plus – it’s really fun explaining to people how hard it is to wank into a small cup.

just a prick in a box.

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“…you know that’s why they have so many babies. The drug addicts. It’s because they are so relaxed all of the time.”

Wise words from a professional I’d been paying for the better part of a year to help us fall pregnant. And she waits until NOW before suggesting I get on the gear? I’m not 100% certain on the street value of a hit of heroin – but I’m gonna go out on a limb and suggest it has to be cheaper than my weekly hit of acupuncture.

I go to suggest she may’ve made a gross generalisation regarding drug addicted mothers, but I know better to argue with a woman who has me pinned to a table – literally.

I never imagined falling pregnant would involve so many sharps containers.

The needles become unavoidable. Not even the berry industry can avoid them. (TOPICAL – will obviously omit once berries are safe again. IF EVER).

Now, I know I’m no hero for having to engage in “self injecting”. A whole range of bad ass legends are required to do it for varying medical conditions. I even went to school with a girl who’s surgeon father taught her how to administer drugs into her face after she was dealt the crushing diagnosis of having “thin lips”. It really took the parenting parable of “if they’re going to do it, it might as well be under my roof” to the next level.

A few months back I watched, in equal parts awe and concern, my toughest friend jab herself in the guts with blood thinner so she wouldn’t get DVT from her moon boot on a long haul flight.

We’d gone round for dinner. It made things weird for a bit.

(This next bit gets a little bit theatre in ed. But don’t you worry, I’ll keep it edu-taining.)

In 25 words or less, to commence an IVF cycle you need to make like a battery hen and harvest eggs. Same thing goes for my forward thinking comrades who elect to have their eggs frozen. It involves lots of needles and that ghastly blue freezer bag with the enormous Easter Eggs emblazoned on it.

My biggest regret thus far is returning the bag to be reused. It would’ve killed at a grade 4 easter bonnet parade. Another mother’s eyes would’ve narrowed in on me from across the quadrangle and she’d deliver a gentle, knowing nod as our offspring gorged themselves on chocolate. Bless’d be the fruit. (but seriously, not even Banana’s are safe).

IVF drugs don’t look like you’re average fear inducing syringe that you winced at in primary school. The whole unit is about the size of a sharpie. They even have a similar little cap that has a clip on it. Why? Well, so you can clip it onto your shirt pocket silly. Drug manufacturers ey? Making the inconvenient, convenient…ish.

The first whack of “stims” are the drugs designed to get your ovum excited. They’re the feeling of seeing a Hemsworth holding a child created in synthetic form. After roughly a week, your ovaries should be ‘choc-a-block’ so to avoid you blowing your load before the ‘harvest’ – which in itself sounds so deliciously Puritan – you take an antagonist med.

HOLD UP! A Hemsworth and now a villain! It’s a medical Marvel© movie.

I liken the cocktail of meds to an espresso martini.

At first the antagonist stings so much I almost pass out, which is VERY OFF BRAND, so I text a friend to ask how to take it. This one is way more syringe-y. Lucky for me, she’s got plenty of sage advice and I’ve had unadulterated access to it every step of the way. Turns out it is a Marvel© movie, I’m surrounded by superheroes.

The two weeks fly by. Nek minute I’m waiting by the phone to be told when to take the trigger injection – which is the last one. I’m oddly disappointed by this, as if I think I have a future in injectable drugs. I’m not suggesting that GONAL-F is a gateway drug…I’m just saying, short of the slight hiccup with my parasympathetic nervous system, it wasn’t so bad.

The call will come between 3pm and 6pm. You get a window. You can take phones out of the house nowadays. But it still feels like I’ll be waiting at home for an Optus employee to connect the internet.

I get the call. I get my husband’s appointment time with the red vinyl couch. I get told when EXACTLY to take the trigger, which I assume is the medical equivalent of a “beginners call” and we get our date for surgery.

Surgery sounds extreme. It’s a procedure. I’ll be under for 15mins. I’ve waited on hold to Optus for longer than that.

It would be in bad taste to post anything fruit based. https://www.jamieoliver.com/news-and-features/features/how-to-make-espresso-martini/

one man. three cups. (part 1)

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***BUCKLE UP!! It’s a “guest post” from my husband, who has shown himself to be funnier and decidedly more charming than me.***

“Do you feel like this makes you less of a man?”

I don’t answer for a bit, more out of confusion than anything.

“Because of the results?” she follows with.

I’m in a doctors office for the third time in six months, with my wife holding my hand, as a GP tells me a story I’d already heard… my sperm is a touch faulty. Not that there isn’t any – it’s just that it appears they never got the swimming lessons that I had to endure as a kid. The poor buggers are struggling to move forward and are a little bit deformed – which is a pretty decent metaphor for how I feel in life most of the time to be honest.

She’d been tactful up until this point – more so than the first GP. Who was the same GP I’d been seeing all my life. I made the trek across the Westgate out to my childhood home Altona because for some reason the idea of going to a doctor that hasn’t known me my whole life smacks of anxiety.

I’d been to visit him because my wife and I had been trying for kids for about 12 months without any luck. He told me to go and do a sperm analysis and some blood tests so he could make sure that everything worked.

It all sounded pretty straight forward. Get a couple of jabs in the arm, then go home and whack off into a very small cup. The biggest hurdle as far as I could see was how I’d aim, mid orgasm, into something that wasn’t much larger than your average espresso cup.

Challenge accepted.

Attempt Number 01

I decided to do this one at home due to the fact that masterbating in a random room in a random building was a bit much for me. SPOILER ALERT: it would soon become common place.

It was as expected – very uncomfortable and logistically difficult. I learnt some tough lessons like why it’s important to take the cap off BEFORE you start rather than scrambling to remove it mid jerk.

With the sample collected, I jumped in the car and bolted down the highway to get my swimmers to the nearest collection point. I was told I had one hour to get the sample there safe. I was Jack Bauer in every series of 24 – I had my objective, and a clock counting down in real time.

With the nervous swagger of a kid at a blue light disco, I handed over the sample with an awkward smile as the nurse looked me square in the eye “Full sample? Or Half sample?”

I responded with a shrug and a painfully drawn out “Fuuuullllll???” She rolled her eyes and ticked the box marked “FULL”.

I found myself back in the doctors office a couple of days later, the one in Altona. I’d got a call the day before saying “I better come in” which are words you definitely never want to hear from a doctor. Especially if his practice is in Altona – I fucking hate the West Gate.

I sat in silence as he threw around the words “abnormal, strange, unbelievable” and phrases like “in all my career I’ve never seen results this bad”. His rambling coming to a halt when he realised that I’d started to cry.

“…oh yes, of course. Well – this would be a bit of a shock I guess wouldn’t it?”

I swear I saw him throw a glance to the door when he realised I was starting to lose it. Like he’d come to the realisation that if he didn’t get me out of there soon he’d be in danger of missing his 10am tee off down at Kooringal Golf Club.

As I walked out of his door and began to trudge down the corridor with water silently dribbling down my face I heard him call out after me. I turned – assuming he’d follow with…

“Nick – turns out I fucked up and was reading someone else’s results. You’ve actually got more lead in the pencil than your average HB. Congratulations you virile bastard!”

Instead he just smiled back at me and whispered “Go Bombers”, coupled with a half hearted thumbs up.

This was back in April, so considering the season the Bombers had – he can go fuck himself.

Attempt Number 02

My new GP laughed when I told her that I drove the first sample to the collection point on a 40 degree day… on the passenger seat of my car.

She suggested that I’d potentially “scrambled” my boys. She continued to giggle as I tried to defend my leaving them in the sun as my attempt to “keep them warm”.

So off it was to do attempt number two in the hope that the first crack was just an unfortunate case of scrambling. This time I decided maybe it was better to do it in a clinic rather than at home after all.

My wife kindly offered to drive. Turns out the jerk station (my term – not theirs) was close to a place where she could get her eyebrows done – she’s never not multitasking.

Once inside, the nurse showed me to my room and pointed out the features with the cool demeanour of a real estate agent that clearly has other interested buyers. I got a tour of the bathroom (for washing up pre and post), the DVD player and stack of porn DVDs and the chest of drawers full of old porn mags.

She also pointed out the red leather couch (oooooo sexy) and a pile of “couch protectors” that one puts down to avoid sitting in previous tenants crusty old misfires. It was at this point I finally understood the meaning of the “half sample”.

The place was also covered in signs pleading with people not to steal the magazines or DVDs. I guess the problem got so bad they had to stop stocking the 4K BluRays – which is a bloody shame cause I would’ve appreciated the crisp 4K resolution.

Again I was under the “cock” clock – although this round Jack Bauer had his time cut to 15min. The time pressure merely adding to the promise of an exciting climax (sorry – couldn’t help myself).

With the 2nd load (sorry) in the can, I marched outside with my head hung in shame. My wife told me I looked like I was running from the scene of a crime. The fact that she was parked in the middle of the street with the engine still running probably didn’t help.

“Why would I feel like less of a man?” I responded.

The GP pauses for a bit. She’s doing her best counsellor impression after telling me again that my second results hadn’t been great. An improvement but a mild one at best.

“It’s just that a lot of men do when they find out they’re possibly infertile”.

I sit on this for a bit as she smiles back at me. Oddly, that was the last place my brain ventured. My initial reaction had been one of anger – my middle class white privilege rearing its ugly entitled head.

“I think I’m more pissed off that I’m a young, active, healthy guy and yet Barnaby Joyce can manage to have a kid but I can’t.”

You can’t argue with that logic.

It’s not the response she was expecting so she quickly moves on from the topic, sensing that the masculinity thing had been an itty bitty sore spot. Clearly had, considering it’s stuck with me.

What has the ability to produce sperm got to do with being a man? What even is being a man these days? Or those days? (easy Nick – that’s a deep dive).

It’s funny that since this journey has started and having chosen to speak to people about it, rather than remaining quiet, I’ve discovered a lot of men, friends and family included, have faced a similar issue but felt uncomfortable sharing it. I get that it’s personal and I understand that people deal with it in different ways but what makes it hard is there’s no collective discussion around it. No information out in the world unless you look really really hard and unfortunately – male infertility is more wide spread than you would think and it’s on the rise.

I also think because we’re so uninformed – selfishly men assume it’s going to be the woman where the problem lies. I certainly did – and I felt ashamed when I found out it was me and not my wife. Not because it was me but because I’d made that completely tone deaf uninformed assumption. Luckily for me I married an incredible woman that calls me on that kind of bullshit.

The writing was well and truly on the wall. If we wanted to have a baby, we couldn’t do it alone. We were going to have to “open the marriage” to a paid professional, a petri dish and a fuck tonne of ‘thoughts and prayers’. It was like being challenged to spring back from a career ending supplements saga… involving just as many drugs.

(To be continued…)

are you gonna finish that?

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**Humour me whilst I bend the time/space continuum and jump back to a couple of weeks ago. It’s well worth the journey, I promise.**

According to Psychology Today, there are seven research based indicators to determine if you are really “in love”. They are:

Feeling addicted to them
Needing them to be liked by friends and family
You miss them when you’re apart
Your sense of self has improved
Celebrating their triumph’s (despite your own failings)
It being mutual
You get jealous – but not suspicious

I’m certain that points 1 through 4 could apply to some black bean brownies I made a few weeks back – seriously, I could not quit them and I reckon if you asked the brownies, the appreciation was mutual. 80% of your recommended daily fibre intake might not be what YOU look for in a dessert – but trust me – they were GOOOOD. So moist. Some might say too moist. I say NO SUCH THING!

Psychology Today, I propose an 8th point to the above list; fear. Fear of losing them, fear of them leaving you, fear of them eating the last brownie etc etc.

I knew I was in love when I had someone to project all of my anxieties onto. All of them. All of a sudden I was far less concerned with myself as I had someone else to worry about – it was like a poorly thought out spin class – exhausting but refreshing (and initially leaves you a touch saddle sore).

When my husband went overseas for work a few weeks before we were due to start our first IVF cycle I “joked” that I should get him to sign his sperm over to me… in the event that… he…well… you know. I mean what if he caught some ghastly affliction off a dutch backpacker in Bratislava and sullied his load? Or died. What if he died and took his load with him, sullied or otherwise…which would be cleaner for everyone involved.

Of course, I didn’t need to worry – because air travel is safer than driving down the Hume Highway and it’s the Swedes you have to watch out for apparently. It’s not just their music that’s catchy.

But you can imagine my joy when after he arrived back, predictably alive and we turned up to our mandatory counselling session expecting to confront the challenges of infertility and the IVF process, only to be handed a form asking us if the other could have our eggs and/or sperm should one of us die.

THIS! YES! Here was I, naively thinking we’d need to unpack our ability to deal with disappointment, financial pressures or the trauma of not getting what we want. Nope, instead suggesting that ONE OF US MIGHT DIE came as an excellent distraction to all the tiresome, textbook anxiety and frustration you might usually associate with the process. Well played shrewd therapist lady, well played.

I signed that form faster than an injury waiver at a free yoga class. What’s mine is yours. None of this til death do us part nonsense. Now, in the event of my death – he is COMPLETELY obliged to find a surrogate, and raise my doppelgänger (I’m convinced I have dominate genes – they’ll match my personality). Nobody said shit about that on any of the forums I visited. They’re all too busy bemoaning the needles and the cost of healthcare in Ohio. There’s a lot of barren women in Ohio with access to the internet it seems.

Of course, the counsellor and her box of tissues were there in the event we disagreed. No argument from us, not even when she asked if our leftovers could be given to science. HELL YES. It’s science that has made this conversation possible! Poor old science is on the sidelines, salivating while you get half way through a brownie and declare “it’s too rich for me” and then dump it in the bin before it’s had a chance to say “are you going to finish that?” Science can have whatever it needs. It can take whatever is left over after my husband single handedly raises multiple mini me’s in circumstances befitting an OCTO-DAD.

It’s all hypothetical of course. Except now I have it in writing, in a legally binding contract.

In the spirit of wetting palates, here’s the link to those crack like vegan brownies that have made me impossible to leave (created by the genius that is My Goodness Kitchen). https://mygoodnesskitchen.com/tahini-caramel-black-bean-brownies/

huevos rancheros.

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I parked in a fifteen minute zone.

Parking in a fifteen minute zone is tempting fate. STRAIGHT UP. But the whole premise of parking in a fifteen minute zone is a delicious indicator of how I seem to have approached the journey of IVF.

I’m fitting it in.

Twas the day before my first egg harvesting cycle was to begin, I had fifteen minutes to pick up my drugs and what better time to start tempting fate with a poorly thought out parking decision. But lets be clear – no one ever CHOOSES to park in a fifteen minute zone, even if you know you’re only going to be 5 mins, if option is there, if it’s a choice between 15 mins or longer, you pick longer. I pick longer. I’m not an animal.

And since my husband and I were in the thick of a bed bug infestation (a present he bought back following a European work trip; honestly, chlamydia would’ve been easier to treat) the plan was to get in and out, returning home triumphantly with my drugs and a newly acquired domestic steamer from Bunnings in tow – and not be quizzed about smelling like sausage, despite him recent embarking on an aip (auto immune protocol) elimination diet and me coming along in solidarity.

As you can see, we’ve got A LOT going on.

So I stumbled into the clinic reception looking disheveled (irrigation is dirty work) and indicative of struggling to look after myself let alone a small tiny human and I wait. I give the chemist my IVF number – which I’ve now memorised (and since forgotten) and she hands me a buzzer. A buzzer. Like the kind of buzzer you get when you order a chicken burrito in a food court. And I think, fuck me – I could really go a burrito right now. These drugs better come with a fucking burrito.

I also think about getting a parking ticket and if the single bed bug I found earlier burrowing into a cane washing basket was the culprit or just one of many sharks of the sheets I’ll need to cull.

The fertility nurse never expected to be asked about the consequences of having bed bugs and commencing IVF. I’ve googled some whacky shit in my time, but “bed bugs and IVF” takes the cake. And surprisingly, doesn’t end in cancer.

The drugs appear. In a sassy blue freezer bag with printed eggs on the front. They’re huge. Easter egg like and emu sized. They are, quite frankly, intimidating.

“I assume these aren’t to scale?” I ask the chemist.

She’s not having it. I hand over my buzzer – and know better than to ask about the burrito.

I head home, back to ground zero in an ironic mission to obliterate bed bug eggs and cultivate my own.

*I didn’t get a parking ticket. I AM INVINCIBLE.

Here’s an “Easter Egg” for you, cos if you’re anything like me, now you have a hankering for Mexican Eggs: http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/eggs-recipes/mexican-breakfast/