… pain. Not the agonising two-week wait.
Since my last post at the beginning of the week, I took a turn for the worst, and in all honesty, couldn’t have cared less if I was pregnant or not. When I had that thought I tried to turn it around, but really, ugh. All I could think was, “I want to feel normal again”. And I guess one of the implications of that was that “normal” was not “pregnant”.
So if anyone out there in the great big interweb googles “extreme crippling pain following ivf egg collection”, here is my week in a nutshell:
- Intense, stabbing pain in my right ovary – this may be because I had more eggs taken from the right ovary, but when I called the clinic, they could not confirm as my records were “elsewhere”.
- Intense, stabbing crampy pain in my uterus.
- Intense pain in my bowel every time it contracted (releasing nothing mind you), which radiated throughout my lower abdominal area. I’ve spent a lot of time in the foetal position, or with my cheek against the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. There’s something very comforting about those cool bathroom tiles.
- Really sore boobs.
- General miserableness and feeling-sorry-for-myselfness.
I called the clinic almost every day, explaining my symptoms and asking if anyone else had experienced this. They said it was ok for me to take paracetamol (which I hadn’t been taking), so that kind of dealt with the cramps, and said sometimes girls had complained of constipation, and kept on telling me to take Metamucil and it would be fine.
I was in so much pain on Wednesday night I knew I wasn’t going to make it into work the next day. By Friday, the cramping in my uterus had all but stopped but I was still as bunged up as – can’t think of an appropriate simile – what’s something really, really bunged up? More Metamucil and other fibre supplements. More doubling over in pain every time my bowel contracted (always with no perceivable result). I could only think – is this what child birth is like? Getting in some super-early practice if it is.
It got even more gross, but I will spare you the details, that’s just between me and the bathroom floor. By Saturday I thought surely those fibre supplements will have got to work. But no. They hadn’t. I was really thinking I was going to have to go to hospital and get it sucked out of me. Really, all that waste matter cannot be good for anyone, let alone someone with a tiny baby bud growing in the next compartment.
So I went to the closest GP – on the corner of my street and Bondi Road, the one that I didn’t have to walk too far to (I had tried to go to my GP yesterday in the city but she wasn’t in and all the other doctors at that surgery were fully booked. Wouldn’t want to be dying). He was very lovely and serious in a Russian way (lots of Russians in Bondi), pressed my belly and pronounced that he didn’t think it was serious and I wasn’t going to die (my interpretation). He just prescribed a more heavy duty treatment, and so here I sit, waiting for it to work its magic.
I can’t tell you how much better I felt after seeing him. I felt so miserable, and really thought there was something dreadfully wrong. And as he was talking, he said, “and because you might be pregnant” but then he corrected himself and said “well you probably are pregnant”, which I thought was a really nice thing. He obviously understands the longing and hope and effort and money (he did mention the money) involved that he didn’t want to just say, “oh you might be” . That’s how it seemed to me anyway.
Weakened state eats away at willpower
In my physically and emotionally weakened state, I have had all types of cravings for bad things. Donuts. Icecream (gave in to that one). Pies. Pizza, chocolate (gave in to that too). And bags.
Yesterday on my slow and agonising walk from the office to the train station, I seriously had the urge to buy a shit-hot new bag – even though I was sick as a dog. What’s that about? I looked in Mimco – sales. Managed to walk out empty handed. I sidled past Burberry. Thought better of it – phew. I just knew the pleasure would be very short lived. So I’ve bought myself Vogue and Grazia as consolation. They’re not though. They are designed to make you lust for crazily beautiful, insanely overpriced stuff.
And have me thinking I’d really like a pair of pink skinny leg pants this summer. And some in electric blue too. But I’ll probably be wearing mu-mus instead. I’ll just have to channel my thwarted fashion cravings into shoes. Or baby stuff.
Now that I’m feeling better, or will be any time now… I can go back to positive baby thoughts. I have had more than a few moments this week when I’ve thought, oh my God, I don’t really want this. What have I done? But I’m sure it’s the misery talking and the fear that comes around any sort of life change. Change is a good thing.
Hmm, I think this post needs to be filed under the “too much information” category, for which I apologise, but really, you’re reading because you want to know right?