19/11/12 I've posted an update at the end of the thread if anyone is interested.
“The only thing more painful than having a baby, is not being able to have a baby”, reads the poster on the wall in the waiting room. I think to myself that surely it’s not the only thing; I mean putting your foot on a spike would be pretty painful. And I’m pretty certain the Japanese came up with some pretty excruciating torture methods during the Second World War. But, having never put my foot on a spike or indeed been tortured by Japanese ‘scientists’, and considering it’s quite unlikely I’ll ever give birth, I guess I’ll have to take their word for it.
But I’m losing focus here.
The reason I’m in the hospital today is the culmination of two months treatment my wife and I have been undergoing, at the end of a three year period of trying to conceive our first child.
We’d been together for about eight years when we first decided to try for a baby. Both in our mid-twenties, in one year we’d been married, bought our first home, got a couple of cats from the rescue centre, bought a plasma screen TV and were looking forward to starting our family.
At first, as is the same with all couples when starting out, the ability to attempt procreation as frequently as possible without contraception was exciting, to say the least. Now was our time to continue in the footsteps of billions of Homo Sapiens before us to extend our bloodline, in the most carnal fashion possible.
The first couple of months’ negative results were disappointing, but not totally unsurprising. Perhaps years of contraceptive use had put my wife’s er, system, out of sync, so we continued on having fun when we could and waiting for the end of the month to come round again.
After a number of months had passed and our un-official endorsement of Clearblue products was being to take serious financial strain, we began to suspect that something wasn’t quite going as we planned. Of course I knew that it wasn’t anything wrong with me; my little swimmers could fertilise an elephant, if I were that way inclined. So we made our first appointment with our GP to begin the investigation into what was going on.
First things first, it was necessary to make sure that our respective produce was up to scratch. Being handed my first pot provoked an unusual feeling. The expression in the doctors eyes said “Look, we both know what you’re going to be doing with this, please don’t make me have to explain”.
“You need to bring your sample to the hospital’s pathology department within an hour of production.” Ugh. I feel like a sex worker.
Now, I have to admit that, having had years of practice in the field of production, I was fairly confident in my ability to get the deed done. Unfortunately I couldn’t bring myself to getting the morning off work, suspecting that my reason “To have a ****”, possibly wouldn’t go down too well with the admin department. So there I was dressed for work (well, partially), sat at my desk looking for some suitable filth on the internet, so I can get it done, get to the hospital (within an hour of production) and to work twenty miles away before 9.00.
My wife goes off to work and my time to shine is here. I am alone in the house. I am 13 years old. The internet is the Kays Catalogue lingerie section. I can do this. Except I can’t. My brain is thinking about anything and everything you wouldn’t want to think about in this situation. Why are the cats meowing? Wonder what to have for lunch today? This web page is loading slowly. There’s roadworks on the bypass to the hospital, damn, better check the traffic report. Do I need to put some petrol in the car?
I muster all my concentration and throw myself into the task in hand. Eventually, it’s done. I feel ashamed and dirty; I used to enjoy this so much. But now is not the time for reflection, now is the time to drive!
A journey across town has never taken so long. It seems that everyone in the surrounding area has decided to take this route to work this morning. Or perhaps there are a couple of hundred men all in the same situation as me, hurriedly trying to get to the hospital to make a deposit. Trudging along in nose to tail traffic, getting increasingly more frustrated with the other onanists on the road, the one thing on my mind is my sample. The problem is the longer it stays lower than body temperature, the more at risk the sample is. I’ve wrapped it up in my work puffer jacket, that’ll keep it warm.
Finally I make it to the hospital car park. This is a relatively new hospital, so has a car park about a quarter the size of what is really required. Driving round for what feels like an eternity, I manage to find a space. About as far away from the hospital entrance as it’s possible to be while still remaining in hospital grounds. It’ll have to do. I walk as fast as I can to the entrance, looking at my watch to see it’s ****+ 45 minutes. Time to find the pathology department. Frantically striding through the hospital I know I’m against the clock.
I make it to the counter with five minutes to spare and ring the buzzer. The pathologist takes my pot off me, confirms my details and asks,
“Has this been produced within the last hour?”
Red faced, sweaty, hair a mess, I look like a sex offender.
“Yes,” I reply in a nervous attempt at humour, “just about!” She didn’t find it funny. I know it wasn’t funny. She curls the corner of her mouth in a half-smile out of sympathy, I turn on my heels and leave as fast as I can, my face burning in embarrassment.
My results come back a week later showing normal activity, so I’m asked to do another test. Knowing what to expect this time I think it’ll be slightly easier, but, no, it’s a repeat of the same fiasco all over again. My second test results came back ok too.
At the same time as my tests, my wife was undergoing her own. Unfortunately the tests for a woman tend to be far more intrusive and in some cases down-right painful. Only so much can be done by testing blood; she described the process of being injected with dye to allow the ultrasonic scanner to assess her internals as being one of the most painful things she has experienced. She cried during the procedure. I was told to wait outside.
I had my own scans too. Having a 50 year old male consultant smear lubricant on your testicles, before delicately holding them to scan with an ultrasound is quite the experience. Admittedly one I wouldn’t necessarily want to repeat again, but having not had a gay experimental period in my youth at least it finally cemented my sexuality for me.
Time went on. All of our tests came back as positive or normal; nothing could explain why we just couldn’t conceive. We were referred to a consultant, the head of the fertility department at our NHS hospital. He explained to us that our infertility was unexplained. Great, that answers a few questions.
He prescribed my wife a drug called Clomid, designed to increase the chances of conception through the wonders of science. At first two months, then another, and eventually six months later we were no further forward.
Our consultant also worked for BMI The Priory Hospital in Birmingham. The NHS has a limited number of fertility contracts it can send through to be done privately, and luckily for us and thanks to our consultant, he put us through to BMI for fertility treatment.
I had to provide yet another sample. This was becoming old hat for me, and my expertise was becoming somewhat honed. Only this time, I had to do it on site. I was told that I would be able to do it in a private room; just leave it in the special cupboard in there and you can leave when you’re finished.
I entered the private room, clutching my latest pot, not knowing what to expect to find. It wasn’t good. A small room, about the same size as a pub disabled toilet, with a solitary white fluorescent light flickering above a sink and toilet in the corner. In another corner there’s a low table, atop that a few issues of Razzle and Fiesta. They look old and used; pages curled over and dirty, asset tags marked “Fertility Dept.”, the only thing I can think of is how many men must have flicked through those mags, a deeply off-putting thought. Next to the table is a chair. The chair, that has seen more action than the sofas at Spearmint Rhino. This time my wife was with me, and thank goodness she was. I couldn’t have done it without her.
With both of our latest test results, the BMI fertility department determine that the most likely chance of success would come through a treatment of IVF. This is the process where sperm and eggs are collected, left to their own devices in an incubator where they would hopefully form an embryo which could then be transferred back to the safe confines of the womb. Unlike ICSI, where the sperm is injected into the egg in-vitro, the classic microscope image of a needle piercing an ovum to inject sperm.
We were eligible for two treatment cycles on the NHS cycle, each having around a 30% chance of success.
The treatment began with my wife having to prepare a number of eggs for collection. She had to take one injection every day for about twelve, which would stimulate follicle growth on the ovaries to produce eggs. At the same time she would be taking another daily injection which would prevent her body from releasing the eggs as part of a normal cycle. These twelve days were extremely unpleasant for her. Having to inject herself twice daily in the abdomen, all the while her ovaries expanding as dozens of follicles enlarged on them, she was in a constant state of discomfort and eventual pain towards the end.
During the twelve days we were back to Birmingham every couple of days to allow the team to scan and assess the progress of the follicle development. When it got to the critical stage of development she would have to take one more injection which would stop everything, leaving her ready for egg collection.
The egg collection is a surgical procedure which is done under general anaesthetic; understandably my wife was extremely apprehensive about the whole process.
The day of the egg collection came, and we set off up the motorway at 6.00AM. Normally I’d enjoy a drive at this time in the morning; the roads are clear, the chance of encountering onanists is minimal, the only other road-users mean business. But that drive was horrible. Hardly a word said between us besides the odd comment intended to provoke chit-chat, but we both knew what each other were thinking.
She was admitted to the hospital at 7.00AM and we were shown to her room. Having had plenty of experience of NHS hospitals, the accommodation at The Priory was a pleasant surprise. More like a hotel than a hospital, the private room would be our base for most of the day. The porter let us in, showed us how to work the telly, and went off to inform the nursing staff we were “checking in”. I thought maybe I should have tipped him. A member of catering even comes along to take my wife’s breakfast order.
As my wife settled in, putting on her hospital gown, robe and slippers, I began the important procedure I must always do when getting into a hotel room: adjusting the TV brightness and contrast. I don’t know what it is with most people when they get hold of a new TV, but why must they mangle the settings to such a degree as to leave the poor people on the screen unrecognisable as humans? The brightness is up so high anything that used to be black is now grey. The contrast ramped up so much everyone looks like David Bowie. And in what universe is that colour setting in any way representative of human skin tone? I suppose that a proportion of the TV’s former users might have been in hospital for eye surgery, so perhaps that would explain things. My wife tells me to stop fiddling with the bloody telly.
Eventually the anaesthetist comes to collect my wife to get her ready for the op. I’m left in the room with David Dickinson for company, to begin my wait for her return.
An hour and half later, she is wheeled back in to the room. She looks groggy, pale and tired. I kiss her on the forehead and pour a glass of water; at this point she hasn’t had a drink for twelve hours. Over the next couple of hours she gradually begins to stir back to life, helped along with water, tea, a very nice looking ham sandwich and Haribo Tangfastic. We’re told that eleven eggs have been collected, not a bad result. I’m led off to the “private room” once again, so that my sperm can be combined with her eggs.
The next few days were difficult for her as her body recovered from the effects of the anaesthetic and the damage done by the invasive surgery. She was advised to have rest, drink plenty of water, potter about, and no strenuous activity. This is fine with me, I’m good at lifting and carrying stuff, and I even make an effort to push the hoover around a bit. And at least I can put some effort into feeling like I’m doing something in this process, my part of which up until now has just been to get intimate with various plastic pots.
She had to take daily a progesterone tablet in order to prepare her body for the embryo transfer, which had the unfortunate side-effect of completely screwing up her mood. She was barely able to make it through the day without crying at least once, and it was becoming more and more apparent that the emotional strain on both of us was seriously beginning to take its toll.
Three days after the egg collection and we return to Birmingham for the embryo transfer. This is a far less invasive and complicated procedure than the egg collection, and I’m even allowed in the same room as it takes place. Fantastic, I think, I might even be present at the conception of my child. We had been told that of the eleven eggs collected, only three embryos had formed. Because the embryos weren’t dividing quickly enough they had be transferred sooner than ideal, which meant we could transfer two back to improve the chances of conception.
The consultant doesn’t appear too positive during the procedure. Before the transfer has started he’s thinking aloud about what might have gone wrong this time and how to change things next time when this one comes up negative. “IF it comes up negative” the sister corrects him abruptly. But the damage is down. My wife and I already get the feeling that this isn’t going to end well, and as we leave the hospital we barely say a word to one another.
And so began the two-week-wait. This was two weeks ago. Today we returned to the hospital for our pregnancy test. We’d been told not to do a test at home. The time spent in the waiting room is excruciating. We are about to receive the news whether the last two months of treatment has been worth it or not. Are we going to hear those words that we’ve both been longing to hear for three years?
Negative.
Before we had even sat down the nurse came out with it. To be honest I could tell from the forced smile as she called us in from the waiting room what the news was going to be. We both pretended to smile and joke about how we knew what was coming, but to actually be told the result broke my heart.
Words cannot even begin to describe how I feel now. Despondent? Disappointed? Regretful? Saddened? Frustrated? Angry? All I know is that it hurts like hell. I can’t comfort my wife; I don’t have the soul left to do it. We hug and kiss, say we love each other, but it doesn’t help. We are in pain and there is nothing that can cure it.
Perhaps I should stand on a spike to take my mind off it.
“The only thing more painful than having a baby, is not being able to have a baby”, reads the poster on the wall in the waiting room. I think to myself that surely it’s not the only thing; I mean putting your foot on a spike would be pretty painful. And I’m pretty certain the Japanese came up with some pretty excruciating torture methods during the Second World War. But, having never put my foot on a spike or indeed been tortured by Japanese ‘scientists’, and considering it’s quite unlikely I’ll ever give birth, I guess I’ll have to take their word for it.
But I’m losing focus here.
The reason I’m in the hospital today is the culmination of two months treatment my wife and I have been undergoing, at the end of a three year period of trying to conceive our first child.
We’d been together for about eight years when we first decided to try for a baby. Both in our mid-twenties, in one year we’d been married, bought our first home, got a couple of cats from the rescue centre, bought a plasma screen TV and were looking forward to starting our family.
At first, as is the same with all couples when starting out, the ability to attempt procreation as frequently as possible without contraception was exciting, to say the least. Now was our time to continue in the footsteps of billions of Homo Sapiens before us to extend our bloodline, in the most carnal fashion possible.
The first couple of months’ negative results were disappointing, but not totally unsurprising. Perhaps years of contraceptive use had put my wife’s er, system, out of sync, so we continued on having fun when we could and waiting for the end of the month to come round again.
After a number of months had passed and our un-official endorsement of Clearblue products was being to take serious financial strain, we began to suspect that something wasn’t quite going as we planned. Of course I knew that it wasn’t anything wrong with me; my little swimmers could fertilise an elephant, if I were that way inclined. So we made our first appointment with our GP to begin the investigation into what was going on.
First things first, it was necessary to make sure that our respective produce was up to scratch. Being handed my first pot provoked an unusual feeling. The expression in the doctors eyes said “Look, we both know what you’re going to be doing with this, please don’t make me have to explain”.
“You need to bring your sample to the hospital’s pathology department within an hour of production.” Ugh. I feel like a sex worker.
Now, I have to admit that, having had years of practice in the field of production, I was fairly confident in my ability to get the deed done. Unfortunately I couldn’t bring myself to getting the morning off work, suspecting that my reason “To have a ****”, possibly wouldn’t go down too well with the admin department. So there I was dressed for work (well, partially), sat at my desk looking for some suitable filth on the internet, so I can get it done, get to the hospital (within an hour of production) and to work twenty miles away before 9.00.
My wife goes off to work and my time to shine is here. I am alone in the house. I am 13 years old. The internet is the Kays Catalogue lingerie section. I can do this. Except I can’t. My brain is thinking about anything and everything you wouldn’t want to think about in this situation. Why are the cats meowing? Wonder what to have for lunch today? This web page is loading slowly. There’s roadworks on the bypass to the hospital, damn, better check the traffic report. Do I need to put some petrol in the car?
I muster all my concentration and throw myself into the task in hand. Eventually, it’s done. I feel ashamed and dirty; I used to enjoy this so much. But now is not the time for reflection, now is the time to drive!
A journey across town has never taken so long. It seems that everyone in the surrounding area has decided to take this route to work this morning. Or perhaps there are a couple of hundred men all in the same situation as me, hurriedly trying to get to the hospital to make a deposit. Trudging along in nose to tail traffic, getting increasingly more frustrated with the other onanists on the road, the one thing on my mind is my sample. The problem is the longer it stays lower than body temperature, the more at risk the sample is. I’ve wrapped it up in my work puffer jacket, that’ll keep it warm.
Finally I make it to the hospital car park. This is a relatively new hospital, so has a car park about a quarter the size of what is really required. Driving round for what feels like an eternity, I manage to find a space. About as far away from the hospital entrance as it’s possible to be while still remaining in hospital grounds. It’ll have to do. I walk as fast as I can to the entrance, looking at my watch to see it’s ****+ 45 minutes. Time to find the pathology department. Frantically striding through the hospital I know I’m against the clock.
I make it to the counter with five minutes to spare and ring the buzzer. The pathologist takes my pot off me, confirms my details and asks,
“Has this been produced within the last hour?”
Red faced, sweaty, hair a mess, I look like a sex offender.
“Yes,” I reply in a nervous attempt at humour, “just about!” She didn’t find it funny. I know it wasn’t funny. She curls the corner of her mouth in a half-smile out of sympathy, I turn on my heels and leave as fast as I can, my face burning in embarrassment.
My results come back a week later showing normal activity, so I’m asked to do another test. Knowing what to expect this time I think it’ll be slightly easier, but, no, it’s a repeat of the same fiasco all over again. My second test results came back ok too.
At the same time as my tests, my wife was undergoing her own. Unfortunately the tests for a woman tend to be far more intrusive and in some cases down-right painful. Only so much can be done by testing blood; she described the process of being injected with dye to allow the ultrasonic scanner to assess her internals as being one of the most painful things she has experienced. She cried during the procedure. I was told to wait outside.
I had my own scans too. Having a 50 year old male consultant smear lubricant on your testicles, before delicately holding them to scan with an ultrasound is quite the experience. Admittedly one I wouldn’t necessarily want to repeat again, but having not had a gay experimental period in my youth at least it finally cemented my sexuality for me.
Time went on. All of our tests came back as positive or normal; nothing could explain why we just couldn’t conceive. We were referred to a consultant, the head of the fertility department at our NHS hospital. He explained to us that our infertility was unexplained. Great, that answers a few questions.
He prescribed my wife a drug called Clomid, designed to increase the chances of conception through the wonders of science. At first two months, then another, and eventually six months later we were no further forward.
Our consultant also worked for BMI The Priory Hospital in Birmingham. The NHS has a limited number of fertility contracts it can send through to be done privately, and luckily for us and thanks to our consultant, he put us through to BMI for fertility treatment.
I had to provide yet another sample. This was becoming old hat for me, and my expertise was becoming somewhat honed. Only this time, I had to do it on site. I was told that I would be able to do it in a private room; just leave it in the special cupboard in there and you can leave when you’re finished.
I entered the private room, clutching my latest pot, not knowing what to expect to find. It wasn’t good. A small room, about the same size as a pub disabled toilet, with a solitary white fluorescent light flickering above a sink and toilet in the corner. In another corner there’s a low table, atop that a few issues of Razzle and Fiesta. They look old and used; pages curled over and dirty, asset tags marked “Fertility Dept.”, the only thing I can think of is how many men must have flicked through those mags, a deeply off-putting thought. Next to the table is a chair. The chair, that has seen more action than the sofas at Spearmint Rhino. This time my wife was with me, and thank goodness she was. I couldn’t have done it without her.
With both of our latest test results, the BMI fertility department determine that the most likely chance of success would come through a treatment of IVF. This is the process where sperm and eggs are collected, left to their own devices in an incubator where they would hopefully form an embryo which could then be transferred back to the safe confines of the womb. Unlike ICSI, where the sperm is injected into the egg in-vitro, the classic microscope image of a needle piercing an ovum to inject sperm.
We were eligible for two treatment cycles on the NHS cycle, each having around a 30% chance of success.
The treatment began with my wife having to prepare a number of eggs for collection. She had to take one injection every day for about twelve, which would stimulate follicle growth on the ovaries to produce eggs. At the same time she would be taking another daily injection which would prevent her body from releasing the eggs as part of a normal cycle. These twelve days were extremely unpleasant for her. Having to inject herself twice daily in the abdomen, all the while her ovaries expanding as dozens of follicles enlarged on them, she was in a constant state of discomfort and eventual pain towards the end.
During the twelve days we were back to Birmingham every couple of days to allow the team to scan and assess the progress of the follicle development. When it got to the critical stage of development she would have to take one more injection which would stop everything, leaving her ready for egg collection.
The egg collection is a surgical procedure which is done under general anaesthetic; understandably my wife was extremely apprehensive about the whole process.
The day of the egg collection came, and we set off up the motorway at 6.00AM. Normally I’d enjoy a drive at this time in the morning; the roads are clear, the chance of encountering onanists is minimal, the only other road-users mean business. But that drive was horrible. Hardly a word said between us besides the odd comment intended to provoke chit-chat, but we both knew what each other were thinking.
She was admitted to the hospital at 7.00AM and we were shown to her room. Having had plenty of experience of NHS hospitals, the accommodation at The Priory was a pleasant surprise. More like a hotel than a hospital, the private room would be our base for most of the day. The porter let us in, showed us how to work the telly, and went off to inform the nursing staff we were “checking in”. I thought maybe I should have tipped him. A member of catering even comes along to take my wife’s breakfast order.
As my wife settled in, putting on her hospital gown, robe and slippers, I began the important procedure I must always do when getting into a hotel room: adjusting the TV brightness and contrast. I don’t know what it is with most people when they get hold of a new TV, but why must they mangle the settings to such a degree as to leave the poor people on the screen unrecognisable as humans? The brightness is up so high anything that used to be black is now grey. The contrast ramped up so much everyone looks like David Bowie. And in what universe is that colour setting in any way representative of human skin tone? I suppose that a proportion of the TV’s former users might have been in hospital for eye surgery, so perhaps that would explain things. My wife tells me to stop fiddling with the bloody telly.
Eventually the anaesthetist comes to collect my wife to get her ready for the op. I’m left in the room with David Dickinson for company, to begin my wait for her return.
An hour and half later, she is wheeled back in to the room. She looks groggy, pale and tired. I kiss her on the forehead and pour a glass of water; at this point she hasn’t had a drink for twelve hours. Over the next couple of hours she gradually begins to stir back to life, helped along with water, tea, a very nice looking ham sandwich and Haribo Tangfastic. We’re told that eleven eggs have been collected, not a bad result. I’m led off to the “private room” once again, so that my sperm can be combined with her eggs.
The next few days were difficult for her as her body recovered from the effects of the anaesthetic and the damage done by the invasive surgery. She was advised to have rest, drink plenty of water, potter about, and no strenuous activity. This is fine with me, I’m good at lifting and carrying stuff, and I even make an effort to push the hoover around a bit. And at least I can put some effort into feeling like I’m doing something in this process, my part of which up until now has just been to get intimate with various plastic pots.
She had to take daily a progesterone tablet in order to prepare her body for the embryo transfer, which had the unfortunate side-effect of completely screwing up her mood. She was barely able to make it through the day without crying at least once, and it was becoming more and more apparent that the emotional strain on both of us was seriously beginning to take its toll.
Three days after the egg collection and we return to Birmingham for the embryo transfer. This is a far less invasive and complicated procedure than the egg collection, and I’m even allowed in the same room as it takes place. Fantastic, I think, I might even be present at the conception of my child. We had been told that of the eleven eggs collected, only three embryos had formed. Because the embryos weren’t dividing quickly enough they had be transferred sooner than ideal, which meant we could transfer two back to improve the chances of conception.
The consultant doesn’t appear too positive during the procedure. Before the transfer has started he’s thinking aloud about what might have gone wrong this time and how to change things next time when this one comes up negative. “IF it comes up negative” the sister corrects him abruptly. But the damage is down. My wife and I already get the feeling that this isn’t going to end well, and as we leave the hospital we barely say a word to one another.
And so began the two-week-wait. This was two weeks ago. Today we returned to the hospital for our pregnancy test. We’d been told not to do a test at home. The time spent in the waiting room is excruciating. We are about to receive the news whether the last two months of treatment has been worth it or not. Are we going to hear those words that we’ve both been longing to hear for three years?
Negative.
Before we had even sat down the nurse came out with it. To be honest I could tell from the forced smile as she called us in from the waiting room what the news was going to be. We both pretended to smile and joke about how we knew what was coming, but to actually be told the result broke my heart.
Words cannot even begin to describe how I feel now. Despondent? Disappointed? Regretful? Saddened? Frustrated? Angry? All I know is that it hurts like hell. I can’t comfort my wife; I don’t have the soul left to do it. We hug and kiss, say we love each other, but it doesn’t help. We are in pain and there is nothing that can cure it.
Perhaps I should stand on a spike to take my mind off it.
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