To say I was over the moon is an understatement. I had such a good feeling about this cycle and what’s more, the transfer date was 7 January, the day after my birthday. I knew that somewhere in the world it would still be 6 January when the embryo went in. It would be the best birthday present ever.
I started taking the Crinone, and over the next few days we discussed whether to implant one or two embryos. For both the first and second cycles Roshan had used his medical judgement and authority and consented to transferring two embryos. I’d assumed, given we had two left in the freezer, that we would put them both in. However, Roshan said that every cycle is different and he must assess each cycle as ‘case by case’. He was confident this round was going to be successful and was concerned about the impact that a multiple pregnancy could have on my health. A single baby poses fewer complications and less stress on the mother, so it was his opinion that we use only one. Buoyed by his confidence, I was happy to agree to just the one.
Back when the embryos were frozen, they’d taken a photo and graded each one. Now, together with the embryologist, Roshan examined the photos and decided which one of the two we’d use. As I recall, it wasn’t perfect – it might have even been a BB – but according to the experts it was the ‘embryo most likely’.
The thaw began on the night of 6 January and when I didn’t get a phone call the next morning I knew we were ‘go’. The transfer was difficult, as expected, with the clamps, the speculum and all the shifting about. I was prepared for it now and it wasn’t nearly as gruelling as the previous two occasions. It still wasn’t a normal procedure, but Roshan had worked out a kind of system to get the job done in less than thirty minutes.
I remember lying there, looking at that damn tropical beach scene, feeling weirdly nervous about getting up in case the embryo hadn’t properly settled in. I was very aware that there was only one in there this time. A single, precious maybe. The rooms were eerily still and silent when I took my little paper bag of drugs and my pregnancy test slip and walked out of the clinic. Everyone was away, taking their well-earned holidays, but to me the atmosphere was heavy with expectation. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath.
Driving through the quiet sun-drenched streets on my way to my Chinese doctor, I felt calm and philosophical. We had discovered major fertility issues and we had dealt with them as best we could, so my chances were better than they’d ever been. At the same time I knew that if it didn’t work this time, then something else was wrong with me, something that we didn’t know about and that we may never identify. If that was the case then there was nothing else left to try. What would be would be.
I thought, I’m in the best possible position to get pregnant and if it doesn’t happen, I’m done. In a strange way, the finality of that realisation took the pressure off.
The dreaded 2WW was very different this time. Mario had moved back to Melbourne in September. He went to work every day and we’d have dinner together every night just like a regular couple. I did some presentations and led a few school tours at the Victorian Institute of Sport, but it was all light, easy stuff.
I’d been doing IVF for seven months now, and I had learned a lot about my body and my mind. I kept up my walking every day and generally I felt relaxed and fresh. Physically, this time I wasn’t in shock from the invasive processes of egg-stimulation and retrieval, like after the two antagonist cycles. This time I stayed away from the IVF websites and forums, too. Previous experience proved that obsessing for hours on the computer didn’t help the outcome in the slightest, and it impacted negatively on my mental state. This time I simply felt a normal level of anticipation and a sense of calm.
The day after the transfer, Roshan rang to check how I was going. He talked about how implantation would happen between twenty-four and seventy-two hours after the procedure so I should be mindful to take it very easy.
Something that had intrigued me when I’d begun researching IVF were the stories about women who could actually feel the moment when the embryo implanted itself in the uterus. The thought must have been floating in the back of my mind when, a couple of days after the transfer, I was walking to the post office box to collect my mail and I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my pelvic area, like an electric shock. It was only a moment, but I thought, ‘Wow, that definitely wasn’t a cramp. That was something else …’
One thing that didn’t change was that I constantly checked the Crinone for the ominous pink tinge that would signal a period was on its way. But even that was less fraught, because I was getting better at containing my anxiety. I knew that sometimes the transfer procedure and even the embryo implanting itself could cause a bit of a colour change. I would take a deep breath and remind myself to not always assume the worst.
For the first time, I made it to the pregnancy test without a bleed or any discolouration of the Crinone. That Friday morning, I felt good but not overly confident. I’d told Mario the blood test wasn’t until Monday; I guess I wanted to deal with the results on my own first.
The earlier you take the test, the sooner you get your results, so I lined up with all the fasting people at 7.40 a.m., waiting for the pathology centre to open at 8.00. I had to smile at the situation: while they were hungry for breakfast, I was hungry for a child. The next few hours crawled by. I did some errands, tried to choke down some food and then took myself to the gym for a gentle exercise session.
I was on the bike when my phone rang. The caller ID said ‘City Fertility’. My heart was pounding. This call was going to change my life forever, one way or another.
In her very friendly voice, the nurse told me that she had the results of my pregnancy test but first she had to confirm my identity. I nearly cried out with frustration as I went through the rigmarole of reciting my name, address and date of birth. At the same time, I was clutching my phone and hurrying out of the noisy gym because I didn’t want to miss a single word she said.
I ended up standing on the footpath, beside a busy highway, hunched over my phone. I was breathing fast, like I’d just run a marathon.
After what seemed like forever, she said, ‘Well, we’ve got some pretty good news for you, Jacqui. Your test is positive.’
I gasped, ‘You are JOKING, aren’t you?’
‘Ah, no, sorry, Jacqui. We’re not allowed to joke about things like that.’
‘ARE YOU FOR REAL?!’ I squeaked.
She was patient. ‘Yes, it’s very real. You are definitely pregnant. All going well, you are due 26 September.’
I could not believe it. Half of my brain was exploding with joy and the other half was still not convinced. I needed confirmation. I needed another blood test but that couldn’t happen until Monday.
The weekend passed in a flash. I was hoping against hope and nursing a small glow of happiness, but I wasn’t going to celebrate until it was a certainty. I didn’t even tell Mario.
Instead, I busied myself preparing a little unveiling for him. I’ve always loved giving presents and among family and friends I have a reputation for orchestrating surprises and special reveals. There’s nothing like that gasp of delight when a person you care about realises they’ve been given something wonderful or that their life is going to change in a good way. It’s intoxicating.
Not since the chemical pregnancy in 2010 had I dared to plan for this moment. I bought some baby dummies and put one of them in a little decorated box along with a note that said ‘Due 26 September’.
On Monday, the second test confirmed the pregnancy hormone was continuing to rise and all was as it should be. The receptionist told me to ring back in a few weeks to confirm that everything was still on track.
It was all so ordinary and yet so utterly incredible!
That night I gave Mario the little box that contained the dummy. He reacted with his usual quiet reserve. It hadn’t sunk in. When I told him it was going to be a Grand Final baby, he perked up a lot. As a huge football fan, this was something he could get his head around.
Over the next few months, I constantly processed everything, every twinge, and all of the many changes my body went through in the early stages of being pregnant. This was something I’d wanted for so long – my whole life, in fact – and now it was a tangible possibility, but so many things could still go wrong. I bought little gift boxes for everyone in the family, tucking a dummy and the September due date inside each, and I kept them in my underwear drawer. The twelve-week scan went by – all good – but still I didn’t tell anyone. I just didn’t want to tempt fate.
And then, when I was sixteen weeks pregnant, we were having dinner with my mother and step-dad and I just blurted it out. Mum burst into tears.
‘Four months? Where are you hiding it!’
My stomach was as flat as ever. I wasn’t showing even a little because all those years of training had kept my muscles rock hard.
The next day I gave Mario’s mum the gift box with the dummy inside, which totally baffled her. She thought it was a silly gift and laughed it off, putting the dummy in her mouth and pretending she was a baby. We had to spell it out. ‘No, it’s us. WE’RE HAVING A BABY!’
For the first three months, I had been horribly sick. Every day I needed to take medically prescribed anti-nausea wafers, which are usually taken by patients who feel nauseous after chemotherapy. Mario and I would be out shopping and I’d need to sit on the kerb near the nature strip, feeling very, very green. I was often so sick I couldn’t even walk.
Bags and bags of salt and vinegar potato chips made me feel better. I ate bucketloads. If there wasn’t a stockpile in the pantry, I would panic. I needed to know I had some ready and waiting; it was the only thing that would make the morning sickness taste in my mouth go away. It really was the strangest thing. Before the pregnancy, I had never indulged in a whole bag, and here I was downing two to three bags a day!
The nausea didn’t really settle, and that sick feeling was there throughout the pregnancy. Funnily enough, I took it all in my stride. Nausea was a sign of pregnancy and I could handle anything as long as I kept this baby. It was an exciting time that pulsed with hope and anticipation, although I was always aware that something could go wrong. This would not be a done deal till I held that little human safe in my arms.
A friend of mine was pregnant at the same time and due to give birth just a few weeks before me. She went into labour on her due date. She rang the hospital and they told her to call back when the contractions were closer together. Twenty-four hours later, she rang to say the contractions had slowed down; they were actually getting further apart. Alarm bells went off with the hospital staff, and she was rushed straight to hospital where it was discovered that her baby had died.
It turns out that the pregnancy dates were wrong and tests hadn’t picked up that she was further along in her pregnancy than thought. The placenta has a life span of roughly forty-two weeks; after that time it can separate from the lining of the uterus, limiting the flow of oxygen and essential nutrients to the baby. Only days before, there had been a healthy heartbeat, but then the placenta has started to fail and it had stopped supporting the baby properly. It was heartbreaking.
As an IVF patient, I had no problems with dates – we knew exactly when everything had happened. But I became anxious when I heard about my friend’s tragedy and I wanted this baby of mine born as soon as possible.
To help those last few weeks of the pregnancy pass without too much negative focus on the what-ifs, I worked as much as possible. I worked right up until five days before my due date, moving – or bouncing – about on stage with a very large belly. I was proud of my shape and I couldn’t wait to meet the little angel who had been tucked away so safely in my belly for nine months. The last few days of the pregnancy was like an extended Christmas Eve – I was waiting for Santa to come and wondering where the hell my present was.
At 40 weeks, I was induced. So began sixteen long hours of labour. For eight of those sixteen hours, my cervix did nothing; it remained dilated at three centimetres. At some point Roshan confirmed that I was not going to be able to have a vaginal birth; the baby wasn’t descending and my body was starting to show signs of stress. When they noticed blood in my urine, it was time to deliver. When I’d broken my pelvis in 2009, it must have changed the natural shape of my pelvis, making a vaginal delivery impossible.
At 1.27 a.m. on 27 September, our precious daughter was born via emergency caesarean. Madeline Mary was safe, healthy and utterly beautiful. I would happily have ten more kids just to experience those first few moments – the wonder of meeting this little person for the first time, finding out the sex of the baby and calling her by the name we’d chosen. It was indescribable.
A few days later, Mario was holding this gorgeous, glowing cherub after her bath, gazing into her sleepy little face. I was propped up in bed, still recovering from the surgery.
‘Well, it took us a while to get her, didn’t it?’ he said. ‘If you want to have another one, we’d better get started as soon as possible.’
‘Whoa, whoa, WHOAH there!’ I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. Mario had come a long way from his initial uncertainty.
I believe that watching me go through the many challenges and heartaches of IVF and seeing my deep commitment to having a child helped reassure him, and put to rest his uncertainty.
I was in complete bliss. Even if we didn’t have any more children, I was sure I would remain content. I’d always longed for a girl of my own and I’d hoped to become a mum before I turned forty; everything I’d ever wanted was here. My IVF journey had not been easy, but my joy was boundless. There was simply no way to adequately express my admiration for the power of science, my gratitude to the amazing doctor who had listened to my concerns and honoured my instincts, and my awe at the strength and resilience of a body that had come good after so many years of self-inflicted punishment.
13
Tick-Tock
I’ve always paid attention to statistics. When I first began trying to get pregnant in 2010, I was horrified to read the cold, hard medical fact that a woman’s fertility rapidly declines every year that passes. There was quite a scare campaign about women who ‘put off’ having a family until after they were thirty-five years old, only to discover it was too late.
Figures are notoriously unreliable and vary from clinic to clinic, but the numbers I saw most frequently stated that the chance of getting pregnant via IVF for a woman over thirty-five years old is around 40 per cent. A forty-year-old woman using IVF has about a 10 per cent chance and a 42-year-old woman has about a 6 per cent chance. It gives new meaning to ‘racing the clock’, doesn’t it?
MY RECOVERY AFTER THE C-SECTION went well and nine days later I was back presenting, at a job that had been booked in Bendigo. When she was eleven days old, Madeline and I went to Inverloch and when she was thirteen days old we boarded a flight to Newcastle. Many people would say that it was a lot to take on, being a new mum, but Madeline didn’t know any better and neither did I. We just did it, and we made it work. Madeline was a healthy baby and we’d both settled in happily to breastfeeding and a workable routine. Every time I tucked her into bed, wherever we were, I said, ‘Thanks for making it easy for me.’
Oh boy, I loved those early days as a new mum. Such a hard-won victory! I treasured every moment with her – even the sleepless nights and endless nappy changing – and begrudged anything that took me away from her. In no time at all I felt ready to go through it all again. I wanted to experience again that moment of meeting my child for the first time. It was like an addiction and I needed another fix.
Although I’d been taken by surprise when Mario mentioned trying for another baby soon after Madeline’s birth, that hesitancy had completely evaporated. We were definitely on the same page now. Roshan was hopeful that we would conceive this time without intervention. Thirty per cent of siblings born after an IVF baby are natural conceptions; it’s like the body settles into gear because now it knows what it’s doing. Unfortunatel
y, in our case it was not to be.
Madeline was born at the end of September 2012; by the middle of 2013, nothing had happened and we were talking about the next cycle. I had turned forty years old in January and the statistics for IVF after that milestone are considerably reduced. I was raring to get started. The only difficult thing was that the IVF drugs I needed to take meant that I had to stop breastfeeding my baby girl. Reluctantly, I decided to wean her at nine months old so that we could start working on a sibling.
We still had one embryo left so it was going to be a non-antagonist cycle. Blood tests began in July and in the middle of the month Roshan rang to say that it looked like I had already ovulated. This was unexpected because, as usual, I wasn’t menstruating and also breastfeeding is supposed to inhibit ovulation.
He said we’d missed the window for a transfer that month and I should get a period in about twelve days. Waiting for the next month and the next opportunity for an FET was easy; I was so busy with Madeline and before I knew it the levels indicated that my hormones, were rising, so once again I’d ovulated. We did the transfer on 15 August 2013.
I was sure that this cycle was going to be a whole lot easier, and in many ways it was. Even though I’d delivered Madeline by caesarean section, the long labour running up to it had dilated my cervix to around three centimetres. Roshan always said that after having a baby my body was going to be much better to work with.
One significant thing that I did differently this time was I stopped going to my traditional Chinese doctor. I was busy with my new baby, representing La Trobe Financial as their company ambassador and booking loads of presentations with agencies, and I cut the appointments because it meant there was one less thing I had to do.
This 2WW flew by. There was not even the tiniest tint of pink in the Crinone and it appeared that all the right signs were there. I had even felt a sharp little pinch a few days after the transfer. When the pregnancy test came back positive, I was extra thrilled because the due date was 24 April. I love the month of April and 24 is my lucky number. I was feeling blessed and hopeful. I told Mario – without fanfare this time – and he was quietly pleased; he was very much relishing his role as a new dad and he looked forward to another beautiful bundle.
Frozen Hope Page 12
