Top tips for IVF egg collection: wear socks

IVF is a marathon not a sprint – so here’s a London Marathon pic

I wrote this post woozy, in bed, on the day of my egg collection back in October last year. Little did I know then that only two eggs of the eight would fertilise, that the first one put back would fail, and that for various reasons it would be May 2018 before the second fertilised embryo would go back. And little did I know that that little one would take, and I’d be sitting here in early July 2018, eleven weeks’ pregnant. 

Today was egg collection day, ahead of IVF.

I’m always cold. So my top tip is to pack socks. They were the one thing of my own I could have worn into the theatre today. Instead I had cold toes in blue polythene feet covers and the weird sensation of being without my tongue piercing and gel nails. It would have been nice to see my own stripey socks in the stirrups. Just to reassure me that those were my feet as the anaesthetist counted me out…

Roll back. I’m writing this blog because when I was looking for info about IVF, the internet served me:

• Ads for clinics
• The experiences of US sisters
• … or infertile sisters

[Tangent. During one of my recent appointments (oh so many appointments), my clinic asked me to be interviewed by an HFEA inspector. Like Ofsted for fertility clinics. She seemed surprised that I hadn’t been to the HFEA site to read up on my options. I told her that their SEO was off and they need to spend more cash to get prospective patients to look at their stuff.]

So I’m writing the blog I wanted to read. It won’t be impartial medical info (go to the HFEA for that and make the inspector happy). It’ll be impressionistic, and (I hope) actionable (pack socks!). It’ll be from a British perspective. It’s not an ad for a clinic.

And I’m not writing about infertility. TLDR: lesbian. I need extra help to have a baby cos no matter how hard the missus tries, she won’t get me pregnant.

What I say may be helpful to the straight ladies, tho. And infertile sisters: you have my love & respect.

I’ll certainly try to hide my jealousy that straight ladies can send hubby behind a curtain to knock out some swimmers for free. Our swimmers came with a groaning credit card bill in a stretch limo, Virgin Upper and a black cab (must have been, given the transit cost) all the way from the US.

So, my tips for egg collection day. Socks. A huge shawl for when the fire alarm goes off ten minutes after you’re out of theatre and you’re decanted onto an October London street in a backless gown. (Yes, this happened. I had disco legs and cramps and I was in the street with no knickers. I stood sobbing into the my gf’s shoulder. I blame the sedatives.).

Also: taxis, there and back. You’ve remortgaged to afford this, don’t be tight. I’ll get to tell our daughter or son about the crisp autumn day when they were conceived and how beautiful a sunny Green Park looked as we swooped up the Mall. At least, I hope I will.

Make a plan for lunch afterwards. Nil by mouth from midnight the night before = ravenous by midday, for me at least. Don’t make it yourself: order in (see don’t be tight, above) or at least enlist your gf to create. I knew I needed a Leon chicken aioli hot box for afterwards – and nice Ms Deliveroo obliged.

Turn up without makeup, jewellery, gel nails, piercings or hairspray. Wear the stretchiest comfiest clothes you own (plus socks and shawl). Bring one book for you and one for your gf – she’ll be waiting about, and the wifi is always crap. Bring a drink for the cab home.

And be prepared. Ask more questions of the nurse at your last scan. I wish I had.

To give you some idea of what to expect, my timetable looked something like this:

• Nine days’ meds ends Friday
• Trigger injection Sat pm
• Glorious injectionless Sunday, nil by mouth from midnight
• 8.30am Monday clinic arrival, everything off and into gown
• Forms, obs, ID bracelet, cannula into back of hand for the sedatives later (this was 100% the worst bit)
• Loo then rectal pessaries (an antibiotic and pain relief). Never felt more glam.
• Walk to theatre, stirrups, fanny out, mask, sedative into back of hand, wish I’d worn socks, drift off…
• Wake up with the missus holding my hand in the recovery room, about 11am
• Tea, biscuit, obs, fire alarm (hope they skip this bit for you), tea, obs, debrief, loo (you have to pee before they let you home), taxi about twelve-ish

Now I’m lying in bed at home, full of lovely Leon. The cat is purring. Some spotting (sorry, TMI) but no pain to speak of. Just a dull headache. First progesterone pessary is now up my bottom (pro tip: lie down for half an hour after each one and wear a pantliner else you’ll get white wax in your knicks. Not the time to break out the Agent Provocateur.)

And after all that: eight eggs harvested. Beaming with delight and relief.

Now to wait for the doc to call tomorrow morning. Then we’ll know how many were fertilised. Return fixture scheduled for either Thursday or Saturday. Cross your fingers for me. Seeya.

On getting pregnant as a lesbian

This post makes mention of Florida – so have a Gulf sunset pic

So how does a lesbian get pregnant? The short answer is donor sperm plus IVF.

The long answer is a year of false starts, and nine months of fertility treatment.

My girlfriend and I have both always known that we wanted kids. We’re doting aunties and godparents. And a lesbian couple we’re close to have had two little ones using donor sperm in the last three years.

But still, starting out was daunting. First we went to our GP, who referred us to our local NHS fertility clinic. We were a little surprised, but he was adamant that we were eligible for help on the NHS.

Our area has a decent policy – one fresh and two frozen rounds of IVF for lesbian couples, which is the same as for straight couples. The NHS England recommendation is for three fresh IVF rounds, so it doesn’t meet national standards which is wrong – but understandable given the crisis in NHS funding.

However, there is the vexed issue of demonstrating “trying”. For straight couples this is length of time that you’ve been having sex but not got pregnant. For us, no matter how hard my missus tried, she couldn’t get me pregnant. So the standard for NHS care for lesbian couples in our area is set at three unsuccessful IUI rounds. Which we hadn’t done.

So the NHS route was no go, and private fertility treatment it was.

I can’t pretend we shopped around: a few months later we just went to the central London clinic where our friends had conceived their babies.

The first step was choosing donor sperm. We chose a US sperm bank as we wanted photos. It’s a bit like looking through a hotel comparison site: lots of info that starts off meaningless, but after a while you understand your search criteria. My partner diligently read the full medical histories while I chose based on smile and education, ruling out all the introverts.

£5k later and we had five precious vials of joy juice shipped across the Atlantic.

And so, in July 2017, we started to try to get pregnant. Two rounds of IUI passed with not a sniff of a second line on the pregnancy test. Two vials, £11k and 3 months down.

Then I had a cyst on my ovary – another month down.

So we stepped up to IVF – a whole new level of intervention. Many daily injections. On 30 October 2017, five eggs were collected, and overnight two fertilised.

A week later we put one back – but it didn’t take. Three vials, £22k, 5 months down.

And then everything stopped for a bit. It was Christmas and our clinic closed on the crucial dates. Then we’d booked a January US holiday – but it came with another month’s treatment ban because of Zika risk. We didn’t know this when we booked – never tell your clinic if you’re going for a north America beach holiday. Then we had an aborted round because the doctor made a mistake with my meds. After that we definitely needed a holiday. Three vials, £24k, 9 months down.

After all that, we came back to treatment in May, determined that the embryo frozen back in October would be the one. And it was.

Total: three vials, £25k, 10 months.

What was your fertility journey like?