Climbing needle mountain
Infertility can seem insurmountable to those
couples forced to wait indefinitely for their precious
families. IVF offers hope, but the process brings its own
challenges. Simonne Walmsley shares her very personal journey of
overcoming the trials of IVF, and reaching the top of a
life-changing mountain.
Everybody collects something at some point in their life.
My child-self had a thing about small bottles and screwdrivers, and
in my early twenties I went through a phase of collecting ticket
stubs from every movie I saw. At the moment, I am fixated on coffee
art and have loads of photos of flat whites with clever art in
the foam. One of them has a heart in the froth that looks like a
bulb of garlic… Or maybe an apple… But art is all about
interpretation, isn't it?
Six months ago, I collected what I now
affectionately refer to as Needle Mountain.
My first thought, on
picking up from the clinic the pack full of needles and drugs I
needed for my IVF, and then seeing them unpacked and sitting on my
kitchen table, was "That looks really impressive!", quickly
followed by "How can I possibly do this?" I also thought that I'd
want to see the back of those needles as soon as possible. But, as
it turns out, I don't think I'll ever get rid of them, because they
mean too much to me.
It's a funny thing to be sentimental
about, but Needle Mountain is not only symbolic of finding out what
I was capable of, it's also representative of my pride in achieving
something incredibly difficult. It's a reminder of the many parts
of my, and my husband's, long and painful journey through IVF. And
my needle "collection" signifies that things are never entirely
what you imagine they will be. I remember someone once saying to me
that the greatest part of fear is anticipating the unknown. I
can agree with that.
What I took away from my cycle of IVF
differs significantly from what I imagined I'd feel. I remember
that egg collection was very painful, and embryo transfer was
horribly uncomfortable. I hated the scans, and both they, and the
blood tests, caused me to worry all the time. I was very scared
before procedures, and as I neared the end of each stage in the
cycle. But those bad memories have become fractured and have dulled
- much like the pain of labour, I'm told - and although I
remember certain things from each stage in the cycle, my most vivid
memories aren't the ones I thought I would have.
My first injection was momentous. What I
remember is not so much the significance of starting out on what we
hoped would be the last stage of our infertility journey, but,
rather, jabbing at myself hesitantly several times, 
thinking that skin is a lot
tougher than you'd suppose, and that nurses make it look so easy.
Then I danced around my bedroom for a good 10 minutes with the
needle poised above my stomach, hyperventilating a chant of, "I
can't do it! I can't do it! I can't do it!" I knew that I had to do
it, that there would be significant opportunities to be a wuss
during this entire experience, but now was not one of them. Then my
husband stuck his head around the door and said, very cheerfully
and far too hopefully, "I'll do it!" So I just rammed the needle
into my stomach, because there was no way I was having his big paws
brandishing something sharp anywhere near me.
Early in my cycle of IVF, I failed to
down-regulate, which was both disappointing and frightening. It was
also a reminder that nothing is guaranteed, and each progressive
step in IVF is dependent on the one before it going well. You can't
take anything for granted. My opinion is that if you have to do
something fun and cheerful like IVF, it should really just all go
to plan, and I felt it was just a little bit (okay, a huge bit)
rude that I'd fallen over at the starting blocks.
All that trauma aside, the thing I recall
with the greatest clarity is sitting in the nurse's room, looking
at the trigger injection she was about to give me. My first thought
was that the trigger injection looked evil. Although, on the bright
side, an extra 14 days of Buserelin needles (failing to
down-regulate meant a trigger injection and having to restart the
cycle) would make Needle Mountain much more impressive. Secondly, I
thought that if I asked to keep the needle, the nurse would
probably call security, but I really wanted it for Needle Mountain.
I didn't ask to keep the needle.
I learned, through the way fertility
patients react to each other, that infertility is such a unique
experience and everyone's journey with it, their way of coping, is
different. Although I felt quite strong and was able to be very
open about our experience, I remember one woman I shared the
waiting room at the clinic with more than once, who looked like she
might shatter into a thousand pieces. She wouldn't smile or even
make eye contact, and would turn her body away from me and anyone
else who was in the room. It was such a stark contrast to the man
who stopped one morning on his way out of the clinic with his wife,
to wish everyone waiting good luck with their cycles. Or the woman
whom I had watched wrangle a small child, again in the waiting room
at the clinic, who turned back to me as she left and simply said,
"It is worth it."
It's interesting too, in general, how many
won't talk about their infertility. Those whom you may not even
know are struggling or have struggled with infertility, but will
reach out, buoyed by your strength when you put your own story out
there. For many, infertility can be a lonely journey
indeed.
As our cycle progressed, watching the pile
of unused needles transfer to the pile of used needles, and seeing
the empty vials of drugs, was incredible. I loved knowing that we
were getting there, getting closer, making it through, and doing
this dificult thing. And that the headaches, bruising and nausea,
the restlessness, the blood tests and invasive scans, and the worry
- it was all worth it, and every day we were one day
closer.
I'm also convinced, more than ever, that
chocolate brownies are magical and that as long as everyone has
chocolate brownies, things will be okay. On the day of egg
collection, I arrived complete with a fresh batch of
chocolate brownies to accompany my ready-to-burst ovaries, on the
basis that it never hurts to ensure the people administering the
pain medication are feeling well-disposed towards you. That, and it
lightens the atmosphere somewhat to walk into theatre and see two
out of the team of four still chewing. It also felt important to me
to acknowledge, even in this small way, that we knew that what the
staff do must be incredibly hard as well, because they do it time
after time for so many frightened, heartbroken people.
Needle Mountain also brings to mind the
doctor who declared, in the middle of my embryo transfer, when
apparently there wasn't enough of something disposable on his
equipment tray, "Now is not the time to be trying to reduce our
carbon footprint!" This while I was lying there, in stirrups, with
all manner of medical equipment inside me and an extremely full
bladder, trying desperately not to pee, or laugh - because laughing
would most certainly have led to peeing. I'm thinking that with all
the needle packaging I'd thrown away during the IVF cycle, I had
probably already wrecked the environment quite enough, so maybe he
could make do with what he had.
My goal in starting our IVF journey was to
try to be as positive as possible, and to do my best to make sure
it didn't overwhelm me. I hoped that if I could manage that, it
would lessen the negative impact it could potentially have on both
my husband and myself. Doing IVF was difficult. To find that a
natural process that should be easy, and seems easy for everyone
else around you, is, for you, about needles and drugs and invasive
medical procedures, is never going to be easy. And that's before
you throw the emotional and physical side effects of fertility
treatment into the cocktail and give it all a good
shake.
Plus, I doubt anyone envisages being in
another room entirely when their child is conceived, one parent
slowly coming out from under pretty powerful painkillers, and the
other closeted in a room with a sign saying, "If you're having
trouble producing your sample, please ask a nurse," or words to
that effect. It's not exactly a lazy morning in bed, although I
can't argue that it's not memorable. No, it's not fair, and it's
hard, and you really would give anything for there to be another
way. But IVF was what we needed to do, so that's what we did. It
was also about peace of mind, knowing that we were doing everything
we could to have our child.
We were exhausted in the end, but that's
the nature of the beast. At some point, it settles in your bones
and you need to recover - physically, mentally and emotionally. I
think my husband and I are still recovering, to an
extent.
I really did think it would be a lot worse
- but that is perhaps because we had a positive outcome. Things
could have easily, and very sadly, been different for us, as they
are for so many couples. I think that's why I felt it was so
important for my husband and myself to still be ourselves and have
a relationship outside of IVF - in case it didn't work, because it
might not have, and even in case it did. I didn't want to wake up
one day and wonder who that person was that I was sharing a house
with, or find that we didn't have a life, or anything in common
besides our infertility. At times, I did feel that life had become
entirely about our infertility. On the flip side, it is a huge part
of us, as we lived it for a long time, so it has to be
acknowledged.
Last night I lay awake at 2am with my
thoughts inwardly tuned, feeling my son kicking inside me, far too
energetically for 2AM I might add, and I was reminded again of how
far we have come. I felt the most powerful sense of…survival, I
suppose you could call it. I thought of how our baby started,
really with Needle Mountain, and of all the kindhearted people at
the clinic who were involved in giving him life, and in giving my
husband and me our family. I wonder if I'll ever stop feeling
overwhelmed by how incredibly wonderful it all really is. Ed
Hillary scaled Everest. I climbed Needle Mountain.
After a four-year journey through infertility, Simonne
Walmsley and her husband Allan underwent IVF during March and April
2008. Little Embryo #9, their son Cuinn, was due in January
2009.
As seen in OHbaby!
magazine Issue 4: 2009
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