Going for IVF gold

If eating was a competitive category of the current Olympic games I would be sporting more gold than Michael Phelps. Right now I could be sitting back taking it easy counting up the sponsorship millions I would be about to rake in over the next years while waiting for the closing ceremony to wind its way to an end at National Stadium (a.k.a. The Bird’s Nest.)

The medications of my fourth IVF cycle combined with the increasing sense of dwindling hope since that cycle came to an abrupt stop last week have seen my weight rise past that acceptable line. Sure, my idea of what weight is ‘acceptable’ for me has taken quite a battering over the years. My once impeccable standards for self-image no longer applied. Leading up to the start of IVF I managed to drop a bit of the excess weight, which meant my face lost some of its pug (dog) look and my back wasn’t at constant risk of completely seizing up. Somewhere in the last week, that last kilogram has returned. That last kilogram is the magical one that gives me jowls and a back that needs traction.

Wanting to have a baby should be ideal motivation to get my weight under control. Lose some weight. It is that simple. Decrease fat intake. Increase exercise. Nothing could be simpler. But it is not. Maybe only people who have struggled with their weight can even begin to understand this. I have the great motivation of a baby to encourage me. I have the gorgeous support of my loving (and infuriating slim!) Wobbles, yet this does not seem enough. The more important it is, the harder it seems. I just don’t understand.

I should not need the sight of my fat distorted face as a reminder of this battle. The scales and my clothing size provide plenty of evidence on that score. Yet, I still can’t work it out. I let depression over an unexplained weight gain over a decade ago push me over the edge. Repeated visits to doctors saw me come away with prescriptions for powerful appetite suppressants and even less understanding. I put on weight. I felt powerless. I ate more. I put on more weight. I felt more depressed. It just went on and on. A slim adult became an overweight one. With a bit of a push she became an obese one.

It was an awful time. Increased anxiety over continued and reoccurring illnesses and the resulting time lost from work all compounded into a serious depression. Eventually my thyroid was pointed to as the culprit. With even more illness and weight gain emergency surgery soon resulted. The rapid weight gain ceased, but the battle was far from over. I have never returned to being that slim adult, but have never really accepted that I can’t. I have great difficulties reconciling the person I once was with what I am now. My shame knows no ends. I spend much time justifying myself to myself and others.

Successive attempts to decrease the weight over the ensuing years have begun to work, proving that my body is able to lose weight for me. However, it is usually a story of two steps forward, one step back.

Excess weight is inexorably linked to other issues. Although I had lower back problems as a slim person, gaining weight has done nothing to rid me of this particular curse. Things grew so bad, that five years ago I lost all feeling in my lower limbs and spent seven days in hospital. I never want to feel that kind of pain again. Last year, in the lead up to IVF my diet and exercise regime was the talk of the local gym, I was doing that well. Then I fell heavily down the front steps of Camp Wobbles and had a whole new shoulder, side and back problem to deal with. I admit I felt defeated and eventually surrendered. Numerous dietary theories have abounded since, most helping to keep off the kilograms in a healthy manner….up until now.

With each successive IVF cycle I realised there was an automatic weight gain of around 2 kilograms (about 4.5 pounds in the old measure) that would ‘fall off’ a week or so after the IVF medications were ceased. However, this time something is different. I am over-eating without real purpose. I seem unable to stop. Each day I tell myself this madness must end. Yet each day my mind is losing the battle, refusing to rid itself of its favourite poisons; wheat, dairy and sugar. The psychological addiction is compulsive. It seems no amount of chocolatey goodness will do anything to fill the gaping wound that IVF has left in my soul.

Why is it we chose to look for comfort in the very things that we know are not good for us? The constant watering in my mouth tells me I am no closer to knowing the answer than I was years back when my weight first escalated.

Sure, I am angry with myself for not seeing to the condition of my body before setting forth into ART land. Now when it matters most, when maybe in the little time left to me I could claw back some hope though having a body that is even 10 % lighter, I feel the most hopeless. I feel unbelievable pressure from within. I feel it is now or never and that it is all up to me.

For the first time in my life I feel like I truly don’t have the strength to do what is needed. This is something I feel absolutely ashamed of.

Now where did I leave that chocolate bar?

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