lifeslurper

The 3 percentile

Well it is now official our low low chances of IVF success are now so low they are almost non-existent.

Minutes into our recent appointment with our third fertility specialist, Dr Loverley glanced at what appears to be a cycle summary page and made the startling statement; “your chance of pregnancy from your own eggs stands at 3% per cycle.” We didn’t ask how such a figure is arrived at. No need for mathematical genius when knowing the facts all too well: four IVF cycles with one cancellation, one arrested embryo, one embryo transfer (resulting in a negative result) and a failure to fertilize.

We did not question. We accepted.

There in one foul swoop, our chances of success became virtually negligible. This time even Wobbles the eternal optimist was flattened. I have become that infertile woman who is destined not to have her own baby. While others around me make it to embryo transfer after embryo transfer, I have become that person I am sure others are secretly glad they are not.

IVF is one of those things I am now certain that anyone with issues over failure should not attempt. From the start we were never truly in the running. Our first specialist, Professor Doofus showed little interest in us. Telling us we needed to hurry, while allowing his neglect to cause a lengthy stop to our ART endeavours. We will never know for certain how much our age and “too hard” categorisation was behind his attitude, or whether his was simply a disinterested personality phoning it in until his looming retirement.

Segueing into claims of ageism would be too easy. Yet sometimes I feel that as an older ART patient those around us view ours participation as more of pastime, despite the time, energy, hope and money that has gone into this. We can’t be seriously hoping for this to work, therefore we are not to be treated as seriously as others attempting the very same thing. I have got to transfer only once. Those three other cycles were no less difficult and no less legitimate. Of those three rudely interrupted cycles they cost only slightly less than a full cycle, being minus the $250 embryo transfer fee we would have happily paid. My body consumed and was injected just as many hormones as any other cycle. I made almost as many trips as I would have for a full cycle. On the second cycle we were actually in the waiting room before being told there would be no transfer. There was just as many hot flushes, mood swings and other fun affects from IVF medications.

In many ways I see an interrupted IVF cycle being to a completed IVF cycle as what miscarriage is to pregnancy. There is much involved, the situation while not ideal is no less real.

I have known loneliness in my life, but there is something extremely isolating about this pursuit. I feel abandoned by my own infertile sisterhood. All feel miserable and understandably so when they fail to get that positive result, yet somewhere along the line it seems like I got dumped for not having a real chance in the first place.

So there it is, after a long break from any IVF action, Wobbles and I braved difficult back conditions and the risk of another dodgy motel bed and travelled off to the big smoke to see our fertility specialist Dr. Loverely.

There was no need to fear a repeat of some previous accommodation fiascos, as Wobbles had booked us into luxurious 4-star accommodation in a leafy patch of an inner city suburb. The night proved quieter than our own country town location. We needed comfort that night, as our evening appointment to see the good doctor had left us both flat.

With this appointment, only our second official consultation with Dr Loverely, he actually had seen our history. Long story, but there was a hiccup with our previous consultation, and he had not been able to read our history; something he was most apologetic for.

This time we went in with pre-planned questions, hoping to go against type and not be swept along with whatever the specialist tells us we need to do. We need not have worried with Dr Loverely as one of his first questions to us was “are you happy to try the cycle type I suggest, or do you have something you are interested in?” He had been true to his word. Months back during a bedside talk on the day of our last less than stellar egg pick up (EPU) and a telephone conversation the next morning after the failure of our one unhealthy egg to fertilize; he had left things saying he needed to “mull” things over. He asked us to bring any research with us to our next appointment.

All was fine, he was happy for us to continue on, but we did receive the expected spiel on the virtues of donor eggs. Yet he concluded that we were not “there” yet, we were still producing “good” eggs.

Is he kidding us? Are we delusional? With such lousy results how can we possibly be considered to have “good” eggs? How ‘good’ can eggs be if they only appear singularly (or with just the one mate) at the end of IVF stimulation and manage to fertilize just the one embryo if we are extremely lucky?

Exhausted that night we sat in the motel room and pieced together all he had said. “Definite inconsistencies there” Wobbles concluded. Almost zero chance of success, but worth trying more cycles before looking at these allegedly miracle working donor eggs which are just so easy to procure. Seems to me there can be no hope in the hopeless.

Nothing makes sense anymore; not that much about IVF ever did.

Meanwhile we are left to grapple with the donor egg theory, and wonder where we might miraculously locate one and a thousand and other questions about that issue.

There is also the need to sort out a number of current health problems. An early morning appointment tomorrow with Dr Cutey’s understudy will hopefully put an end to the bronchitis that has taken over my lungs in the last week, making breathing rather difficult. I am mostly okay if I don’t cough, as that threatens to upset a still very unstable back. The constant taping of my back into position helps, but getting the tape damp during showering does not help my weak chest. Yes, I have asked Wobbles to kindly put a pillow tightly over my head as I sleep. He is yet to comply with my request. He is sweet, but he is willing to put up with far too much.

Each day I hope for a change in something. I tell myself things are as bad as they can be, they can not get worse, then there is another new depth to explore.

Question is, how can anyone really know when it is time to take their bat and ball and go home? When is a situation completely untenable?