Night fever

Weeeeeeell helloooooooooooooooo night sweats! And hot flashes, glad to see you too … For the past few days, since my last post declared I had “escaped night sweats”, guess what? Yup, tempted fate, they arrived with a vengeance. I have a fan by my bed, and have been seen to fling open windows and dash out doors – even in work – whilst ripping off cardigans, hoody’s and jackets (I’m in Scotland, we don’t get summer here) whilst declaring it to be “effin’ roastin’ in here”. Even in work. My mum mentioned tonight that 2 kiwi’s a day supposedly help. Could have done with that information a few days ago, bit late now haha! Next phase starts in 3 hours. I am posting at just before 5am as another blimmin hot flash has visited me. Giving up and going for a bath!

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Planning permission from the council

Yesterday was the first appointment for Mrs Recipient and I to attend together. Mrs R is a work colleague of The Husband, and our first face-to-face meeting was when I got in her car 2 weeks ago for the AMH test.
2 weeks later, we’re setting out for a counselling session …

For all the chatter and laughter in the car on the journey to the clinic, there is an undercurrent of nerves. The councillor we are on our way to see could put the kibosh on the entire endeavour. In my head for the past week I have been practising key phrases and sound bites to sound as intelligent, dedicated and assured as I feel. However some nasty little part of my brain is going “ner ner, she won’t believe you”. I hate that bit of my brain.

After some stellar reverse parking from Mrs R, despite (or maybe because of) the enormous private-plate Jag next to us, we present ourselves at reception and sit down to wait.

Mrs R had mentioned that the councillor sounded airy fairy on the phone, so I’m expecting a fully-paid-up member of the beads and bangles incense waving hippy brigade. I’m mostly right. Imagine how a middle aged hippy would dress in an office situation, except with Tiffany jewelery, and you have the general idea! She comes to call us, and I follow on behind Mrs R poking her in the back while we both try to swallow our giggles, that can only partly be attributed to nerves. We get a hell of a lot more serious, however, once we’re sat in that room realising this woman writes a report to the ethics committee and the consultant to say whether or not we can cope with this.

I’ll not go into details – there are some things that aren’t mine to share – but we convince the woman that we are sane enough to go ahead. My private rehearsal obviously worked to my advantage, although a few surprise corkers tumbled out of my mouth. With regards to a claim over a potential child, I likened it to claiming the artwork yours, when you only handed over the paper and pencil to the artist. And when asked about any unused embryos kept in the deep freeze (as legally, as contributor of the ovum, they in part belong to me until implanted in Mrs R), I was adamant that Mr and Mrs R decide their fate, as I feel as much attachment to them as I do to my fingernail when I cut it, or when my menstrual cycle flushes eggs away. I’m not standing to loose or gain anything, I do think she’s making a rather larger fuss than necessary!

The car journey home is much less tense, with us screaming with laughter over what The Husbands would have made of the councillor, amongst other things. I wonder if by the end of this, we’ll be firm friends?

The chicken or the egg …

I’ve made some decisions recently. Some huge, some small, some inconsequential, some with a bit more gravitas! One was to start a blog, documenting the journey I’m about to embark on. A second to grow a pair and do something brave. Another was to embark upon a journey into assisted conception clinics and having cameras popped up my nether regions.

See what I mean about the decisions?!

A few weeks ago, I was told of a woman, a family friend, who is unable to conceive and required an egg donor. Her last volunteer was too old and her AMH (Anti Mullerian Hormone) levels were too low to be of any use. My (seldom used, slightly rusty) logical side piped up “you’re young, never had bother getting up the pole – he only has to wave it in your general direction and the morning sickness kicks in – and your family is complete …” And the next thing I knew, I was putting myself forward!

Queue a million emails and text messages from Mrs Recipient to check I’m sure. Upon assuring her that yes, I am, we coordinate our diaries to go to the (gorgeous, hotel-like private) fertility clinic to have a small vial of  blood drawn for an AMH test of my own. In that tiny tube were pinned Mr and Mrs Recipient’s hopes of a family. I crossed my fingers and hoped that my assumptions and outward confidence about my own über-fertility were not misguided.

A nerve wracking week passed. I had my phone glued to my person at all times, and for once The Husband didn’t mind, instead looked on with a mixture of sympathy and expectation every time an email came in. Mrs Recipient sent me an email with the title “AMH Results”, and my heart jumped up into my mouth to get a front row seat to read it! It was a copy and paste of all the emails she’d sent to the clinic over the course of that day, which culminated in one line … “no results yet, I’ll let you know a soon as they tell me” … False alarm, stand down, panic over. The email came the next day though, my AMH level is 11, and I’m considered suitable to become an egg donor. And yes I did burst into Happy Tears!