I don’t know about you, but I have been sleeping like absolute shit recently – after three consecutive nights of extremely patchy shut-eye, I am just about ready to start snapping skulls. It’s hot, cloying, close and breath-stealing, and I lie awake thinking the half thoughts and mad musings that make a girl wonder if she’s got a real future in the high security ward.
For instance: I think about wanting a ceiling fan, because I am so hot and so bothered and suffering from so much insomnia, and ceiling fans are so nice and soothing and cooling, but then I start wondering if I’d worry about a ceiling fan.
‘What if it turns around so many times it loosens itself from the ceiling, drops, still spinning, and carves us up while we sleep?’ goes my typical mid-morning thinking. ‘Yeah. And what if the ceiling fan takes off both our faces? What then? You know, I’m not sure I could sleep with a ceiling fan left on all night. An unattended ceiling fan. Who knows what could happen? All those speedy revolutions – surely something’s gotta give? One day, for sure, that thing is going to drop like a stone, the socket will give out, and I don’t want to be lying asleep directly below it when that fan falls. No way. Forget the ceiling fan. You’d have to be crazy! Phew, it’s hot. I wonder what time it is now? God, is it just me, or is there no air in here, like, none? It’s so suffocating! I really wish we had a ceiling fan…’
This does not strike me as very constructive thinking. It’s also a little insane to worry about kamikaze ceiling fans – has anyone ever heard of a single case of Death by Ceiling Fan? On second thoughts, PLEASE DON’T ANSWER THAT. We might, you know, get a ceiling fan.
Anyway, I’m tired, propped up by caffeine and a total inability to nap during the day, which for an insomniac is really just another way of saying, ‘I have insomnia around the clock.’ If I can’t sleep at night, when all my circadian rhythms are telling me it’s bye-byes time, then do you really think I’m going to be able to sleep when my entire body and the rest of the world is telling me it’s business time? As if my overtired mind is falling for that!
‘Nap time?’ It says scornfully. ‘Any idiot can see it’s broad daylight! Get up, stay awake, move your arse – get with the program!’
So here I am. Awake. Coffee on one side of the computer and chocolate wrappers on the other (LL, I can hear you warning me off sugar from here…).
I’ve had a pretty full day. We had our IVF appointment move forward to this morning, and it was good to sit down with Dr P and talk through round one while determining the best course of action for round two. One nasty surprise is that the upfront outlay has moved from $4,500 to $6,500. I’d really rather spend that money on a holiday to France. And the next Darkling retreat. And maybe a ceiling fan. Of course, if IVF eventually works, we won’t mind the whopping great cost of it at all, or so I’m guessing. But if it doesn’t work, if we keep doing this over and over and it never works, then I can imagine stewing on the lost thousands. How could I not? I remember Pete saying, when Llew and I bought Tails, that boating has been likened to standing in a shower ripping up hundred dollar bills, but at least we’ve actually got a boat – with a dud round of IVF, you blow your dough and there’s a big pile of nothing at the end. Not even a wall calendar. Not even a wall calendar decorated with photos of other people’s babies. Nothing. Just like losing at the tables. In fact, Dr P talked at some length about our all being gamblers in this enterprise, and I said mmm, yes, we’d realised that, and for a non-gambler, frankly it’s a really unwelcome, unappealing piece of intelligence, but he just chortled and exclaimed about my new gambling habit some more.
So here’s how we’re going to play this game of chance. We’re going to go again, and leave the spare on ice. My thinking is this: the age of the eggs directly affects the quality of the eggs, so why wouldn’t I want to get out more eggs while I am still 37, and not 38, 39, or 40? There’s at least a 10 percent chance the frozen blastocyst won’t survive thawing, which would leave us with nothing in the kitty. Tick tock, tick tock. Every single delay merely ages my 37-year-old eggs further – even if one such delay is caused by a pregnancy. Besides, as someone who has had three early miscarriages, I’m no longer so excited about a pregnancy. Talk to me when there’s a Take Home Baby, and not before. So I’m hoping to have a second successful harvest, and another fresh transfer, and if that fails, I will have the blastocyst on ice for round three, and hopefully one or two more from the second harvest will be fit to freeze for future rounds. In other words, I’ll be getting older the whole time, but if I’m lucky, and I’ve gambled well, I’ll have a couple of eggs to play that won’t.
One freaky thought on which to end (another thing typical of the thoughts that come to me in the hours before dawn): if round two is successful, and we have a Take Home Baby nine months later, and then down the track we thaw out the blastocyst from round one, and it too takes, the younger sibling will, in fact, be older.
Yep. That’s definitely enough to keep me awake.