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Day Five



6am: Annoyingly wake up when J gets up. This always happens on my days off. I like to think it’s because I’m excited about my day ahead – the novelty of having a day off during the week has not worn off. Today is particularly exciting as I could be pregnant by the end of it.



7.30am: Get up and make some decaf tea to take back to bed. Find a homemade good luck transfer day card next to a bottle of non-alcoholic red wine and dark chocolate from C. Spend a long time showering and prepping myself for the day. You’re not meant to wear nail varnish for the transfer so I figure minimal chemicals is probably for the best. I’m too ashamed of my scaly legs to go body lotion-free, so use a natural moisturiser and deodorant and go fresh faced. It sounds ridiculous to be considering such things when people get pregnant all the time, but after two and a half years of trying, you’ll try anything that might help.



10am: Make a healthy breakfast of poached eggs and avo on granary toast. Avos are magic. Surely they’ll get me good and pregnant.



11am: Make a hot water bottle for my tummy and a foot soak (instructed by my acupuncturist to encourage blood flow). Try to relax but feel more nervous than for any of the other appointments. We’ve been building up to this day for over six months, so it feels like a momentous event. Listen to the transfer episode of the Big Fat Negative podcast to remind me what exactly will happen.



11.45am: Start to worry that J will be late. He’s so busy that he’s always running for trains and appearing at the last minute for things. We discussed timings last night and I explained that as this could be the moment of conception of our child, him not being there could potentially piss me off forever. I call him and he’s just set off (he’s driving and his work is really far from the hospital). I feel like he’s left it pretty late and I can’t help but feel annoyed already, even though he’s not even late yet. I’m not particularly nice to him over the phone. Feel guilty when I hang up as his job is really stressful, but also still mad that he didn’t just leave a bit earlier on this one day. Feel stressed mid fucking foot soak. Voicenote C and she sends constructive thoughts to combat the anger.



12.10pm: Order a taxi through Kapten, which is pretty much the same as Uber except it’s a fixed rate so what you’re quoted is what you pay. Have a 60% off code as I’ve just joined so it ends up only costing £6.20 for a 20-minute journey. Feel like I’m back in the north. Taxi driver is annoyingly chatty (about the app). Feeling super nervous by this point so not loving the chat, he doesn’t seem to notice. Have to arrive with a full bladder which is actually quite difficult to time, so keep sipping on water in the back.



12.40pm: Arrive and head to the department. They welcome me in and one of the nurses does a little celebration dance which makes me laugh. Transfer day is the big happy day for them; the air is full of hope for a change. I’d describe infertility as a shadow of grief, shimmering in the background of every aspect of your life. It’s not all-encompassing and rarely knocks you down completely but it is there. I’m conscious that I don’t want to look back on my early 30s as being a miserable time, because mostly it hasn’t. But over the last 18 months I’ve often felt a film of sadness wrapping itself around experiences that were formerly completely encompassing and joyful. Alongside this constant cloud is of course the monthly ride-along. It starts with determination (usually googling and vitamin purchasing in my case), is then replaced by the biggest bitch, hope (thoughts such as How would I tell J, would I show him the pregnancy test or say the words?), and followed inevitably by grief (go for a run seeking greenery and usually end up having a cry listening to Lizzo in some dodgy urban park).



Starting IVF was actually a relief because it broke these awful monthly cycles and after two years of trying, you feel like it’s just the two of you stuck battling this problem and not getting anywhere. Then suddenly you leave the general gynae clinic and are welcomed into the fertility clinic. To me it felt like handing the reins to warm and smiley people who get it and who have a new grand plan up their sleeves.



One of my favourite people in the team, a healthcare assistant, takes me into a room and shows me how to get the kit on. I’ve had a practice transfer and just kept my normal clothes on (dress hitched up) so I’m surprised to be put in a gown, hairnet and weird blue plastic sock-shoes. It feels more serious than I’d anticipated. Take a stupid selfie, making sure to include the socks, and send it to my girls’ WhatsApp group.



12.45pm: Sit in a curtained cubicle in my special outfit, trying not to stress about J not being here.



12.50pm: J arrives and is brought in by one of the nurses, who checks how we’re feeling and that the vibes are positive. I admit I’m nervous and she reassures me. J and I ignore our last conversation and make an effort to be nice to each other. He has to wear a hairnet and white jacket and I can’t stop laughing about how much he looks like a baker. The laughter is made worse by the nerves and need to wee. Feel so glad that he’s here. It’s not essential and many partners don’t attend, but J insisted we try to make it a joint venture as much as possible.



1pm: Punctual as ever, they take us through to the transfer room. I’m surprised to see the consultant there. She’s the same lady who did my egg collection and I’ve been told is the crème de la crème of fertility doctoring, so I feel very lucky to have had her for both procedures. We meet the embryologist, who shows us pictures of our embryo when it was taken out of the freezer this morning, and an hour later. It’s grown considerably, which is crazy. She explains that it’s thawed really well, she’s really happy with the quality of it and how it’s grown in the few hours this morning. She points out different parts on the blob which would become the placenta and baby, then gives us the pictures to take home. I ask if it’s visible to the human eye and they explain no, it’s about one hundredth of a pencil prick. Science is mad.



1.05pm: I get 'comfy' on the bed in stirrups with J near my head looking at the ultrasound screen so he can watch the embryo go in. A nurse scans my stomach and is over-the-top complimentary about my full bladder as apparently they can see EVERYTHING. She and the consultant go on about it a lot which makes me laugh, though I don’t need a wee that badly and they seem genuinely shocked by it. This leads me to think, Do I have a massive bladder? Which then leads me to think about Fleabag. What fun this is turning out to be. It feels just like a smear test and is over in a flash.



1.10pm: The nurse says that I can rush straight to the loo now as if I’m about to explode. I say that I’ll get dressed first as I can wait, which does seem to surprise her. Maybe my bladder is my secret strength. I did once wee more than a pint glass at Glastonbury, which was fairly disastrous at the time.



1.15pm: The nurse and consultant wish us luck and give me a blood test form to return to get the result in 10 days. We thank them. I have my wee and tell myself that it’s impossible to wee out an embryo.



2pm: Get home and make tuna cheese toasties with salad. J works from home in the kitchen for the rest of the day. I spend the afternoon watching Gavin and Stacey on the sofa with the cats (apparently laughing a lot after transfer can make it more likely to work).



5pm: Drive to an acupuncture appointment. It’s only two miles away but it’s pissing it down and rush hour so takes nearly half an hour to get there. I’ve been having acupuncture for infertility for nine months now. Being from a scientific background, I initially found it difficult to open myself up to some of the more holistic treatment options (particularly when the first acupuncturist I saw gazed deeply into my eyes looking for my spirit animal). But over time I’ve found that acupuncture has really helped with the mental health challenges that come with infertility. I’ve always enjoyed running and usually find that this helps me stay sane but after 18 months of trying, no amount of running was helping me feel better. I ended up sobbing in the first acupuncture appointment, but have pretty much felt better since.



5.30pm: Arrive at the clinic, not somewhere I’ve been before. My usual acupuncturist doesn’t work on Fridays and, as there’s a lot of importance placed on having acupuncture on the day of transfer, I had to find someone else who could see me. I fill out some forms then am taken into the room by the acupuncturist. I’m relieved to only have to give a brief history before getting to it. The room feels more like someone’s living room with a wall completely lined with shelves of books. Try not to focus on the weirdness of the situation and relax; the guy seems to know what he’s doing and doesn’t talk much, which suits me well. He puts one needle in my scalp, which is a first and makes me feel a little queasy. He leaves me to relax for 20 minutes and I actually end up drifting off to sleep briefly.



6.15pm: The session ends and we have a brief chat about food. I know that some acupuncturists are quite regimented about diet, whereas my usual lady is a bit more relaxed as she knows that I generally eat well. This guy tells me that I shouldn’t be drinking any cold water and that sugar is the enemy of fertility. I pay him £65 and then slump into the car feeling incredibly guilty about the third of a chocolate orange I’ve eaten. On transfer day of all days. Drive home in the rain blasting out Glass Animals, desperately trying to keep the positive feelings present.



7pm: Get home and find J not there and no message which is weird. Text to find out where he is and if he wants dinner. He’s gone to the food market hall down the road to meet friends. Feel momentarily annoyed that he’s left me ON TRANSFER DAY, but then stop myself. He very rarely goes out on Friday nights as is always so knackered from work. Make myself some cod with pesto, olive and breadcrumb topping and eat with steamed broccoli. Take that, acupuncturist man.



8.30pm: J gets home and we watch an episode of The Crown. Our embryo pictures sit on the coffee table in front of us as little reminders of what might be.



Total: £71.20