This Is Your Captain Speaking. It’s IVF Time.
Ps. I’m not a pilot. But I’m flying this IVF plane.
I’m back for Round 2.
IVF Round 2 egg collection.
The round I naively, optimistically thought wouldn’t happen to me.
I remember learning about this concept in my psych undergrad – optimistic bias: the belief that good things happen to you, and the bad stuff? That’s for everyone else.
You know those stats? The ones like there's an 80% chance you’ll fall pregnant. You think, Goodness, those are pretty solid odds. Surely I couldn’t fall into the unlucky 20%.
Well. Here we are.
The solo embryo I had from the first round of egg collection was never meant to be.
If we want to give Lark a sibling – and we do – then it’s back to square one. Except this time, we’re armed with hard-earned knowledge and a few mental battle scars.
I’m a week into IVF hormones daily injections now, and the dosages are high:
Gonal F: 450 units / 1.44 ml daily
Orgalutran: 250 mcg / 0.5 ml daily from day 5
Luveris: 75 units (new this round – mix it yourself, nurse-style injected daily from day 5)
Decapeptyl: 100 units (coming soon)
Injection City, Population: Me
I flew back from Tassie yesterday afternoon and honestly? I should be a mystery shopper for airlines at this point.
Virgin – who were originally terrible the first time I travelled with IVF meds – have since redeemed themselves. Massively.
This time, the air hostess – who might just be one of the most beautiful humans I’ve seen in recent memory – remembered my plight. I’d quietly confessed it before take off, but didn’t expect her to remember.
She came to find me at seat 10A, a full 30 minutes before landing, with enough time before the seatbelt signs were due to flick on.
She crouched down beside me, all grace and doe eyes, and asked gently:
“Would you like to do it now?”
Then:
“I’ll take care of Lark for you.”
She remembered everything, including Lark’s name. Amazing.
It was now or never. I figured it was better to be 15 minutes early than 30 minutes late.
Off she went, leading Lark by the hand – who followed her eagerly, perhaps mesmerised by her beauty too – and popped her on her lap in the galley like a little honorary co-pilot.
Meanwhile, I grabbed my cooler bag, tucked an ice pack into my waistband, and locked myself in the cubicle. Time to line up the Gonal-F and Orgalutran, pinch a generous layer of belly fat (which I fully intend to lose eventually), and get stabbing. I’d mix the Luveris in the parents room at Sydney Airport.
Injection City. Population: me.
When I emerged – aside from the line of passengers one turbulence bump away from wetting their pants – there was Lark, holding court with the ladies in Virgin red and purple, charming the cabin crew like she was born for the job.
My heart warmed.
And I felt, surprisingly, fond of Virgin again.
Turns out, the skies really are friendlier when someone holds your toddler and your hand – metaphorically – while you IVF jab yourself mid-flight.
Timing is everything
It was already tight, having to take the meds at the same time every day. I picked 5:45pm – late enough to finish work, jab myself like a human pin cushion, and still salvage some semblance of an evening.
You know, avoid the whole sprint out of a comedy show to stab myself in the car situation again. That’s a good story for another time.
But I’m learning: there’s no perfect time to inject IVF hormones daily.
Every time is inconvenient.
Every time is a bit ridiculous.
But it must be done and I’m doing it.
Day 7 IVF Bloods and Ultrasound
I flew back to Sydney for my first ultrasound on Day 7. So far, I’ve been able to get my blood tests done locally at Launceston Pathology, and I found Slade Pharmacy in Kings Meadows that dispenses IVF medications – even though they usually supply a different clinic. The team at IVF Tasmania didn’t seem to mind when I cheekily called to ask. We’re all on the same mission, after all.
On a much warmer-than-Tasmania morning in Sydney, I texted my sister (Lark’s Favourite Aunty™) my carpark location. A cryptic code born out of desperation and lateness at my very first appointment. I smiled.
In-jokes are a form of love.
And dear reader, you’re now in the inner circle.
L1-10.
The missing detail?
Wilson Parking, Kings Cross.
If this were a crime novel, that code would crack the case. The detective, brows furrowed, would pore over the map, slowly narrowing down carparks near fertility clinics… until the truth clicks: IVF. Round 2. Parking location known.
The nurse who did my scan had bouncy curls. The kind that scream I’ve been to the salon this morning but actually whisper overnight heatless curl rollers.
She’s a walking advertisement – and I’m buying.
Roll out of bed. Roll out your hair. Roll into work.
Looking good is that easy.
First up: bloods.
From my dud arm, because my good one looks like it lost a bar fight – bruised, battered, and still two days from payday.
Then: ultrasound.
Several follicles developing nicely, around the 11–14mm mark.
Lining also looking good. Last time it made it to 7mm, which seemed to please my IVF Doctor and Asherman’s Syndrome Professor.
This time is no different: A good response, she told me. Depending on bloods, egg collection is looking like a week from now.
I’ll know more this afternoon.
Which likely means: Decapeptyl trigger shot on Wednesday.
And then?
Stay the fuck away from all human life.
The trigger shot is when I morph into someone else: a hormone-fuelled, puffed-up creature unrecognisable to the general public.
A manic, bloated, ragey, weepy version of myself who can’t be reasoned with.
A one-woman demolition derby with a reusable ice pack in her bra, just begging for a hug that no one’s brave enough to give.
I love-hate the world already.
And it’s only day 7 of the IVF stim cycle.
How am I going to fare with another 7 days of hormones?
Dear reader
That’s why we’re here.
I know it’s different for everyone – but if you’re going through it, I want you to know:
You’re not alone.
And if I can document the IVF emotional journey: the good, the bad, and the deeply unhinged in-between for you…
Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll know what to expect.
Or at least feel a little less alone on the ride.
