Me and My White Stuff

My white fellas have done their job. I’m going to be a daddy!

Read my new blog Daddy Dazed

Cuddling is down to a minimum. Iza just lies on her back and won’t spoon. I put my arms round her body but her breasts are out of bounds because they are “too sore” and I cant rest my arm on her navel because I might squash TM. We are making a baby but I have never felt less close.

She says she’s sorry we cant have sex. I really don’t mind. I am worried about it too. All that thrusting so close to baby wouldn’t be fun for them. It would be like the neighbours trying to put up shelves on the wall next to our bedroom at 8 in the morning. Loud and annoying.

Never has some pee made me so happy. Wifey’s urine soaked electronic pregnancy stick has a big smiley face. But its not as big as ours.

Nothing to do but wait and speculate. Every little ache or pain is analysed for signs of pregnancy. Her breasts are sore. Is that good or bad? One morning she says she feels sick. I am overjoyed. Morning sickness. Surely. Probably not says Dr Google. Too early.

There is so much riding on the outcome. We so want to know but in at the moment its so exhilarating. Its like we have just put £6000 on a number at the roulette table. All the time the ball is still spinning there is so much potential and excitement.

It’s all about her bum. Most of our conversation tonight is about it. And for once we are not discussing whether its too big or not. Or got bigger . Or is bigger than J-Los. Or is bigger or smaller than her best friend’s. No these discussions are all about how sore it is from the daily Gestone injections. How it hurts when she is sitting down and hurts when she is standing up and walking.

On the surface bruises have appeared and underneath there are lumps.

Tonight we try a new tactic. Iza lies face down on our massage table. She removes her panties to expose her bum. I gently prod her arse cheek trying to find an insensitive spot to inject the needle. But locating one is as hard to find as a simile when you are looking for one.

Eventually I identify a place that doesn’t make Iza flinch when I touch it take a biro and mark it with a cross.

And then she asks me to spank her. She says the sting of the slap will distract her from the pain of the needle. I don’t really want to. I don’t really want to inflict more pain on her but she insists. So I deliver a firm hand to her behind.

“Harder, Harder” she yells. Under other circumstances this could have been  very erotic.

After few minutes of this S&M role play I thrust it into her behind (sorry couldn’t resist).

It seems to work. She says it wasn’t as painful.

Wife is in bed. Keeping her feet her up.

I wait on her. I bring her food. I massage her feet. I tend to her every need. I have to confess I find it hard.

I could never be a servant.

Except, I realise a couple of hours later, that is what I am signing up for. To be a servant for years to come. I am signing up for sleepless nights. I am signing up for endless worrying. Dressing them, waiting on them, ferrying them to and fro. Dad cab. I get all cold and sweaty just thinking about it. I enjoy my own time, I enjoy deciding what I want to do, I enjoy lying in. I enjoy having my wife all to myself. I don’t like sharing her. (one of the reasons I would never want to swing, but I digress) I am 40. Why? Why? Why subscribe to all this upheaval ? I will have to be my wife’s bitch all through pregnancy and the early years and then I am going to be my kid’s bitch for years and years and years.

What do the Turkish supporters have on their flags when British football teams visit ? Welcome to Hell.

Despite all this fear. And the knowledge that my life will change forever. I still want this to happen. I still want those little embryos currently bedding down in my wife’s womb to grow and grow.

Implantation is  the process by which the embryo implants in the uterine lining (endometrium).

It is a complex, highly co-ordinated event. Success depends upon contributions from both the developing embryo and the endometrium.

The developing embryo (called at this stage a blastocyst) needs to hatch from its shell (the zona pellucida). It is thought that the cells of the embryo secrete substances that cause erosion of the endometrium and create an implantation site for the blastocyst. Some of the uterine lining cells are destroyed in this process and blood pools are created stimulating the growth of new blood vessels. This kick-starts a process that is going to result in the development of the placenta.

We have no idea whether this is currently happening or not , all we can do is hope.

Now its a waiting game.

Two weeks until the pregnancy test.

Two weeks before we know if  its been a success or failure.

Two weeks til tears joy or heat wrenching disappointment.

All we can do is hope, inject and wait.

To our amazement magnum comes through. Not only does he defrost ok he rehydrates well and gets a B/B grade. Score!

Our embryo which took three days longer to reach blastocyst than it should have, on day 7 rather than day 4, has played a blinder.
Sarah the embryologist’s says sometime its like that. Sometimes they are “slow and steady”.

So for the second day running Iza lies on the table, legs up and wide and allows a doctor to insert tubes into her. This time there is no wind from the wife although I notice that the doctor and nurse have brought those masks that cover the nose and mouth.

The transfer is a success.

So now we have two embryo’s inside. We have doubled our chances. Now all we can do is wait and hope. Hope and wait.

Today is the day of the Frozen Embryos Transfer.

In the morning the embryologist thaws two of our 3 frozen embryos.  Our finger’s are crossed that they will survive the defrosting. Approximately 30% of frozen embryos fail when they are thawed. All we can do is wait.

6 hours later, at the clinic, the embryologist shows us pictures of our embryos. They look like little bubbles. Sarah, who has a lovely smiling manner about her, informs us that one of the embryos looks good and she rates it a B/C but the other one, which on closer inspection looks like a scab, is not so good. It is slow at rehydrating. It appears we have a slow simple non-performing embryo. She asks us what we want to do. Do we want to transfer both or just plant one and then defrost the other and transfer that tomorrow. Of course if we defrost the last one we wont have any left for another cycle. Big decisions.

I ask for her to explain in statistical terms.  If we go ahead with the B/C one we have approximately 15% chance of success, she says, if we also transfer the simple one, that may increase our chances by 1%, essentially the second embryo is a very very long shot.

15%. Fifteen-f*cking-percent. Its hard to take in. All this effort, drama, emotional turmoil for a 15% chance. After 6 months and over £6000 we are down to one embryo with average grades and a predicted 15% chance. If I was playing poker I would fold. It is incredibly depressing. Iza looks shell-shocked.

We elect to wait an hour to see if the slow embryo, who we now christen Viennetta, makes any progress, and then we will decide.

We go for a tea and sit quietly as we try and digest the odds. Its hard to remain positive when the odds are so against you.

Its all so complicated this babymaking. Technical. Statistical. Medical. It’s at times like this that I wonder what we are doing. Gambling thousands of pounds on the equivalent of three legged horses

As expected, after an hour there is no progress on the second embryo, The defrosting of Vienetta has failed.

We decide to maximise our chances and implant B?C graded Twister and defrost Magnum tomorrow.

Now its transfer time..

A full bladder is required for the procedure as the pressure of the bladder helps straighten the uterus and makes the insertion of the catheter easier. Iza wanted the sexy senior doctor to do the procedure but he is not available for 20 minutes. She has consumed 2 litres of water and is ready to burst. She can’t hold on any longer, not even for Dr Sexy. So we go with the junior doctor, who appears to be very competent although thankfully doesn’t have the chiselled chin.

Iza is manoeuvred into position and her legs spread in stirrups. She plugs in her ipod.

I ask her who she is listening to. “SNOOPY DOGG” she shouts.

I lift up her earphone. “Darling you don’t need to shout.”

The nurse and doctor scrub up. The main light is switched off and an intense spotlight lamp, that resembles something used in an interrogation, is shone at her nether regions.

The doctor studies intently.

Her pussy has never had so much attention. Well not from me anyway.

The interrogation spotlight reflects off the sinister array of metal clamps on the nurse’s tray. I am reminded of the screen in Marathon Man where the Nazi dentist, played by Laurence Olivier, interrogates Dustin Hoffman. At this moment if I was my wife’s genitalia I would have broken down, wept and revealed all my secrets.

But Iza is oblivious to it all. Eyes shut she is listening to her ipod.

I stand next to her in my green medical scrubs holding her hand and doing my best George Clooney impression, failing miserably.

A nurse scans her stomach and the doctor slowly threads a tube up her uterine cavity using the scan to help guide him.

Iza, lost in music, doesn’t flinch.

The air is full of silence and concentration, and the smell of antiseptic. And now something more unpleasant and recognisable. The nurse almost gags.

“SORRY I’VE FARTED” shouts my beloved.

I try to suppress my giggles.

“Don’t worry it happens” says the doctor, smooth as ice.

The procedure is successful one embryo is transferred to the lining of the womb. Now its home to rest and back tomorrow, hopefully, to transfer the second one.