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According to my naturopath who was intrumental in helping me achieve a successful pregnancy, you can take drugs (of the IVF variety) while on herbs, but according to my doctor you can not take herbs while on the drugs. Who is right and who is wrong? Both and neither.
What it comes down to is that when you've put an exorbitant amount of money (equivalent to the down payment on a BMW) in the pocket of a doctor and their clinic but only paid fifty dollars for a bottle of herbs, the strong inclination is to go with what the doctor said. It's a form of looking after your investment, making sure it gets a return. You can gamble with fifty dollars but not five thousand.
There's also the emotional investment. To undertake the rigorous and demanding IVF drug routine and procedures takes a lot of inner strength from you, unlike putting a tablespoon of herbs in a glass of water. So when subjected to the former the inclination is to do it as the booklet requires.
However, in terms of success rates for either approach on its own, there is overwhelming research to support either. It is what you feel comfortable with. I couldn't have thrown myself into the rigors of IVF in the early stages of my struggle to conceive, I just wasn't psychologically prepared for it and, whatever approach you choose, it is extremely important for you to feel right with it, to believe in it.
I have no doubts whatsoever that the herbal regime that I was on until succumbing to IVF played a major role in the success of IVF. The herbs cleaned out and toned out my reproductive system and in that way were immeasurably helpful.
So, IVF herbs vs IVF drugs - both have their usefulness and to my mind both played a role in the conception of my daughter.
To find out how herbs can help prepare for a successful IVF cycle, do have a look at Stacey Roberts' aka "The Baby Maker's" eBook ‘Herbs and IVF' here »
I'm convinced it was her ground-breaking formulas that got me across the line at my first attempt at IVF.
Jodi Panayotov
During my darkest hours, when I thought I'd never be a mother, I turned to a number of shows for comfort that showed a sizable lapse in judgement on my part.
I have no way to explain it other than I was in an altered state of consciousness and these programs, obviously designed for people like myself, filled a kind of void.
The void was created when I gave up my job, my leisure pursuits and most of my friends in the obsessive pursuit of parenthood and there was something about watching shows like Jerry Springer, where a cast of freaks aired their cataclysmic lives on stage, that distracted me from my own impending madness.
The truth is, I was feeling like a bit of a freak myself and therefore identifying increasingly with his guests. Had there been a show entitled, ‘Women Who Can't Stop Taking Their Temperature and Checking Their Mucous', who knows, I may have signed up. God knows I needed to get out more…
A curious piece of knowledge I unwittingly gained when watching Jerry Springer, was that the vast majority of his guests had achieved parenthood in some shape or dysfunctional form. It didn't matter what their circumstances were, what shape or form their lives took, whether they were a pimp or a paedophile, they had an offspring or ten out there. If my memory serves me correctly there was even a man who had managed to impregnate an unidentified farm animal.
Now clearly either this show or the people who applied to be on it had some secret fertility ingredient that loving couples at IVF clinics missed out on. I don't know what it was but I do intend on studying the show further to find out.
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A guide for relatives, friends and acquaintances who wish to remain relatives, friends and acquaintances:
1. Just relax and it'll happen
2. It (the miscarriage) was meant to be
3. Have you tried having lots of sex?
4. You're trying too hard
5. You just have to try harder
6. Forget about it and it'll happen
7. You've left it too late
8. Don't panic
9. I told you that you should have started earlier
10. I can't imagine what it's like but then I fell pregnant first go with all four of my children
Further explanations that may be necessary for R, F and A's that still don't get it.
To make a point let's substitute the struggle to conceive with the struggle to pay off a steep mortgage, with a few alterations to the above comments.
1. Just relax and it'll happen
2. It (the large mortgage) was meant to be
3. Have you tried earning lots of money?
4. You're trying too hard to pay it
5. You just have to work harder
6. Forget about it and so will the bank
7. You've left it too late - you'll never be debt-free
8. Don't panic even if your house is repossessed
9. I told you you should have bought a house earlier
10. I can't imagine what it's like but then I own four houses and have mortgages on none of them
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Just when you think the odds are against you, think again. This true story is a triumph over everything that shouldn't have happened and did, an extraordinary beating of the odds. It's along the lines of a person cutting off their own head, eating it and surviving - just as strange, but in this case true.
Right. Take a seat while I try and work out where to begin. Pour yourself a drink if you're in between IVF cycles. OK, here goes.
A 57 year old woman, Susan Tollefsen from Romford, East London walks into an IVF clinic in Russia, hoping to have a child with her 46 year old partner. At this point her odds of achieving a pregnancy with IVF are zero with her own eggs, and, using the rates of success in Britain at private clinics treating women over 50, roughly twenty five percent with donor eggs.
She has already tried a few other ‘foreign' clinics over several years without success. She undergoes treatment and has 2 embryos implanted.
The first miracle occurs - she achieves a pregnancy but less than four weeks after transfer starts bleeding and miscarries. The odds of miscarrying at 45 or over are greater than fifty four percent.
Her GP confirms the miscarriage as does a negative home pregnancy test. (HPTs are 99% accurate in the lab but do have a higher rate of false negatives than positives).
Susan reluctantly relinquishes her dream.
Fast forward to twenty-four weeks later when she has been suffering from a swollen abdomen and presents at hospital with what her GP cited as a ‘hard abdominal mass'.
The fear is that she has ovarian cancer - the odds being high for a 57 year old with a swollen abdomen who has never been pregnant. It is the fourth leading cause of cancer death in women of this age.
She is fully expecting the sonographer to relay some grave news but instead he says, "Congratulations. You are pregnant." Thirty weeks pregnant to be exact and the baby is healthy.
Susan has now given birth to her first baby, a girl she has named ‘Freya'.
And if that's not a miracle, I'm not sure what is.
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Anger and infertility go together like a horse and carriage, love and marriage, like bad hair and Donald Trump. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Whilst there may be serene and blissful pregnancies the battle to conceive is anything but.
I don't think I was ever so cranky as when I was trying unsuccessfully to have a baby, culminating in the IVF process. And giving IVF drugs to an already emotionally fraught woman is like waving a red flag at a mallee bull.
For the first time in his life my two metre tall husband was actually scared of me. I'm not sure what he thought I was capable of but he didn't want to find out. Which is why, when we were halfway up the mountain on our weekend away and I yelled that we had to turn back as I'd forgotten my basal thermometer, he did. Without arguing. Just went a little pale before putting the indicator on and doing a swift U-turn.
In a past life, BTTC (before trying to conceive), it would have been out of the question but this was now, I was mad and he was nervous.
Not that I ever shared what was going on in my head or anything. No, I kept the homicidal thoughts towards pregnant women, people who blew smoke in their children's faces and power walking pram groups to myself. Nor did I share any of the ideas I had about what should happen to people who abused their kids, Courtney Love, Jordan and other abysmal celebrity mothers.
Then there was the small stuff - the ‘you left the light on', ‘you forgot to buy parmesan cheese' and so forth. It was quite fortunate by the time it came to IVF and no sex was required because there couldn't have been any with my moods, unless it was of the make-up variety. But you better get in quick, I just spotted a mould spot on the ceiling and it's making me furious.
Seriously though, why do we get so angry? And why do we get so down on ourselves for being that way? The answer to the second question probably lies with the fact that there is still some expectation, stemming from last century that women aren't supposed to get really angry. Bulldust!
All those 1950's magazines with the perennially happy homemakers, grinning whilst they ironed, beaming while they vacuumed, twinkling as they fetched their husband's scotch and slippers set some pretty warped notions of how we should be. Had there been IVF then, no doubt the woman would have been pictured there in backless gown and matching paper hat sunnily beaming her way through the egg pick-up, or smiling beatifically in wasp waisted dress as she injected herself with Puregon.
As for why we get so angry, well, aside from the sense of injustice that this is happening to us, and the lack of understanding and insensitivity we often experience from others, including loved ones, anger is a part of grief. A healthy part.
The grieving process comprises four parts - denial, anger, sadness and acceptance and when we suffering infertility which is something we struggle to deal with we will experience these emotions before we can either resolve or learn to accept the situation. Anger has as much of a role as sadness though different people experience each in different measures.
In accepting that anger is OK you can start to tame the beast, not feel so out of control with it. This doesn't means trying to suppress it - it will reveal its ugly head again later anyway, usually when you're at an important work party with your husband.
There are things you can do to take the edge off it - yoga, various forms of exercise, boxing, counselling, just putting headphones on and going off for a walk.
And if it's your partner that bears the brunt of it, talk. Tell him that this is how you are right now and it's not about him. It's about the situation. 
Unfortunately for him you can't shout at your ovaries or your IVF doctor.
The other thing to know is that it will pass, either when you fall pregnant or when you have worked through the process and reached a new place to be in.
Unlike Donald Trump who is stuck with his hair forever, you won't be stuck with the anger.
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Tis the season to be jolly, but try telling that to the women and couples out there who have tried and failed to conceive this year. Or those who have lost a baby through miscarriage.
If any season brings home the feeling of emptiness and sadness to the infertile it's Christmas. For Christmas has children at its heart whether you look at it commercially or religiously.
While the Christian world celebrates, of all things, the birth of a baby and stores have Santa trails especially for children nothing emphasises a state of childlessness in such an inescapable marked way.
So what to do if you are involuntarily and regrettably childless?
‘Carols by Candlelight', an event awash with families and ringing with the sound of excited children's voices is clearly to be avoided at all costs.
You'd escape to the cinema except everything playing features Ben Stiller or Tim Allen as a Christmas elf and besides, the audience are mostly elf-size themselves.
Similarly shopping centres have stages with non-stop children's entertainment and you can't even get past them for the dancing toddlers and Hummer-sized prams.
You'd go to the ballet but they're performing the children's Christmas favourite ‘The Nutcracker'. And the Eagles, Silverchair and Kylie are long gone from the Entertainment Centre, instead it's the Wiggles if you please and of course you don't.
Meantime the advent of Christmas feels like the build-up of an enormous pressure cooker, a forced time of celebration when all you feel like is fleeing to a desert island where there are strictly no children allowed.
Anything to avoid Christmas Day either with ‘unrequited' grandparents or nephews and nieces, oh so cute in their Christmas finery. These are the nephews and nieces you had to negotiate hundreds of children and their frazzled parents at ‘Toys R Us' to purchase presents for.
It's the frazzled parents that get to you the most, you don't understand them at all. How could anyone who's a parent possibly be frazzled? When you've been trying for years to become a parent yourself it's beyond comprehension.
Possibly it's the John Lennon Christmas song that is the worst of all the Christmas songs. ‘Another year over and what have you done' is haunting to the point of being disturbing. Especially when the answer is you spent the whole year trying to conceive and didn't get anywhere. Another year over and still no baby.
And spare a thought for those going through IVF over Christmas, it's highly incompatible with feeling festive and the drugs don't help. Imagine having to run off and inject yourself with a follicle-stimulating hormone during the turkey, come back and resume your seat and your paper hat with a big smile.
Yet if there's anything good about Christmas it is that it's followed by the New Year. A chance for new beginnings, the hope that this time next year you'll be pregnant or have a baby and this will have been the last childless Christmas.
A time when like people the world over you'll be celebrating the birth of a baby but this one will be your own.
When you are focussing on trying to conceive a baby, the last thing that usually occurs to you is the possibility that you might lose it, unless of course you have previously suffered pregnancy loss.
This is especially true when experiencing the type of euphoria that overwhelms you when you find you've been successful after a long time, it can be virtually impossible to allow such an awful possibility to gain access to your head.
If, like me, you haven't devoured an entire library of pregnancy books, spines and all, before becoming pregnant you can be blissfully ignorant of the things that can go wrong with pregnancy.
And even if you do like to be prepared for all eventualities, in the effort to remain positive and uplifting, to convey the joy of pregnancy, most of the pregnancy books devote little coverage to topics such as what to expect during miscarriage or what a miscarriage looks like.
For that you need to go straight to the books entitled ‘Miscarriage' and who, when newly pregnant, is doing that, no matter what paranoid tendencies they may possess? Even when I was finally pregnant again after my first miscarriage I was not tempted. Well, not much, only a bit. I confess that I may have picked one up and peeped inside before realizing I was on the verge of taking leave of my senses and put it hurriedly back on the shelf.
So, how do you know if you've had a miscarriage and not realized it? Especially if you hadn't heard or read anything about it beforehand, it is entirely possible to have missed it altogether.
Miscarriage statistics are based on ‘known pregnancies' and do not take into account women who miscarry when they didn't know they were pregnant. Generally it is passed off as a particularly heavy or nasty period, with heavier than usual bleeding accompanied by some clotting. A pregnancy test when taken up to several days after a miscarriage will still show a positive result. My state of denial after my second miscarriage was so strong that I frantically took two further tests, despite an ultrasound having shown nothing but an empty sac and the fact that I'd bled the equivalent of small dam, and both of them showed the strong double line. I called my doctor, who told me that the pregnancy hormones could remain in my system for up to a week.
Miscarriage emotions, on the other hand can last a lot longer and can vary widely: from hysteria involving wailing uncontrollably and flinging oneself at objects like a Greek widow at a funeral, to the depths of despair causing curling up in foetal position for days at a time, to a kind of blank dissociative state where you go through the motions of living without feeling anything.
Is it harder to conceive after a miscarriage? Personally I found it hard to conceive before and after my miscarriages but this was due to a whole host of reasons, which may or may not have been linked to the miscarriages themselves. My doctors, after each miscarriage, advised me to ideally wait three months before trying again, to ‘allow the system to get back into order' or words to that effect. Yet I've met many women who didn't even wait to have another period, they resumed trying again right away and fell pregnant first go.
Even after loss of infant due to miscarriage, when the miscarriage is later in the pregnancy and not far from a still birth, women conceive relatively quickly and successfully. I had a work colleague who lost a baby at twenty weeks and just over a year later she gave birth to a healthy child.
So, achieving pregnancy after a miscarriage is more likely to be difficult if you had difficulties before the miscarriage, like myself. Some women, after the initial ‘hiccup' will sail through and never have another problem whereas there are those of us who will experience a spectrum of problems in our endeavours to have a child. Something to remember is that, if one in four (including the unknown) pregnancies end in miscarriage, the more pregnancies you achieve there is some chance that you may lose one of them.
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The following is an opinion piece published in Australian Parents Magazine February-March 2008 in response to a column by author Alison Rushby
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I am infertile. I will always be infertile even though I've had a child. You see, I didn't have the child in the way nature intended. I had the child courtesy of that great 20th century invention, In Vitro Fertilization. And I consider myself one of the lucky ones, as IVF doesn't work for everyone. Many of those who sign up for it leave the clinic empty-walleted, empty-armed and broken-hearted.
Three percent of babies born in the western world today are the result of IVF and over one in six couples of reproductive age find it difficult to conceive. Yet until recently when the media has picked up on the issue, who would have known?
People certainly don't discuss their fertility problems. During the years I worked as a flight attendant I was the unwitting recipient of every gory birth story and every pregnancy tale told by my fertility goddess colleagues but not once did I hear anyone's infertility story. And I ask, why? Why, if it's kosher to be infertile, is it something you don't talk about? To not tell anyone you've had a miscarriage or are undergoing IVF? To not tell anyone how you've been trying for five years to have a child with no success?
I went on to write a book about my bumbling quest to become a mother, because of this and because there is scant literature available for those who struggle to reproduce. Whole shelves and even sections of bookshops are devoted to pregnancy and babies but you'd be lucky to find one book devoted to infertility.
To the pregnant women I lampooned in my book, I'm sorry. It was the IVF drugs I was taking, combined with the ragged mental state I was in after those years of trying to conceive. I know you don't all purposely flaunt your pregnancies, (those that do, you know who you are). Now that I've been pregnant and rejoiced in it, I can understand why you wouldn't want to hide it and nor should you. And I don't for a minute think that pregnancy wear should be confined to curtains for the stomach, i.e. smocks. Goodness knows there are enough fashion obscenities out there already without adding to them.
Yet I must explain on behalf of the other fertility-challenged women out there why we are like we are to the point of occasional militancy. Why we shun parties where there are young children or babies, why we can barely manage a smile when you say you're pregnant, why at times we can't stand the sight of you.
It's nothing personal, but it's borne of an aching emptiness, like a hunger pain that isn't confined to your stomach but cuts to your very soul. And like a hunger pain it gnaws at you day and night. We can't control it, it exists as part of our being and once unleashed it's impossible to bury it. There is no cure for it either, except of course a baby.
So when we're out and about the sighting of a pregnant woman or a baby is like a sighting of someone tucking into a hamburger when you haven't eaten for days. The pangs you feel are similar but a hundred times more intense.
If and when we do manage to have a child it is like being presented with a gourmet meal when you've been starving for a long time. It's only natural therefore to think that the person who's only been waiting a few hours for food perhaps won't savour and appreciate every mouthful in the same way. It's not based on fact but on feeling.
Had I known that my fertility would take off to an uncharted destination sometime in my thirties and not left a forwarding address, I would probably have done things differently, not attempted to get ahead with the mortgage and enjoy my career. How could I have known though, when nobody talked about it? Media coverage was practically non-existent and women's magazines focused on things like ‘Multiple Orgasm', not ‘Multiple Birth as the Result of Fertility Treatment'.
Similarly had I been offered half the information about miscarriage and IVF at work that I received about episiotomies, I'd probably be the mother of two teenagers now.
Yet many women don't have the luxury of choice. Factors way beyond their control contribute to the postponing of motherhood, for example finding a partner who has not only evolved to a Homo Sapien, but is willing to have children NOW.
So please don't judge us but listen to us instead. You've been talking for years and we've just found our voice.
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1. Buy and carry an extremely cute puppy. As there are more dog lovers than kid lovers in the world you will instantly attract attention away from smug pregnants and their cute toddlers.
2. Introduce the dog in a gushing cutesy voice as ‘my/our baby' which will stop people asking the whereabouts or existence of a real baby. Nobody ever said to Paris Hilton, "Nice dog but when are you having a baby?"
3. Consider having a T-shirt boldly emblazoned with the name of your fertility clinic, e.g., Monash IVF and wear it. That way people will instantly know where you're at without asking or else they will ask about what it means and you can tell them. Either way you will be educating a group of ignoramuses and that can't be a bad thing. Also guaranteed to give instant immunity to birth/baby story viruses.
4. Arm yourself with phrases like "Of course for our next trip to Paris we'll be staying at the Ritz. It's far more convenient to those fabulous magasins (shops) off Rue de Rivoli, the ones where Katie Holmes shops." or "What have I been up to? Well in between learning mandarin, setting up my art studio and planning my volunteers trip to Nepal I've hardly had time to scratch myself." 6. If someone says, "So when are you starting a family?" simply reply, "Good question. I have no idea but let me consult my herbalist, fertility counsellor, gynaecologist, clinic nurse and God. If any of they can enlighten me, I'll get back to you." 
7. In response to the oft and thoughtlessly repeated phrase, "Having children makes you less selfish," do not choke on your hors d'oeuvre or spit out your drink, as much self-restraint as this will require. Calmly point out that you find this puzzling because you always see evidence to the contrary. When asked what you mean, roll your eyes, laugh and say, "Where do I start?" before launching into how this morning alone you have been run over by two wide-bodied prams without apology, viciously cut off by an oversized vehicle driven my a ‘selfless' mother and at lunch your table and others at the café became a de facto playground courtesy of a nearby group of mothers who were busy enjoying their lattes in a selfless manner.
Buy In Vitro Fertility Goddess Here »
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'When trying to conceive becomes a battle to stay sane'
by Jodi Panayotov, The Australian
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I knew there was something wrong with me when I began frantically pulling everything out of the rubbish bin for the third time. Or should I say something else wrong with me. I already knew I had endometriosis, hyperthyroidism and that my hormones were out of whack (all under the infertility umbrella of afflictions), but this? It felt like something in my brain had gone into overdrive and was compelling me to do previously unimaginable things obsessively and repetitively.
How did it get to the point where I was on my knees rifling through salad scraps like a hungry street person? Except instead of food I was looking for one of a dozen discarded pregnancy tests, just in case a second line had shown up in the hour since I'd shoved it to the bottom of the bin in disgust.
This condition, like an obsessive disorder, had snuck up on me in the year since my first miscarriage and had become more pronounced in the year since my second miscarriage. My husband and I had been trying unsuccessfully to conceive for a few years and at some point recently it had taken over our lives and in particular mine.
At the time of the rubbish incident I was on herbs to correct my various reproductive ailments. This had involved the taking of my temperature every morning and charting it which may have been useful for my herbalist but was doing my head in. I'd taken to setting the alarm so I could get an accurate reading by taking it at the same time every morning. A temperature too high and I'd failed to ovulate, a temperature too low and I wasn't pregnant.With shaking hands I'd reach for the thermometer and depending on the reading of my basal temperature, I'd either leap out of bed happy or retreat under the covers. I became Linda Evangelista-esque in that a number dictated whether I got out of bed or not, although for her there was a dollar sign in front of the number while my number had a small elevated circle after it.
As for the temperature chart, I'd taken to studying it instead of the papers throughout breakfast, analyzing the little peaks and troughs as if it was a stock market graph. Did they mean I was ovulating or was I perhaps, oh God please, pregnant? And my mood would swing in peaks and troughs accordingly.
I realized how dependent on the temperature taking and charting I'd become when on one weekend my husband and I went away to the mountains and as we were halfway to our destination I remembered I'd left the thermometer and chart by the bedside. ‘We have to go back!' I screamed. There was no way I could face a weekend without it. It was as if my very existence now depended on that thermometer, it so dictated my days and moods that I wouldn't know what to feel without it.
At dusk we finally arrived at our destination, a villa tucked away in the mountains. The next morning was one of the mornings I wanted to stay in bed like Linda but breakfast was included so I dragged myself out to face a sumptuous buffet. At first it looked very inviting, laden as it was with fresh and home-made local mountain products. Then as I moved along with my plate the items started to turn into something else before my eyes. The plump dried figs became shrivelled ovaries, the berry jam endometriotic clots and the poached eggs blighted ova. I knew than that I needed help but I wasn't sure whether to call a gynaecologist or a psychiatrist.
As it happened I ended up seeing both. After that weekend I called my gynaecologist in Sydney and booked an appointment for IVF. I really didn't trust things to be left in my own hands any more, not when I was capable of turning a breakfast buffet into a dysfunctional reproductive system. And through a friend I found a ninety-year old one-legged psychiatrist who had more empathy for how my fertility problems were affecting my life than anyone in the medical fraternity.
The medical fraternity are all, ‘Swallow this, have another blood test, take this, try this,' but they seem completely oblivious to the emotional side of what you're going through. For instance, not once in any medical report do they say, ‘There are many side-effects to infertility beyond the physical ones. Some common ones are:
Homicidal thoughts towards pregnant women, Homicidal urges towards people who mistreat their children, Temperature Charting obsession, Repetitive Pregnancy Test taking to the point where you consider taking shares in the company who manufactured them, Extreme mood swings, Bursting into tears at someone else's pregnancy news, for example Liz Hurley's. And the less common: When foodstuffs remind you of faulty reproductive organs.
If I thought IVF would be the answer to both my reproductive issues and my mental issues I was very mistaken. Yes, it produced a baby but the emotional toll took ages for me to recover from it. On the one hand IVF took the onus from me and placed it in the hands of a medical team but on the other hand I had to play a far greater role in it than I had with my herbs.
Everyone knows IVF involves injections but what I didn't realize was that there would be a plethora of blood tests that left my inner arms looking like that of a junkie and these were carried out at obscure hours in the morning. Sometimes these were paired with internal ultrasounds, after which I'd spend until mid-afternoon obsessively awaiting the results and whether we would continue the next day. It was like doing an exam every day that you had no way of studying for.
I'd thought my mental state was pretty ragged until I started the IVF drugs. To put them in perspective, I seriously believe that one day, ‘My client was under the influence of Lucrin and Puregon when she killed him, Your Honour,' will be a valid defence in a trial. It's like PMT tripled. And coming on the tail of the years of trying to conceive stress it can be a force to be reckoned with. I think that for the first time in his life my husband was scared of me when I was on those drugs.
The day I got the positive pregnancy result from the IVF clinic it was like being let out of prison, a mental prison that I'd been in for the past three years. But I was on parole until after the scans that showed a viable pregnancy. Suddenly I didn't know what to do with myself. I put the thermometer away, the charts, tipped out the herbs and thought, ‘what now?' It was as if I had to invent a new life for myself, which I did, although I had some scares during pregnancy which had me back in a state of high anxiety for a while.
Now when I look back on the diary I kept during the infertility years, which I've since turned into a book, it's not the procedures, the drugs, the temperatures that predominate but the insanity which accompanied them all.
Friends who've read the book are taken by utter surprise and say they had no idea what had been going on. Yes, they knew of the herbs, the IVF etc but they had no idea what was going on with me. It wasn't as if I was going to ring them and say, ‘Can you believe it, I've just spent an hour trawling through my rubbish and the pregnancy test still says negative,' or ‘I really think that figs look like ovaries, don't you?'
You see, when people speak of infertility nobody mentions that it has an insanity clause.
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