So I’ve been sneaking through the days, quiet as a mouse. Cut out my acupuncture, so I don’t have to schedule so much. Avoid blogging—don’t want to remind myself what’s going on. A couple of extra pills throughout the day, shots in the morning, a shot at night. It’s nothing, really. Once I got off the evil Pill everything’s been just groovy.
In the meantime, emphasize distraction. Work has been exciting and intense, so focus on that. New kitten in the house (yes, yes, I’ll post more pictures below) to keep me laughing at a time I might otherwise brood and worry. And then a horrible cold, which sucked, but also totally distracted me from my swelling ovaries. Tiptoe, tiptoe, and I’ll be at the end before I know it’s even begun.
And it was working! All the way up until Wednesday, when my RE said “I think we might trigger you on Sunday.”
“Really?” I said, incredulous. “So we could do the retrieval next Tuesday? But that seems so fast!” Almost at the trigger, and I’ve barely felt it. Wow.
Wednesday, I started to feel my ovaries. “Ow,” I thought to myself, a bit smugly. Luckily I only had a few days to go, and this just meant the stims were working.
Thursday, I really started hurting. “Goddamn,” I said to myself, “so glad I’ve only got three more days of shots to get through.”
Friday, and I’m totally crampy and bloated. Back at the RE, and she’s taking the measurements. “These are still pretty small,” she said, “we might be waiting until Monday to trigger you.” Sigh. Fine. One more day. Screw eating healthy—take a pizza home for dinner.
Saturday, and I’m crampy, bloated, exhausted, cranky. Hormonal as hell. And it was tax day. And taxes weren’t going well. Somehow, after about 6 hours of paperwork (including discovery that we paid almost $13K in medical expenses last year), Turbotax is still telling me we owe almost $4K. What the fuck? Horribly anxiety and guilt (because it must be my fault, as I’m the one the does the taxes). Cramping and moodiness. Get J to bring me back evil takeout Italian creamy pasta for dinner.
Sunday morning, and shit, am I starting to resent these 7 a.m. wakeup calls just so I can take my shots at the same time every day. Back to the RE, and again, the news. “The follicles still need a bit more time. Come back Monday morning, but we’re probably not going to trigger for a few more days.”
AARRGGHHH!!! I am fucking TIRED of this. I am sick to death of getting up before 6 a.m. so that I can drive to and from the RE and still make it to the office at a decent hour. I am tired of having to get up early, even on the weekends, just to give myself more shots. And the shots are starting to HURT. What’s up with that? The shot that was barely registering a week ago is now hurting as it goes in and bleeding when I take it out. Is it because I’m cranky? Is that possible?
In the meantime, more eating like crap. Burger and lots and lots of fries, oh and potato skins smothered in sour cream, today. So now I'm not only bloated, I'm getting fat.
And it is only now, now that I’m no longer sneaking my way through, now that my IVF cycle has been startled awake and reared it’s ugly head and looked at me full-on, that I remember that this is what IVF is like. It’s not the worst feeling in the world, but it does suck, and it is persistent. I’m going to just get more bloated and sore until the retrieval. After that, I’m going to be even more sore, and just as bloated, for several more days. And then, even after the transfer, the cycle isn’t over. More bloodwork visits to the RE, and that godawful two-week wait, with the nasty PIO shots in the butt every day. And then, even after that, I’ve seen it get much much worse. Twice. So much for sneaking through, burying my head in the sand, or whatever metaphor I so choose. I’m busted, and now I’ve just got to ride it out.
I suppose you might see more of me now, now that my cover’s blown. I guess that’s an upside. I’ve missed you.
An epilogue, if you will. As I was writing this, getting a good cranky on and banging it out on my computer in the kitchen, J came in with little McNulty. We decided to give him a new toy J’s mom bought for him today. It’s just a plastic loopy curly thing about the size of a thumb. Designed, I imagine, with those pull-off, milk-carton tabs in mind, which all cats love. So we dig one out of the packet and toss it on the floor in front of McNulty, and the kitten goes wild. Three seconds later—no more—the thing flies under the fridge. McNulty looks crushed. J and I can’t help ourselves, we completely crack up. “He only had it for three seconds,” I gasp between giggles.
So J digs it out from under the fridge and dropped it in front of McNulty again. One second later, seriously, not a smidge more, and he’s batted it under the dishwasher. McNulty again looked despondent. J and I totally lose it. Me sitting here in front of my seriously cranky post, J sitting on the floor (because only moments before he’d been down there digging the toy out from under the fridge), and we’re laughing harder than we have in months. Tears were running out of my eyes, and J looked in no better shape. I don’t know how long it lasted, but we were laughing for a lot longer than the moment warranted. I think J might have been unable to stop because I was clearly so far gone. At some point, we dug the toy out, but it ended up under the fridge again in a matter of seconds.
“I could dig it out,” J said, “but what’s the point?”
Luckily, we’ve got plenty of other toys for our little guy. But this toy was worth whatever J’s mom paid for it. It was worth the laugh.
And now, more McNulty pics: