Stims, Day 8 - Sip that medicine up, girls!

 

 

I have hit a new high. Or low. Not sure. This morning I sang to my growing follicles. I have either reached a new height of adorableness or creepiness. Hard to tell. It sounded like a children's song. I urged them to grow and invite their friends, to have a party, yada yada. "Yada yada" as though one could guess the trajectory of a follicle-growing song. My refrain, though I didn't song it at the time, should be "Sip that medicine up, sip that medicine up!" Doo-wop girls will sing it. Or possibly the Andrews Sisters. I digress.

I started a journal in a notebook but honestly I handwrite too slowly to accurately get my feelings down. The slog of it makes me anxious and then I write sad, sad things. Anyone who read it after me would remark what a wonder it was that I didn't commit suicide mid-cycle. That's not really how I feel at all. Yes, I have many moments of sadness, fear, uncertainty, etc but I have just as many moments of cautious excitement, pride in my near mastery of my injection protocol, and twinklings of "it could happen..." And that it might not. Ay, there's the rub.

I am on Day 8 of my stims - a cocktail of Follistim and Menopur with a dash of Lupron. The meds have the effect of replacing my once reasonably quick-witted brain with cat food. I also would like to nap at least twice a day. I might cry a little while I nap just for a little extra release. What a freaking emotional roller coaster. I am so ready to get off and get on with things. God forbid this medicine should have the side effects of making you feel energetic and extra witty. Perhaps a heightened sense of self. "I am an incredible dancer and am shockingly pretty!" That would be really sweet. Like cocaine, so I hear. Yet another thing that's verboten during my cycle. That and alcohol, caffeine (tragic), sex and exercise. But please, enjoy yourself! I do dabble in the caffeinated arts. I can't help myself. One indulgence a day usually in the form of black tea. Yeah, I know, I live right on the edge.

Sidebar - there's a completely amazeballs dress at Topshop right now. Writing this as I ride the bus to work along Michigan Avenue. Street of "you probably shouldn't buy that because babies are expensive and one day there's a possibility that you might get pregnant via petri dish. Save your money indefinitely."

 

Tomorrow I go in for another blood test and ultrasound, my third this week! The lab and ultrasound techs totally know me. I am an excellent patient. I do, however, annoy the ultrasound techs every single time I'm in when I ask to see my print out with the promise that I expect no interpretation on their part. I'd just like to see it so that I can see roughly the number of follicles I have growing and my uterine lining thickness. Otherwise I have to squirm while I wait 3-4 hours for the blood work to come back and the nurse to call me. They never say yes. It's against policy to look at images of your own body, apparently. "The nurse will call you and explain everything later!" They tell me this every time. I know that the nurse will call me. She always does. I would, however, like to leave the clinic without a giant question mark hanging over my head. I excel in pessimism. I am always sure that I either have ovarian hyper stimulation syndrome or have grown absolutely zero quality follicles. It's never anywhere in between. I go straight for the worst case scenario. It's a gift. This could all be avoided if I could just see that damn print out. Perhaps tomorrow I'll go all AA and "let live and let God" and not ask to see it. I'll just patiently wait for the call back, smiling beatifically. I'll let you know how that goes.