Laying the Groundwork
Previous post: Hatching a Plan
I’m cozied up on the couch on this rainy day, drinking decaf like a chump.
I’m not even trying to get pregnant — that’s kind of the whole point, right? — and yet I’ve been advised to start taking many of the same precautions. Cut out alcohol during the injection period. No more than one cup of coffee per day. Basically, no one knows whether these things matter or not, so they’d rather you play it safe.*
Not drinking for a couple weeks isn’t the end of the world. You better believe I won’t be happy about it, but I’ll survive. The most important thing is, I got to drink on my birthday, which was last weekend.
(Er, I mean, the most important thing is the health of my hypothetical future offspring. Yes. That.)
But coffee. My lifeblood. Nectar of the gods. For the love of all that is holy, what are you doing to me?
I started weaning myself off it immediately after my initial consultation, to try to mitigate the withdrawal. As of a couple days ago I’ve officially gotten myself to one cup a day, and by 4 p.m. I want to stab everybody I come into contact with. The hormones will only help, I imagine.
On the plus side, the bloodwork has already become old hat.
For context, I have a long history of almost fainting in doctor’s offices. Bloodwork, shots, anything involving a needle. Also anything involving eyes. Also I don’t do great with nasal passages. It’s kind of a spectrum.
No part of this process was ever going to be fun, by any means, but the barrage of needles has been the most daunting prospect for me. Bloodwork by morning, self-injections (self!!! injections!!!) by night. Lather, rinse, repeat, for up to two weeks.
And then the mother of all needles, at the end, to retrieve the eggs. They’ll put me under for that one, at least.
Which — oh wait — also means more needles. Cool.
At my most recent appointment, they drew some blood to determine when I should start my week or so of estrogen patches, which it turns out are not just for menopause. The more you know!
I’m not even one thousand percent clear on why the patches are necessary in my case and not in some others, but they involve zero needles and were actually covered by my insurance (unlike literally any other part of this process) so I’m just rolling with it, to be honest. I’m muddling through enough information as it is.
Anyway, they called my name for the blood draw, I sat down, averted my eyes**, barely winced at the prick of the needle, and hopped right back up afterwards. Didn’t get woozy at all. If this is how exposure therapy works, I’m officially a believer.
Now I just have to learn to do it myself.
I’ve had a bit of practice, at least. A couple years ago, my cat developed what the vet believed to be chronic kidney disease. (She went on to make a full recovery, which apparently is unheard of, so basically we have no idea what happened other than she’s my little miracle.)
Part of her treatment involved daily subcutaneous fluid injections. I remember half-joking to a friend: “If they told me I needed to give myself daily injections, I’d be like well, I’ve lived a good long life.” To be clear, needles freak me out going into anyone’s body, not just my own. But I vowed to push through it for my baby girl.
And believe it or not, after the first couple of times, it became second nature. I stopped getting lightheaded. I barely even thought about anything other than trying to hold her down without getting bitten. So knowing I was able to get past it for her gives me a sliver of hope that I’ll be able to get past it for myself too.
We’ll find out soon. Real soon. Like, probably tomorrow. I’m going in for bloodwork in the morning to determine whether I start injections that night. It’s all happening.
*At least I don’t have to go off my antidepressants. Or have my IUD out, which I definitely thought would be necessary. (I mean, right? Guess not.)
**Life hack: when having blood drawn, hold your phone in your other hand and pull up Twitter. You’ll immediately read something Trump said that will make your heart beat faster and your fist curl up with rage, which is exactly what you want in this scenario.
