Prick a Little, Balk a Little
I woke up this morning at 8:15 in a blind panic.
In my mind, I was supposed to be on the Upper East Side no later than 15 minutes ago. In reality, I had to do that yesterday, and will have to again tomorrow, but today I get a reprieve. I was halfway through finding the clinic’s number in my phone before I remembered.
All I have to say is, it’s a good thing my cat can’t understand profanity. That’s a reflex I’ll have to work on before I use these eggs.
My normal clinic is about a mile away. I’ve been taking cabs there in the mornings, and then taking the subway home if I feel up to it and the weather isn’t terrible (in other words, I think this has happened once). But only the UES location is open on weekends. And this being a holiday weekend — you know, the one in which we celebrate how we used to have presidents — that includes Monday as well. Also, trains happen to not be running at all at my station this weekend, because, I don’t know, why would they be?
So not only does each of these weekend appointments involve getting up at 6:45 a.m. — I can’t even remember the last time I had to be up that early, but it probably involved getting to the airport with my dad for an evening flight — each round trip also costs me around $70. Super.
I keep showing up to appointments half expecting they’re going to tell me during the ultrasound, “Huh, nothing’s happening.” I don’t know why I think this, other than the fact that it doesn’t feel like something I could possibly be making happen on my own without screwing it up, especially when the outcome rests so heavily on overcoming one of my main phobias.
But in fact, the egg babies are developing nicely. My follicles are slowly but surely getting bigger. It even turns out there were a few of them hiding that first day, and there are actually more like 12 or 13, rather than the original count of 8 to 10. So that’s really good news, in that it’s more likely that one cycle will be enough.
We’re making progress. As of yesterday, we’re up to three shots a day. On bloodwork days, that means a cool four needles in my body over the course of about 12 hours.
The two hormones I’ve been taking since the beginning — Gonal F in the morning and Menopur in the evening — are both designed to make you develop more eggs. The new one, Cetrotide, starts partway through the cycle and tells your ovaries NOT to release those eggs until we’re ready. At least it means I’m one step closer to the end.
And I’ve even started doing some of the injections myself. The morning one, Gonal F, is far and away the easiest: just twist the dial to the correct dosage and stab yourself. It only takes me like half a dozen times of counting to three before I’m able to go through with it. Doing this one on my own means not having to schlep to my friend’s house in the mornings, which nets me about half an hour more sleep, which is all the motivation I need, apparently.
So far, I still haven’t had any symptoms beyond some fatigue (which I think is a result of the early mornings and extra stress, not the hormones). And a little pain at the injection site, because I don’t know what I was smoking that first day but the Menopur definitely stings like a bitch.
And now, off to a huge brunch, because after all, I’m eating for like twelve now.
