I Can Fly Higher Than An Eagle

10,059 E2 today--hello body? Wrong way. I've always had a terrible sense of direction and apparently this observation is applicable internally as well. Ay, yay, yay. I guess the good news is that the leap from 9,000 to 10,000 is not that large so maybe today is the peak of the mountain and I'll turn around and start going down shortly.

What I'm really getting nervous about is the calendar. August arrives Tuesday and with it, the realization that I'll be returning to the ghetto, to the negativity and to all that is Bushwick. I want to avoid the stress and still get paid, now how does one pull that off? Maybe I should become a yoga instructor. Except, I'm not flexible. Will this whole thing be finished before I go back? I cannot miss days, oh no.

I listened to two doctors on the radio today talking about diabetes and that freaked me out too.

What I need is a holiday from my holiday.

Warning: The Drugs Make Me Dumber

After seeing Miss Sunshine with Wil, I went to pee. There was...an egg in my underwear. I swear. I know. I closed my eyes to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. I took deep breaths. I blinked. There is just no other way to describe what I saw. I'll admit it. I touched it. I picked it up. I smelled it for christ's sake. It was very, very small, but it was egg-shaped. Dome-like. Texture of egg--not creamy, eggy. This is of course, impossible. I know that. I understand what microscopic means. I do. I'm not a fucking idiot. But apparently, I am. I am a fucking idiot because my thought was:
"my eggs fell out." and
"it's over because my eggs fell out."
I even started to call the emergency number but then I felt like such an asshole that I told the operator I'd just hold off until the morning.
I went and looked at photography and tried to think about something else for ten fucking minutes. What if this is all for nothing?

Dumped

I've been dumped by the not-so- good nurse for the really bad, scary, Russian Nurse. The one I've been warned not to let draw my blood. What did I do wrong? I always say my pleases and my thank yous. I only call when I absolutely have no idea what I am doing...is she seeing someone else?

The Waiting Game

For four days now, I've been waiting for the go ahead for the HCG shot. I never thought I would say this, but I am actually looking forward to the big stick in the ass. The doctor is holding back because my E2 levels are too high. I didn't understand what this meant but after some online reading it appears that the estrogen levels really shouldn't exceed 3000 (some think even that is quite high) and today mine were 9000. Woah. In addition, on one web site I found information that says that a large number of follicles combined with my age (>35) and the high e2 levels puts me at high, high risk for multiples. With IVF, the risk of serious side effects from hyperstimulation are real. That is very scary. I read one study that says some people die from it each year. No thank you. Please let that not be me. So, I appreciate the caution. I am glad he is being careful.

Andrew is in Taiwan. Before he left, I sat quivering both in lip and grip attempting to give myself the lupron shot. After about 20 minutes of "one, two, three, go" I could not bring myself to do it. It was a terrible personal moment. I felt a coward. Unable to overcome my fear of needles. Lucky for both of us, I have good friends. I don't know what I did to deserve such good friends, but I have them. So, for two days now my shots have been administered by my friend who is in the middle of a hectic move. It's really too much. I feel so overbearing and intrusive that it is embarrassing. I don't know how to help or be of any use whatsoever. She has all the talents. I'm just a useless fuck with hyper ovaries. What I wouldn't give to be able to make myself useful to her and her husband. Instead, I just humbly ice my belly for the prick. I'm fucking out of needles. This was supposed to be over 6 needles ago!

The rind is not so big now and weird stuff is happening in the pants (more on that later). My breasts are blimps. I'm a turkey waiting for stuffing.

Did I mention that Monday will be my 7th blood draw in a row?

And Then There Were None

Another ridiculous day. Once again, shot delays. Andrew watching me attempt, then fail at stabbing myself, the tears, the near flight cancelation, the desperate appeal to good friends, the tears of gratitude and humility, the sadness of departing husband, the worrying about transcontinental flights, the worry that this is all for naught, the worry that I brought this all on everyone, the anger, the denial, the anger again. Do not try this at home. I fucking hate that I have to be back at that clinic at 8 a.m, I want to get drunk or stoned and just let time pass.

Waxing Hormonal

This is odd. Typically when I go for a brow wax I turn as red as a tomato in July. I even warn the ladies. "Don't freak out by the redness, it's not your fault, that's just what happens." I do that because once I swear this tiny Korean lady was going to burst into tears because she clearly believed she'd lose her job when I went to complain about my new compexion. But today after a relatively pain free rip of the lip and brow, I walked out hair and glow free. Weird. Why? The pain free part could be because I've got bigger fish to fry these days, but what up with the red disappearance? Oh well, glad to find something beneficial about all this noise.

The Rind

The belly has an official coat of rind now, it is hard and plastic but much like a watermelon. Very weird. Protection from alien probes?

Prone to Superlatives

So yesterday qualifies as a really bad day. It's mostly my own fault I guess because I'd convinced myself that the HCG shot would be done and when they pushed it off, I felt crapped on. Now that's just dumb. But my anticipation of the stupid shot is remarkable and I want to get over it. Friends say it doesn't hurt. Fellow patients say it doesn't hurt. But is anyone as whimpy as I am? The other reason I got all gathered was because I wanted Andrew to inject me. I'm used to him. We've been doing injections together and we have a rhythm going. I know his one, two, three. He knows the way I like to hold the fat out as though it gives me so control. He works on his technique in his own scientific sort of way, so I just wanted him to see it through. Helas, IBM calleth. Lucky for me, I have a good friend who is a well-trained expert and will be doing a similar protocol herself. Extra lucky is that she is willing to hang around with me until midnight and endure my whimpering. Lucky for Andrew too because if she couldn't have done it, I don't know what would have happened. Anyway, it wasn't a good day. I broke down mucho. Andrew took me out for dinner and I gulped down my first bits of refined sugars and carbs in weeks and oh man was that satisfying. I'd like not to repeat yesterday today though.

Meanwhile, today's blood work included a non-working vein. It was icky. They are so swollen and tired and each time I put my head on the pillow, I dream of veins and have to hum oh na mashi vaya over and over until the images stop. Why can't they find a different way?

The follicles looked like grapefruits today and the doc said that given the exhuberant response I should just receive half of the dose for the HCG. He said the last thing I needed was to create more energy. He also warned me rather strongly about the possibility of feeling kicked in the ovaries and the possibility of hyperstimulation. He said my fingers might swell, my stomach might get huge, it may become difficult to breathe and it could get ugly. So, he may have to make a frozen embryo call. Meaning, take 'em out, let me chill for a week and calm everything down, and then stick them back in. Daily monitering. This is a strong possibility he says, because I've responded so well, so fast, on so few meds. The illogical side of my brain responds by saying, then why the fuck can't I get pregnant without all this shit? The rationale part of me tells me to shut the fuck up. I can get pregnant. I've been pregnant remember? It's just that it's challenging when you have a cycle chart that looks like the streets of San Francisco. So, day by day. As everyone says. If I can't breathe, Andrew has to come home. Sorry, IBM, I calleth.

Doc says they are likely to get a lot o' eggs. A baker's dozen? How many will be good? Hell, when I pick up a pack at the store half of them are bad and the walk home is hardly the trauma my poor suckers must endure.

Faster Than...

Holy shit things are going quickly. I went in for the initial check-up yesterday and they said that they saw about 20 follicles on the right ovary and 10 on the left (they said 14 but revised it to 10 this morning so..). Then they said they were going to reduce the meds. Next, they told me not to take any shots at all except for the Lupron (which was perfectly acceptable to me wah ha ha) and to come back in this morning. So, I went back in this morning and they told me the whole thing will be over by Monday at the latest. I can't believe it. I am thrilled with how rapidly this is moving. Now, I just want it to work. I am trying to remain calm and stay positive but it's hard to stay cool in a crucible.

With All This, Will There Be Room for Dessert?

All of this goes in the stomach, up the ass, or in a place once referred to as my privies. Not so.

On Bravery and Bravelle

Again, with the names. It evokes bravery (brave) and yet clearly it's for women (elle)..please. The stupid, stupid plastic cap had us trying to defy gravity until the nurse on the phone said it was completely uneccessary. We managed to get the morning two shots in by about 11 anyway. Closer. Emotions were running on full tilt today, and not just for me. Andrew will have to leave for Taiwan and that means finding someone to stick me in the ass while he's away. Sorry but I am not bravelle enough to do it on my own. I might miss. I am clumsy. I hate needles. I hate them even more now that they are a daily part of my routine. Such a freakin' production...the alchohol prep, the needles, the powders, the water, the switching, the ice and the burn. I called a friend who recently gave birth and found it challenging to find common ground. It's not that I can't sympathize with the hardships of motherhood, it's that I've got my own issues to contend with. I hope my friends will be supportive but if they are not, they will not be my friends again until this is over. She's tired, I'm tired. She's hormonal, I'm hormonal, it should be a place for bonding but it's not. Nothing is. I hate everyone. Irrationally of course but so be it. There is nothing bravelle about me today.

How Can I Tell If I'm Spacey?

Needle protocol seems to be running smoothly now and the pharmacy at Warren Place is in full swing. I decided to settle back into summer vacation with gusto this morning. I hopped the train into the city to B&H photo to finally buy my new canon snapshot digital camera. So exciting. It's charging right now. But as I left with a list in my hand of other errands to complete, I became so tired and weak that I decided I had to dash to the nearest train. Is that the drugs or I have I just become so incredibly sluggish that I can't handle more than one errand?

If looks could kill

Medusa is a fine name. Perhaps that's what I should name my child. Should I have a child. Should it become possible through all the pyro and cryo -gen-etics-. Gender selection freaks me out though. I'd like to state that for the record.

Is that why everyone is having boys?

And if that is the case, what the fuck?

Eat the Crow

Humbled, humbled, humbled. Glenda the Wanna Be Nurse (aka Glenda the Bad Nurse) was kind to us. She was geniunely kind. I feel shitty for dissing her. Why is it that they get all kind and smirky when Andrew shows up? Is this place secretly filled with self-hating women? It doesn't make sense. It's true though. When I went in for a consultation because the Clomid proved ineffective, the Doc was very short with me and then he pushed IVF and shoved me along my way sans lollipop. When Andrew came with me for another consultation (because frankly what is the point of consulting with your doctor alone when these are family matters...), the doctor was Mr. Generous with his time and actually offered up a diagonosis complete with google images and all. (PCOS-like conditions is what he said. He followed this up with a caveat that while I may not in fact have PCOS, there is no other basket in which to place me, so there I sit.) He went through the whole file, "we first met a year ago and at the time you were trying to get pregnant not knowing that you already were." Hardy fucking harr harr. So what is it? The British thing? A dick thing? Am I just a big fucking pushover?
Wait. It DOES make sense. I get it now. It's like high heels. This whole industry is invented to keep us in our place right? I am sure that scientists would come up with a less painful way to do this if it were men at the other end of the jab, I'm sorry. I know it's a bit of a cliche, but I believe it in this case. It's a big, fat torture fest to keep us down. I'm signing up for one of those assertive classes, that's it. I'm going to start pushing people around. Another New York Bitch Coming Right UP!

Air Bubbles the Second

My guess is that air bubbles are irrelevant but until we know for sure it is still a guess. Andrew is a very exacting person, his actions are deliberate and precise. This is part of what I love about him. I would probably just do it and face the consequences later, I am so much more impulsive. Through my hysterical tears and beneath the mumblings of “let’s not do this,” and “I can’t do this,” and “we don’t have what it takes,” and “this is just not for us,” I felt really proud to be married to such a star.

The Good, The Bad, and their Assistant

I feel so self-conscious anyway. There are three nurses at the fertility factory, I’ll call them Glenda the Good Nurse, Glenda the Bad Nurse, and Glenda the Blood Nurse. Glenda the blood nurse is my favorite. She has done IVF herself, she has a life and you can tell that she can’t wait to finish her job at the end of the day and get the hell out of there. Yet, she is sincere when she talks to me and she always allows me to turn my head and not look when she draws the blood. She even admitted that it’s easier to give shots than it is to receive them. Now, that is humble! Glenda the Good Nurse is not a nice person. She is competent but hates me. I think she hates me because one day when Glenda the Blood Nurse was out, she had to draw my blood instead. I told her that I hoped she was going to be as good as Glenda the Blood Nurse and she waited until the draw was over and then barked, “ I taught her everything she knows.” I tried flattery, as in, “I can see that. You are good. Thanks so much.” But her response was, “If you have to do an injection cycle, you are going to be a mess.” So, she hates me. Yesterday, during the dildo cam for cycle day #2, she came in while the doctor was there and Glenda the Bad Nurse was already with me in the room. This is NY, so we’re talking about a pretty tight space. I mean, three is a crowd, four is poker game. She didn’t even say hello. I said hello to her trying to be the adult, but she ignored me. Now Glenda the Bad Nurse I am pretty sure is a Nurse in Training or an Assistant Nurse. At least she acts that way. She is always so nervous and her instructions are so vague and unclear. When I try to get clarification she says, “like I told you,” or “as I’ve already said,” and it’s pretty obvious that she doesn’t want to admit to mistake making. Once, during a dildo cam, the doctor asked her a question that she must not have known exactly and she started stammering and freaking out until he finally said, “It’s ok, calm down, it’s not that important,” and then he checked the chart himself. High Strung. Well, she’s the one who gave me my “tutoring session,” yesterday and she did a lousy job. I could tell she was trying but that she just didn’t know what it was like to be a person who is not used to needles or vials or anything remotely medical. She never mentioned air bubbles and we didn’t even do a test run where I inject myself under her supervision, that certainly would have given me some confidence. It’s called modeling for fuck sake. Any half assed teacher knows that. Maybe I should teach them how to teach. Maybe they could pay me

Air Bubbles

WHY could we not manage our first injectable? AIR BUBBLES. We doubted that they really mattered as this shot goes in the fat anyway but we couldn't be sure. Our degrees aren’t in medicine. We don’t want my tombstone to read, “thought they could but nope.” So, we want to check. We went through four needles and have committed the instructions to memory. We’re going in for more training this afternoon. I feel certain I will arrive tail tucked between my legs. I am embarrassed. How many people have done this who are bigger idiots? Flipping that to the positive side and you get "we're intellectuals, we can't be bothered with the earthly realm." Flip that and you get "we're fucking useless."

Higher Ed?

How can it be that we have all of these advanced degrees and we can’t fill a lousy vile? Andrew went out for coffee, I made eggs and bacon, a civilized country Sunday breakfast (It's Wednesday isn't it? Well, damn it I am on vacation and the south beach diet so there...) all in preparing for getting this injection day one over with but when push (ha ha) came to shove, we couldn’t do it? It's not intuitive no siree bob-o, not at all.

House of the Fallen Needle

So this morning, I unpack the delivered goods. Holy shit. Needles everywhere in a variety of shapes and colors and sizes that all spell death to me. Even one of those handy dandy biohazard red canisters to deposit said needles. I suppose to avoid re-use by junkies? Maybe I could sell them on e-bay…hmm. There are boxes and boxes of brightly packaged drugs with mystical sounding semi-feminine sounding names. I can’t help but try to picture the advertising exectutives sitting around their polished wooden tables
"It has to sound feminine"
"and organic"
"perky,"
"But not too perky."
Thus, the yellow and mauve packaging.
But we all see right through this nonsense now don't we? This whole industry is a scare scam and it is mighty effective. You don't get pregnant after paying attention for the first time in your life to your cycle and then wham! they smack you with what is wrong with you. I am sure that based on their testing, there is something wrong with everyone. It's like the metal detectors at our school, they will ring if you wrap your lunch in tin foil. Yet, I'm their sucker, victim #462 or whatever my medical file number is. I can't help myself. I want mr. poopie pants. or ms. poopie pants, I don't care.
If this place starts to smell like a hospital too, I'm outtie.

Where DO I live?

Why is it that not a single delivery person can ever find our home, including lovely pharmaceutical deliveryman who shows up at 12:30 a.m. in disbelief. We try to be pro-active about it warning drivers that hey it’s a COURTYARD off a street, there is a TINY sign, and you need to be able to read in order to find it. They never listen. They call frustrated and angry with us for living in such a confusing corner of the world. God bless it, I don’t want to be found.

Hocus Pocus

So.. maybe it's all the reading that I've been doing (Sugar Blues by William Sunfty, Adverbs by Daniel Handler, The South Beach Diet by Arthur Agatston, M.D.) but I can't help but wonder if years from now someone will leaf through literature and gawk at the voodoo we attempt as we try to conceive. I'm prone to cynicism anyway but when the nurse was explaining the mixing needle that has to go in the powder, I couldn't help but to scan her for boils, warts and a broom in the corner.

I blame myself. I've convinced myself that this tentative diagnosis of PCOS is a result of my sugar addiction. I've always joked about it in the past and never took it seriously until now. Perhaps I should sue the sugar industry. Would I make out as well as those who sued Big Tabacco? Are there labels on sugar proclaiming its lethal effects on your reproductive viability? Not at last glance.

The needle regimen for this week includes two a.m. injections, one p.m. injection. Lots of mixing and needle swapping and don't let the air get in and oh shit did I even do that right? I don't think I should be trusted to do this. I tell myself larger idiots have done it, why can't I? But I wonder if the larger idiots were as afraid of needles as I am. I even recoil at the sight of safety pins and they contain the word safety. Kind people who have gone through this inform me that only the later injections hurt.


I've put myself on a low-carb, low-sugar diet by following one of the famous ones. I doubt that I can stick with it forever but I'd like to become more aware of where food appears on the glycemic spectrum. I wouldn't have guessed about bananas for example. That said, it's only day two and I'm already deadly tired of salad. Persevere though I must.

Friends don't let friends make twin jokes. They aren't funny. I quiver at the thought. One child scares me enough. Of course I want one. That said, if age were not a factor, I'd put it off another ten years. Extreme sports indeed. Choose your friends wisely in this endeavor. That's been made clear from the get go. One friend, upon learning that I was to experiment with Clomid, responded ever so supportively with "doesn't that make you have triplets?" It's been hard to speak to her since. Choose wisely. I've been looking for support of a virtual nature, hell, I'll take it where I can get it. it's summer, I'm off duty while most of the world festers in the quotidian. So, in many ways, I'm on my own.