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.