Remember how I said I inexplicably had a LOT of energy after the first few days of stims?!?
No shit - like a LOT of energy! TONS!
Like drive the hour to my RE's office on the one Saturday I didn't need to just to verify an appointment because I'm restless kind of energy!!!!!!
Like, get my husband to take me to breakfast two days in a row and in exchange like the classy brawd that I am, have the "going out of business" style of sex - multiple times - kind of energy!!!!
Did you even know they send COUPONS in the MAIL like, directly to your house?!? That gives me the buy all the things everywhere kind of energy!!!
Have you even NOTICED the size of hair balls that have attached themselves to my screen door? I bet if I just shimmy up on a table with a swiffer I could TOTALLY de-fur it kind of energy!!!!
What does this SWITCH do?! How can we have a switch in our own damn house and not know what it does - where-is-our-spirit-of-adventure-we-should-remedy-this-immediately kind of energy!!!
Does ANYONE have a car they need pushed someplace?! Fairly certain if you're changing continents I can STILL get your car there using only my hands and sheer mental prowess kind of energy!!!!
Seriously, guys, I have tapped into an unlimited amount of inner soul fuel, I can't believe people waste time on blinking! YOU SHOULD TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS! I am a never ending human crack pipe of constant ener -
Dear Internet Mistresses of Ute,
As I write this, I am in my sixth day of needle captivity. For the first four, I was spry. Confident. I was beginning to wonder if the hormones were working at all, or if somehow in the last year since our last rendezvous, I had bulked up on so much natural awesome juice and kickass and hair of fuckyeah that my body just refused to bow to the feel bads.
What was once spritely little energizer bunny is now fat and swollen sea beast.
I am now the Nessie of Los Angeles County, bloated and fat and mysterious popping out only often enough to scare a tourist. The fact that I live 20 minutes inland and have managed to grumpily slither all over solid land without being harpooned makes this all the more impressive.
At this very moment I would equally like to cry, do the entire dance from Bobby Brown's "every little step" video, and eat pizza. Not good pizza, mind you, but the really shitty oily pizza with the giant nippley pepperonis and grease that you can only get in middle-of-nowhere malls and/or hospital cafeterias.
I am teetering between moments of mostly unadulterated optimism and happiness, followed by sheer terror/anxiety. Watching me from moment to moment is like watching an alien try to absorb what exactly a clown is or how to feel about it.
I AM A SHE-BEAST SEA-BEAST. (.... with a propensity for 80s R&B and obese america's truckstop take on Italian Food.)
Please, if I am harpooned, netted, strung up and sold to the Discovery Channel so everyone can stare at my bloated, bloody carcass with horror/wonder on a show titled "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!" someone at least explain to the producers I did it because I wanted a pregnancy test to deviate from it's usual message to me.
Stork the Seacow
Now, I don't mean to scare anyone who hasn't had IVF. This is number 2 for me. While it wouldn't make any money as a spa treatment, it aint that bad. I'm just bitching and moaning for the same reason I scream bloody murder if I see a harmless hairball that I briefly mistake for a murderous spider - I'm a creature of theatre, and I like to condense nervous breakdowns to 5 second, gutteral versions.
I may go into further detail about the medications later on in an attempt to be helpful to any newbies to IVF, however for the time being just some observations - some things that I forgot and some things that are just totally fucking different than the last time.
Menapor is partially nuns pee. Virginal, post-menopausal nuns pee that burns like syphillis going in. IVF last year - it didn't burn me at all, I had you all written off as cray cray. Thank you to whoever made this drug but I nonetheless must say, Lawdy lawdy, this year I got the piss of a pretty freaking potent nun. This nun is CRAZY. CRAZY NUN. Not as much virginal nun as the nanny from the Omen.
Also, I am NOT a crier. I repeat: left to my own devices, I cry about twice a year. Though I have yet to have a good one so far, I have at least once a day fought the urge to just cry some delicious, delicious and totally unnecessary tears. This morning I was standing in line at the bank, and the thought occurred to me, apropos of nothing, that Eddie from Frasier is probably dead (that's right DEAD. DEAD DOG) and it took a solid minute of pinching my nose and blinking dramatically to stop myself from weeping.
That is probably a dead dog you guys. A DEAD DOG. DRESSED AS SANTA, wishing YOU a MERRY CHRISTMAS. Is he going to have a good Christmas this year? Is he going to be gifted a giant bone with a red bow on it? Will someone wrestle him into Santa's lap at a Petco for a photo op? NO BECAUSE HE'S DEAD AND THAT WOULD ALL BE HORRIBLY CREEPY. How can I know something like that and then be expected to do something normal like go to a bank?! What am I some sort of Mr. Monopoly Money Monacled Monster?!?
Whether I'm exhausted or full of energy, my mouth is working super duper fast and my mouth works pretty damn fast to begin with. I must be an utterly confusing human to be around. Yesterday I said to my husband, and I quote, "You NEVER see a hen sitting on her eggs whilst engaging in hardcore sex. NEVER. And there's a reason for that! Oh there's a reason!"
What does that even mean?!?!
ALSO. Poop is a thing of the past. I will miss you, poop. My recollection from last time was that you decided to leave me closer to egg retrieval but this time you have gone above and beyond. 6 days in and I am Lorraine Warren level full of shit.
And speaking of - in addition to decaf anything, I'm officially declaring pants of any kind bull shit. Not only will they not fit over my bloat but I would like a healthy breeze round my privates thankyouverymuch. Considering starting a fashion line called Sexy Sea Monsters for women going through fertility treatments. It's hard to cram fins and tentacles into a sensible boot cut jean.
Still feeling optimistic. And happy. Okay, in the logical part of my brain I am optimistic and happy - there's no pessimism or misery, there's no poor unfortunate soul as I am incredibly fortunate (and it feels good to be doing something to get pregnant.) It's just that the hamster who likes to talk about hen sex gets control of the wheels, occasionally.
Optimistic. This could work. This will work.
Just don't look at me in the meantime I'm hideous.