I woke up with a fever and thirty-six hours later I was suddenly on my fourth round of Clomid.
Or at least that’s how it feels. On Wednesday morning I woke up bright and early so that I could endure the indignity of a nurse-administered pregnancy (blood) test when, hello-don’t-you-see-my-pockets-stuffed-full-of-tampons. Anyway, feeling a bit
resentful woozy and what I would later realize
was, what’s the word I’m looking for?
feverish! I stumbled into the doctor's office in the pre-dawn hours, coughing all
over anyone in my path. I dismissed the motherly words of the tech who told
me I looked like hell said I looked like I “could use some sleep” and desperately
tried to stop the exam room from spinning. Afterwards, thinking that maybe I should consider calling in sick, I went home, took my
temperature and was sort of bewildered when it turned up at 102.
It was all downhill from there and the next 12-16 hours are a bit of daze. Having a fever basically makes me feel like I’m five years old and “adult fever” sounds like either a 60s throwback album or a sexually transmitted disease
offered at a discount through this service.
But where was I. At some point during my fitful, fevered coma,
I dreamed I was a unicorn!
my phone rang and I had the good sense to answer it. It was the nurse, who,
without taking a breath, and like I was a box she was dying to check off, rattled
off the following: you’re not pregnant,
I’m sorry (feigned disappointment), you’re at baseline, that’s good (things are
looking up!), you should start the Clomid, tomorrow <end scene>. I tried
to sputter something about a fever, and antibiotics, and would this be a
problem? – to which I got a conclusory no,
a suddenly cheerful anything else?
and then, without missing a beat, click.
Good people of the interwebs – or internet robots in the Ukraine, whichever – I was completely drunk with
sweating profusely through several layers of supposedly-sweat-wicking clothing,
barely able to open my eyes and seriously contemplating sawing off my own head
in the hope that it would bring some relief to my throbbing eyeballs and yet,
and yet!, I was somehow trusted to make pretty profound medical decisions
involving my ovaries. For the record,
I actually didn’t remember the entirety of this conversation until hours later
when I awoke, briefly, to ask C if he would pick up my now mounting pile of prescriptions
(antibiotics, more cowbell,
Clomid, an IV drip of vodka.)
But regardless of how it happened – and I’m pretty sure it actually did happen – here we are.
Ready to begin beginning round four (now with IUI!); our final try before a brief hiatus in April/May for a long
planned vacation (and, let’s be honest, a necessary respite for my mental
On one hand – so excited/can’t happen fast enough/dear god let this just work already. And on the other hand – itsallhappeningsofast! I just got pulled from the game on Monday, here we are at Thursday and I’m already back in the running (and in the midst of a terrible mixed metaphor); with 24 hours lost to fever, I feel like I barely had time to
grief eat an entire pizza
blink. It’s almost got me jonesing for the usually-required-but-not-this-time
7-10 days of give-your-ovaries-a-break birth control pills. Well, almost.
 And also a wanding. During which I was “teased” about how my left ovary is always “hiding” which is why she has to jam the cold, plastic, mostly inflexible, probe so far up me it’s coming out my ear. Good morning to you, too.
 Speaking of which. Who has the record? Who is the official “keeper of records” and may I have a copy? I am very curious what I put on “the record” during oh, let’s say, college. There were a lot “substances” involved and I may wish to, ahem, retract some things from “the record.”