double the fun, cycle 3, day 12

On Saturday I had the pleasure of an early morning wanding and bloodletting at the far-away-weekend-fertility-bunker. Since we were en route to a wedding in New York, it was kind of like a road trip a real pain in the neck. It was only day 9 of my cycle but thankfully – despite an only modestly busy pelvis that had me all kinds of worried – there were four follicles to be found. But they weren’t mature and my estradiol was still only around 300. Ovulation would have to wait until another day.[1]

<Dramatic Pause.> And that day, is today. Yesterday I went in for a second round of early morning wand+blood.[2] And because I need more excitement in my life, I was subjected to perhaps the most painful transvaginal ultrasound ever experienced by anyone in the history of everdom that I have ever had[3]. The wand, suddenly a very blunt and inflexible instrument, was so far in it was basically digging into my neck. Apparently two follicles were “hiding” behind some other “organs “and the tech had to go “digging” for them up behind my eyeballs. At a certain point – when my ultra dramatic wincing became too much to bare – the tech finally stopped, muttering something about how she just can’t stand to cause me pain, etc., and put a note in my file about my hide and seek follicles.

By lunchtime, I heard back from the nurse: three “beautiful!” mature follicles and my estradiol levels were up past 700. I was given my marching orders – Ovidrel shot on Tuesday evening, then sex until Friday – and sent on my smug little way.

So what’s in store for tonight? Well, in one more showing of romance is not dead!, C will have the pleasure of grabbing my muffin top roll of belly fat and jamming it full of Chinese hamster ovary. And then we’ll have sex. Until Friday. Please, look away, I’m blushing.

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[1] Which is totally fine because it’s not like we, oh, I don’t know, packed a cooler full of ice and Chinese hamster ovary and drove all over New York with it in the unlikely event that I would have to use it while away from home. No. We did not do that. Because we are not crazy people.

[2] I thought I had come up with yet another kind of badass name for a terrible metal band. But no. This is already (kind of) a thing. (Also, “Motherboar” basically just sends my free wheeling brain here.)

[3] Here’s the truth: transvaginal ultrasounds – in spite of their alarmingly graphic name – usually aren’t that painful. And while I realize the legitimate-rape-pro-mandatory-transvaginal-ultrasound-right-wing-goon-squad would have a field day with my saying so, I am nothing if not candid with you, dear interwebs. But my point is this, I’ve chosen my fate – cold plastic probe on the regular – and other women should be free to choose theirs.

what passes for romance: cycle 2, day 13

6:45 am, Monday morning: 

Reprising his role as doctor-husband, and in most un-sexy fashion, C grabs hold of Sarah's belly fat[1]. (There is really no delicate way to say that.)

6:46 am, Monday morning:

Without even so much as a warning, C jams a giant syringe full of Chinese hamster ovary right into it[2]. Sarah, determined to cry dramatically and on cue (so that C will walk the dog take pity on her), realizes it doesn't actually hurt that much and can't quite muster the focus necessary for such theatrics.

6:47 am, Monday morning:

Wait, we're supposed to have sex now?

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[1] Third person is kind of weird fun, no?

[2] I swear I tried to learn how to do it myself, but this French manicure was just too hideously distracting.

dubious accolades: cycle 2, day 10

Another day, another early morning in stirrups while wearing half of a business suit. It’s a precarious existence I inhabit.

In any case. There I was. In half a lawyer-suit on top and birthday suit on bottom with a new nurse wanding me. This nurse has a lot of personality. A lot of distinctly Massachusetts South Shore personality. She is candid. And feisty. And apparently, full of compliments for me and my hardworking ovaries.

“Oh yeah! Super (pronounced soo-puh), look at this one <excitedly turns screen in my direction so I can see what look like pulsing amoebas bouncing around inside my pelvis>”

“Yeah, you did a wicked good job, right here (pronounced heee-uh), look at this!”

“Very, very good!” (All New England Rs)

I may have blushed. I may have been secretly flattered by her unceasing praise. I may have been so negative going in to this morning’s wanding that I had psychologically prepared myself for no follicles and a failed cycle. After all, absent the crippling ovary pain I experienced in my first cycle, I had (completely rationally) convinced myself that this cycle was unsuccessful. 

let the games begin

Well, there I was. Battered and breaded and bruised up like a heroin addict[1] following a series of blood drawing, wanding, MRI-ing (now with contrast!) and even some iodine-dye-ing, for FUN good measure. (Ed. Note: during this time there was also birth control. ten VERY IRONIC days of birth control which I obviously had blocked out of my mind as a psychological coping mechanism until now. and during which time I ate-all-the foods-in-the-house-and-cried-all-the-tears-in-my-eyes because I basically just PMSed for 10 solid, miserable days). And so, I was probably a little too excited for my second meeting with the doctor man and the delivery of my DIAGNOSIS[2] *cue horn section.*

Anyway, after an hour that felt like thirty seconds, during which time big words were thrown around, pictures were drawn (ohmygoddoctor please stop drawing GIANT follicles on the back of my official medical record), and instructions were given (when a man and a woman really love each other, sometimes they will show that love by…. ok, not those kind), I left the office with two prescriptions, a confusing looking chart, that is obviously just a list, and was clearly made on Word Perfect in 1991, and which coldly instructs me exactly when to have sex, not that I can really read it friendly-sounding “cycle calendar” and basically, not a clue what any of it meant.