With a heart full of love and a belly full of bruises, I headed to Encino this morning for what I hoped would be my final appointment before the retrieval.
It's been a bloated few days. I'm now struggling to do simple tasks like lift my son or bend over to grab a toy off the floor. The occasional "bend and snap" I like to do to make sure I still got it. Well, I definitely don't have it. I lost it.
Earlier this weekend I thought it would be a good idea to walk to the Farmers’ Market. A mere one mile each way. Turns out it was a terrible idea. A big bloated disaster. I did manage to get some delicious fresh fruit and yogurt.
But back to the key ingredient. Eggs.
I'm ready. I feel really ready. Ripe for the harvest ready. My follicles, however, would disagree with me. The ultrasound revealed they are measuring 15-16 and in the land of fertility, 18-20 is when they are plum for the picking.
I've stopped asking how many there are, something I obsessed about last round. I even cut Dr. B off once last cycle to say "How many?!?!" – for which my loving and patient husband scolded me.
Not this time. This time. I just lay there spread eagle and see the spattering of dots on the screen. I hear Dr. B counting off measurements as the nurse take notes. I figure they know what they are doing. And I see plenty of dots. At least six on each side to my untrained, BA in theatre, eye. Twelve eggs yielded two healthy embryos during our first round three years ago which resulted in our beautiful son. So 12 is a nice number for me. I don't need to know how many are in there. I just need to know that those puppies are growing.
How is it that I can just look at a cookie and gain five pounds, but my eggs get invited to this all-you-can-inject buffet and they take their sweet ass time plumping up? I apparently take quite a bit longer to grow than most other women. Apparently my follicles are as stubborn as I am.
Slow and steady wins the race.
I've been ordered another day of injections. One. Day. More. This phrase seems especially poignant as I am feeling quite Les Miserable. This means the retrieval is tentatively set for Thursday, with the transfer happening next Tuesday, the 20th.
I've begun the random fits of crying for reasons even I realize are insane. At which point I begin crying about the fact that I'm crying. It's super fun. A lot like being a toddler. My son and I are taking turns having tantrums. To be fair, we laugh a lot, too. And then I'm laughing so hard I start crying, or run to the bathroom for fear I may wet myself. Something else my son also does. Wet himself, I mean. We are still working on getting him to the bathroom.
One battle at a time. For now, I'll take the shits and giggles. Enjoy every moment of what I have and dare to "dream a dream" of what may be.