Anyhoo, not to put too fine a point on it, we are getting back on the horse, part III. It's official. The horse is back in the running and we are at the starter's gate, champing at the bit and trying NOT to put all our eggs in one basket. Or sperms in one egg. You understand.
The final part of this particular part of our baby-making journey ends this month, today, tonight to be completely honest. Ew, so now you know.
The day finally came today to see Dr. B and to get the green light to get going again. It feels like I waited months for this, even though it was actually only the other day - when I made the appointment.
I went in (it wasn't 12.30pm but I got nervous as usual and arrived ridiculously early - something I realize now is to my advantage) and waited in the living room/entrance hall and immediately felt sleepy in someone else's warmth in the comfy chair he has in there.
I was just getting started on an article in Tricycle - the Buddhist's magazine that I love to read - and I was called in. The article I was reading was all about not telling anyone that things are going badly for you when you feel crummy. So, basically, you just had two miscarriages and lost your job. You are 8000 miles from your family and the friends you left behind without many friends and someone says: "Hey Freda, what's going on? How are you? Looking a bit down in the mouth there old girl." and you are supposed to say (in a monotone, with a smile) "I'm good, good, yes I'm just fine." Because, apparently, no one wants to deal with your shit when they have their own stuff to contend with which is just as bad as yours. Never mind that poor old Freda is going to walk away and bang her head against a brick wall for lack of someone to have a good chinwag with.
I mean, REALLY! Whatever happened to the Isenberg method of just blah-ing it all out to whoever happens to be nearby? I say, get it off your chest, have a nice cup of tea and maybe three Cadbury's Flakes (especially if you are my friend Carolyn) and a good laugh at something else (or someone else - depends how bad it gets).
Anyway, not to drag this on like the endless cycles of Samsara, but I do love that magazine and it has some brilliant articles. Well worth the read if only for being totally gobsmacked.
So I am back on the chair that never fits my ass. But, before that I was weighed. I am not telling how much I weigh but Zach - the scales at home LIE - LIE I say! Once that is done I get off the clothes, get on the teeny chair and I'm ready for my close up.
Dr B sweeps in, rolls the condom on the stick and off we go. "Ah ha!" He says, overjoyed, "Perfect, perfect- just what we wanted". My follicle/cyst thingy is gracing the screen and is a knockout. It is the Heidi Klum of follicles - flawless at a eye-catching 25mm and just ready to be the host to a lovely egg. We hope.
Excitement ensues on my part and I actually manage to make the whole trip without crying. No tears at all! A quick chit chat about dates, prescriptions and the like and I am dispensed to the dispensary to pick up the HCG shot to make sure the egg makes an appearance for sure between now and the next three days.
Only my prescription card isn't in my wallet (of many wallets that I carry). I am panicked but decide to apply the lessons I have just learned in Tricycle and only get mildly irrationaly angry at my blameless husband who is sitting in his office in Santa Monica. "Yes, I have looked in the wallets," I snarl. Though this is probably all my fault as I am the only person who ever gets prescriptions.
After a minor debacle I end up paying for the shot - $75 ch-ching! And it's back to the office.
I go in and ask the nurse which arm. Silly me, it's in the butt. Of course, I have to make a joke about injecting $75 in my backside but it didn't hurt a bit (the injection - paying $75 for it was mildly painful). But, it was nothing like the tetanus injections I remember getting when I was a kid that just killed.
Next, Dr B is in to give me the 101 in injecting myself with Lovenox, the blood thinner that I may or may not need. Since my dad died of a blood clot and other family members have had issues it's a just-in-case. If I do need it, it could be for just the first trimester (if, indeed, there is a first trimester) or it could be for the whole 9 months (if, indeed, there are 9 months).
But ugh, ugh, ugh. Injecting myself was very weird. I have to say though, once you are past the flabby bit of the stomach, the needle slides right in and it doesn't hurt much at all. Thank God, though I still wouldn't want to be a heroin addict. The needle goes beneath the belly button into the fat. It just occurred to me why I have all that blubber - my body knew I would need it one day.
So, we will see what we will see. And so will everyone that is reading this. But for now, like a good Dicken's novel, this one'll be a cliffhanger.