…which may be kind of loopy, since I’m still a bit out of it.
It went without much of a hitch, other than the anesthesiologist having to perform the obligatory rooting around in both elbows and the backs of both hands for suitable veins. My hands officially hurt more right now than my nether regions, and I think will be a longer time in healing. Big, swollen bruises that jab me every time I, you know, lift a finger.
So even if housework hadn’t been specifically proscribed, I’d be unable to do much of anything. Darn the luck.
And after the anesthesiologist got frustrated because he’d bent a second needle on my mighty mighty veins, I started rambling aloud (unfortunately) that this must be my superpower. Bending needles. Which really was a pretty crap superpower when you got right down to it. RE chimed in with the helpful comment that it’s actually a good one if the villain happens to be armed with, you know, needles. The anesthesiologist didn’t take too kindly to that one, and it was that image that chased me into Neverland. I woke up from a dream of being chased through the subway by needle-wielding villainous anesthesiologists to a sense of profound relief that I was only sprawled legs-up in a tiny surgery, having just had needles jammed through the walls of my vagina.
It’s all a matter of perspective, you see.
They retrieved 6 eggs. Out of 10 follicles. Which had me a bit bummed. RE said it’s typical, not to worry, it’s fine. But I do worry. Six isn’t so many. Though I suppose it eases my fears that we’ll have too many perfect embryos to choose from. *rolls eyes self-deprecatingly*
I was sitting there, trying not to get weepy about my sorry, sorry egg-quality when the office sort of went into a uproar because they’d just admitted a woman who was hyperstimulating. They hustled me to get dressed & then I sat, trying to get my eyes to focus on the medication instructions I’d been handed.
“Any questions?” It was the mean tech upstairs, unfortunately.
“Actually, yes, I do. It says “Saturday” here, to start taking the Progesterone, but it also says “Saturday, the evening before your 3-day transfer”. Which is scheduled for Monday. So do I start it on Saturday or Sunday?”
She grabbed it out of my hand, scribbled out “Saturday” & scribbled in “Sunday”, and said, “Oh yeah, my mistake. But you might not be coming in on Monday anyway. It’s a holiday, you know. Maybe we’ll do a four-day transfer instead.”
“What?!?” (Actually, let me try to reproduce that more precisely: “What!?!?!?!?”
“Well, it’s Memorial Day, you know. The nurse might have the day off.”
“Well, since I just spent a month jabbing myself with needles, submitting to humiliating procedures, AND paying out ungodly sums of money – and let’s not even get INTO the emotional aspects of this process, I suggest you get someone in here to do the transfer whenever it’s goddamned optimal – for my embryo, not for your workweek!” I did not say.
After that, I rode the antique elevator back down to the first floor. Pestered the receptionist until she told me, no, not to worry, we’re open on Monday. It will happen then.
So, my darling boyfriend, who’d been waiting for me in the lobby took one look at me and said, “We’re getting a cab.” I didn’t argue since I was feeling sort of like shit. Came home, I watched some Buffy DVDs, since we currently have workmen replacing windows in the house and there was really nowhere to go to be away from them. Figured I might as well do some handwork and try to imagine how a superhero with needle-bending powers could ever fit into the Buffyverse.
I’m still thinking it’s a crap superpower.
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