Flotsam

Friday, June 8th:
Our intrepid heroine prepares for her ultrasound by reading back issues of Fertility and Sterility and fervently hoping for at least one follicle at 12mm—or some indication that she is responding to the medication.
At the clinic, she and her husband watch an educational video about injections. The actors are blonde and vaguely Swedish-looking. After the male Swede gives his wife an injection in the ass (not a euphemism!), the camera zooms in on his face:
“All done, honey!” he chirps.
“GREAT!” says his wife, giving the audience a manic grin.
When the film ends, our intrepid heroine and her husband are joined by a nurse who demonstrates the Follistim Pen and then instructs our heroine (who is feeling rapidly less intrepid) to pull down her pants and bend over a chair so that Mr. Heroine can practice injecting her with the 1 1/2 inch long, 22-gauge intramuscular needle.

As I brace myself on the chair seat, feeling the breeze on my naked legs, I begin to panic, just a little.
The nurse pokes at my rear with a meaty finger.
“Right here. One quick motion, like you’re throwing a dart.”
I can feel Scott behind me, obviously losing his mind.
“You want me to…” he stammers. “I’m really going to inject her?”
I know how he feels. I had assumed we would be practicing on a prosthetic ass of some kind. WHERE IS THE PROSTHETIC ASS?
I feel a tiny stab.
“Just do it,” I hiss, assuming that Scott has stopped with only the tip of the needle in my flesh. But no! All done, and surprisingly painless! I laugh in the face of pain! Or I will, as soon as I pull my pants up.

Scott leaves for work and I trot off to an exam room for my ultrasound, where I shed my pants yet again. Why do I bother wearing clothes at all, I wonder, climbing onto the table and resting my feet in the stirrups.
My favorite nurse comes in and the ultrasound gets underway. I have never had a painful ultrasound before, but when she pokes the wand at my right ovary, I gasp. When I see that ovary ripple into view on the gray screen beside me, I gasp again. It is a mass of huge black holes. Follicles! I have follicles! I am giddy with relief for approximately thirty seconds before I see the measurements—too large and too many—popping up on the screen.
“This cycle’s going to get cancelled, isn’t it?” I ask flatly. My favorite nurse sighs.

When I leave the clinic half an hour later I am trying, with limited success, not to cry. In the parking ramp I am blinking quickly and taking short, heaving breaths while I dig for my car keys. Motherfucker, where are they?? I empty the contents of my purse on the top of a trash can. My keys aren’t there.

I trudge back to the clinic. Have they seen my keys? They haven’t. I use the phone in the lobby to call Scott to pick me up—no one answers. Blink blink. Heave heave. My chin starts to wobble. I manage to reach my mother and beg her to rescue me. My favorite nurse has heard what is happening and comes out into the lobby.
“You’re having quite an afternoon, aren’t you?” she says sympathetically.
“Yeah,” I say, managing a watery smile before I dash for the elevator.

Saturday and Sunday, June 9th and 10th:
I have an abdomen the size of a Buick. My ovaries hurt. I call the clinic and ask about converting the cycle to IVF. No dice. I mention the pain and bloating and am told that this is to be expected. I start a ten day course of Prometrium to bring on my period and spend most of the weekend on the couch, watching television and making lists.
I get some preliminary wedding pictures, and looking at them improves my mood immeasurably. Schnozz and I watch synchronized episodes of Veronica Mars while we IM each other, mostly talking about Veronica’s hair (better when it was choppy). I finish off a pint of Oatmeal Cookie Chunk ice cream (highly recommended).

Monday, June 11th:
In a surprise plot twist, my mother tells me she is moving to Switzerland for work. She will be gone for three years. In Switzerland. The Switzerland that is in Europe. Far, far away.

That evening, I am opening a bottle of wine in an attempt to quell my terror when the phone rings. It is our landlord, with good news. Someone is interested in our apartment! They would be ready to move in July! (The lease on our new apartment starts in July, while the lease on our current apartment is not up until September. Very expensive.) But there is a catch: the potential renter is going out of town and wants to see the place before he leaves. Can we be ready for a showing tomorrow morning?
“Sure!” I say, looking hysterically around at the piles of cat hair in the corners and the unpacked suitcase from our honeymoon open in the center of the room.

Tuesday, June 12th:
Our intrepid heroine, having spent the night before cleaning the stove burners with a chisel, is too tired to go to work. It is 90 degrees—surely there is a danger of heatstroke. Better to stay indoors and read, where it is cool.
(The air conditioner ceases to function that afternoon).

Wednesday, June 13th:
Today I had an appointment with Dr. Doctor, who was flummoxed by the results of this past cycle. We are moving ahead with IVF, and I have a tentative retrieval date in mid-August.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to help Scott install a new air conditioner, and then sit in front of it eating cheese and drinking wine until it is time for the season premiere of Top Chef. I hope you all have similarly enjoyable evening plans.