I Think I Will Try “Fertile Fantasy!”

Ow. Ow. Ow. Today is my fifth day of Lupron and my last day of birth control. It also seems to be the first day of my period. A period I am expected to endure WITHOUT IBUPROFEN. Ibuprofen and its ilk are not allowed during IVF because—well, I don’t remember why, but they’re not, and so I will just have to deal with the sensation of my uterus being torn asunder by a pack of hungry wolverines by doing some deep breathing, or putting a knife under my bed to cut the pain, or maybe gnawing on a wet rag. I haven’t made it through a period without ibuprofen since…actually, I have never, ever made it through a period without ibuprofen, and I am not entirely convinced that I will make it through this one. I know that Tampax commercials would have me believe that I should be out playing beach volleyball or base jumping or at the very least making funny faces in a photo booth with my two best (and ethnically diverse) friends, but during my period the only funny face I can muster is a grimace of pain, and even walking to the printer and back is feeling a little Bataan Death March-ish, so I think beach volleyball is out.

The injections have been going well, and I haven’t noticed much in the way of Lupron side effects besides extreme fatigue and a complete inability to retain information. I used to hear stories about women who forgot to take an injection and screwed up their cycles and wonder how they could forget something so basic, and now I know: Lupron, that’s how. I take my nightly pills and immediately can’t remember taking them. The other night we went out for korma and I asked my mother whether I had ordered my Salty Lassi yet, and she goggled at me—apparently I had done so not ten minutes before. (Incidentally, am I the only person who is unable to hear “Salty Lassi” without imagining it in a Scottish accent? “Aye, yer a Salty Lassi!” No? Just me?)

Tonight my mother and I are having our last hurrah girl’s night out. Manicures, pedicures, and dinner in the bar at my favorite restaurant, where I will be consuming an excess of lamb burgers and french fries with curry bearnaise. This will be only my second pedicure ever, the first having been the day before my wedding, so I am quite excited. It will be nice to have soft, shiny-toed feet in the stirrups in the coming weeks, and even nicer to have a break from the constant foot mockery I must endure from Scott—it is alleged that my feet look like I “grew up on the side of a mountain.” He’s a charmer, that husband of mine. I rarely buy nail polish myself—I think I have two bottles, in two scarcely different shades of translucent pink—but I love looking at the names, which are seldom more than tenuously related to the color in question. Shimmery raisin? “Panting Harlot!” Uninspiring beige? “Barely Legal!” Bright coral? “Saucily Uninhibited Princess of Katmandu!”

I know there was something else I wanted to write about, but I have no idea now what it was. I hope the memory loss really is the result of Lupron, or else I’m losing my damn mind.