Despite a rocky start to the day.  Well, not like my day really started at that 8am appointment.  

It really started the day before with tickets to see Macbeth starring Patrick Stewart at the Lyceum.  Which ran til 11pm.  Which, since we were short-staffed at work, I prepared for by pounding a triple latte at 7pm.

Bad idea.  

Don’t get me wrong, it was the best coffee I’d had in a week, but it was also more caffeine (whn added to the earlier 3x latte) than I’d had in one day, since my barrista days in the early nineties.

SPROING!  

I was wide awake through Macbeth, all the way home, and into the wee hours. 

But I womanfully woke up at 6 to be at the doctor’s by 7:30am.  At which point I waited and waited.  Then a tech asked if I knew why I was there.  Not a good sign.  “Um, I was hoping you’d tell me that.  I was supposed to bring my blood for you to test, but I don’t know what, exactly you’re testing.  I’m supposed to start wearing a patch today,” I added.

“No, you can’t start today.  You haven’t had your physical.  Or a pap smear.”

By this time I’m getting aggravated.  The tech in question has no tact or bedside manner, and I’ve let her draw blood before & she’s not very good.  So I say, very calmly, “No, I’m sorry, you’re wrong.  I have to start this today.”  Fortunately, another tech took over at this point and soothed me, explained what she could, and promised to arrange a pap right there & then.  Goodie.

First a weigh-in. (Damn for that bloat-making coffee!)  Actually, about where I figured, but she said I was a good inch shorter than I thought.  Damn.  I won’t tell Sam about that, he’ll think it’s funny that I don’t know how tall I am.  Also, my blood pressure was through the roof.  Partially white-coat syndrome, partially nerves because of the brouhaha, and partially the, um, coffee overdose of the previous day.  Note to self:  Hope it was a good cuppa, because you’re not getting any more for the next month & beyond.  

Then into a closet of an exam room where I stripped, got into the paper kimono that was left for me, and sat in a room for over 30 minutes staring at an ultrasound machine.  My doctor came in, made the usual inane small talk (though this time I was able to actually guide the conversation toward Shakespeare, which is easier than, say, baseball, for me to concentrate on when there are foreign objects being inserted into me.)  Clear lungs, check.  Internal swab.  Ouch.  Check.  And then the ultrasound.  Ah, the ultrasound.

I am no longer an UltraSound virgin, *sniff* and if they could have made that sucker any more phallic looking, I’d like to know how.  Fortunately, it’s slim.  And wearing a condom.  No, really.  And at the very tip, it’s got a dab of aqua-blue lube – the color did not quite match the rest of the machine, and all I could think was that for the best surreal effect, it really should have sparkles in it.  So he probed, and wrenched it around in there.  It’s a slim device – sort of like being fucked by a terrifically acrobatic oscar meyer wiener, though I’m probably making it sound way too fun.  Doc seemed pleased by the ovary pictures he was getting, though I’ll take his word for it – looked like seeing pictures in clouds to me.  Then I got dressed, got to work, and essentially collapsed.  

Well, collapsed, and spent the next few hours exchanging goofy emails with Sam about my date with the UltraSound wand.  “No flowers, no chocolates.  Do you think it was slutty of me to let him take pictures to show to his co-workers?”  He responded with the appropriate mock-angst.  It was a fun day.

But anyway, back to IVF stuff.  It looks like I’ll be on this estradiol patch, (generic: Cimara) for the next weeek or so.  Actually, I’ll be on this one, then in two days, I’ll put on another one.  Then two days after that, I’ll take this first one off & replace it with a new one.  And so on until my period arrives.  Then the real fun begins.  From what I’ve read online (because actual hard info from the clinic has been less than forthcoming), I’ll be doing a flare-protocol, which means injecting smaller, more frequent dosages of Lupron, & taking advantage of the natural day 2-3 flare to suppress (or is it to build up) ovary function.  4 shots a day.  Ouch.  Then a big old honkin’ intramuscular trigger shot.  OUCH.  Then retrieval.  OUCH!  Then they’ll inject whatever we get with his little guys.  Then transfer, and hopefully we’ll get a keeper and not have to do this again!  

I know, I’m asking for a lot.  But I’m ready to stop trying to be pregnant.  Ready to BE pregnant.  Ready to stop wanting to be a mom, ready to BE a mom.  

Mostly, ready to stop obsessing about this whole motherhood thing.  I want it, and some days it’s all I can think about.  In a way, it broke up my marriage.  I worry about what it’ll do to me in my current relationship - to us – if it turns out we waited too long and can’t have a child.  Not thinking about that now.  Thinking good thoughts.  Happy thoughts.  Baby-walking in the park thoughts.  

Lalalalalalalalalalalalalla!