CURASCRIPT.  (Just in case anyone is googling them, trying to decide whether or not to ever send them a single thin dime.  My advice?  Don’t.  Run far and fast.  Run gibbering and jabbering in terror.  Do not use this pharmacy, because I’m pretty sure it’s staffed by gazelles and capybaras, who cannot be bothered to learn, oh, say, basic prescription-filling skills because they’re so busy being confused and inefficient.)

Part two begins when my ‘oops we forgot to include a delivery method for your PIO’ package arrived yesterday.  They did, indeed, ship it next day air, as I had insisted.

“Hmmm, that box looks awfully small,” thinks I to myself.

Tore it open like a maenad going for a drunken pharmacist’s throat, and what do I find?

30 22G 1 1/2″ needles.
No 18G needles.
No syringes.

Let’s repeat that:  No 18G needles.  No syringes.

So now, at least I have one of the needles needed to deliver the drug, and perhaps my husband could just blow-dart the PIO into my ass, perhaps?  Suck it into his cheeks like a junkie-chipmunk and then  hold the provided needle between his teeth & make like he’s going to whistle?

See, the thing is, not only did I clarify the order TWICE with two different people on Wednesday, but common sense would dictate that if you royally fuck up once, you try really hard not to do it again.  Common sense would also dictate that if you’re sending someone the delivery method for an injectible drug, you should try to also send the, um, injector, and not just one of the two needles involved in the process.  This is not rocket science.  This is not even particularly complicated, and THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE.  They open this morning at 9, and as soon as I get to work, I will be on the phone.  Trying not to have an aneurysm right there & then.  Or here & now, for that matter.

I’m also going to be on the phone to Freedom, begging them to find a way to make my insurance accept them, so that I do not have to deal with these people for the next seven months.  Because stroking out while pregnant?  Probably not good for either of us.  Not to mention the fact that planning ways to firebomb the CuraScript headquarters is probably not the best use of my prenatal energies.  Bad karma & shit.

(Oh, and, um, Mo?  I just may need to take you up on that offer of syringes.  Mayor Bloomberg will be awfully disappointed, but Sprog just might thank you…)

And, um, administered the shot just like I’ve been self-administering shots for the last year.  Yeah, so the needle was a little longer.  It’s not like there’s not ample butt, these days, for it to go into.  Hell, it was a lot easier than my stupid Lovenox, which comes pre-filled with bubble-filled meds delivered via a dull needle and hurts like a sonovabitch while it’s oozing into me.

I’m almost embarrassed by having made such a ginormous fuss about the PIO.  Hell, I think I’m embarrassed by having made a fuss at all.

It was easy.

Didn’t hurt. 

Didn’t make me faint.  Or bleed.  Or fall over shrieking and foaming at the mouth.  (All of which, I more or less expected.)

Um, I can really be a big baby sometimes.

But I’m still going to make the boy help me when he’s at home.

First PIO shot tonight, and I started the pessaries last night.  Blech.  However, today also began my “pineapple for breakfast” week, so that’s a good thing.  And this is my last day on the massive dose of prednisone.  Which is good.  I’m feeling bloated enough as it is.  Almost all the post-retrieval crampiness/kidney soreness is mostly gone, just a bit in the morning that goes away once I’m up and in the shower. 

And I took an HPT this morning so I can track the trigger shot leaving my system.  I did that last time so I could verify when I was back to zero according to the internet-cheap tests.  That way, I can start obsessively testing in another 10 days or so without worrying that I’m reading the trigger shot.  It’s still a faint positive, so I’ll test again in another 3 days or so just to make sure it’s gone before it – I hope – goes up again.

And thank you to everyone who’s been commenting.  It makes me feel not nearly so alone, and not nearly so hopeless. 

New mantra:

It only takes one.
It only takes one.
It only takes one.

Especially after the weekend, though most of the weekend’s change was food, not sprog.

We ate lobster. We ate a lot of lobster. Like 2 pounds, each. (20 hours later, I’m still nearly comatose with gastronomic bliss/protein overload) And butterflied leg o’ lamb (one of my faves.) And lots of cheese and crackers, and lots of yummy yummy things like BLTs and eggsalad. And now I’m eating lots and lots of dried apricots in an attempt to convince my poor progesterone-inflicted bowels that digestion is actually in their best interests.

(bloat!)

And yes, I’ve pretty much decided that given my food preferences, my risk factor for listeria/salmonella/e.coli is pretty high, but then, so is the standard working level of my immune system, so I’m going to trust it’ll all work out in the end. I’m one of those people who never gets food poisoning at the company picnic, or has to worry if those leftovers in the fridge are slightly off, because my stomach of iron won’t react. So I’m having a hard time getting worked up about what I can & can’t eat. Actually, I’m being really good about avoiding mercury-fish like tuna or swordfish or other top of the foodchain critters. But the way I figure it is that if I’m going to get paranoid about everything I eat on the off chance I might get sick, I’m not going to be able to eat a thing. I mean, they just put cilantro on the don’t eat list, and a girl’s got to draw the line somewhere. So I’m officially not worrying too much.

Oh, and I went to the grocery store specifically so I could buy a pickle from the barrel they keep at the deli. Stereotypical, and probably not the most hygenic, but oh so satisfying!

I’m going to start photographically recording my expanding belly this week. Because I am a glutton for punishment. I also just bought a prenatal workout dvd on Amazon. Will report back on results of both the recording torture and the workout torture, even if the only results apparent are that the boy has a great opportunity to laugh at me every morning.

Let’s see, other things to report? The massive bruise/welt/blood blister from the PIO vein-nick of the other night is still pretty horrific – both in looks and in feels. Not sure if I’ll be brave enough to direct boy to use that injection site again tonight or not. I’m already nervous about Thursday & Friday, since boy will be out of the country and I will have to inject myself. I am a wimp, and not particularly limber, and I just have a feeling that it’s going to be awful. I’m dreading another bleeder. Can’t wait to be done with these.

And despite (or maybe because of) sleeping for almost 10 hours a night both Friday and Saturday night, I managed to have a couple of hellacious pg related dreams. Well, last night’s was more of a PIO related dream. Just a pure anxiety dream about getting to the pharmacy in time to refill my prescription, before they closed but after work, and whether I’d be able to, and what the supposed equivalent of pessaries would be if I couldn’t get there in time on Tuesday, would I be stuffing, like 35 of those damned little blue pills up inside me, is that even possible? and maybe I could get to the pharmacy tomorrow morning instead, and what if I shatter the vial I’m finishing up right now – I don’t even have a pharmacy that’s open on Sunday to get an emergency dose for tonight, and maybe…

Ack.

Hoping for no dreams tonight. And a clear shot to the pharmacy in the morning, so I can put that fear to rest.

The main reason I’m looking forward to my last RE appointment is that I’ll be able to bring in my gigantic shopping bag full of needles, empty ampules, and other drug paraphrenalia and hand it over to the safe-disposal gals in the lab. Looking forward to having my bathroom back!

Tonight, when the best man-nurse in the world started to give me my nightly jab, it felt like fire being injected into me (or the damned anesthetic they used during my retrieval, come to that). So I shrieked, “Stop! Stop! Something’s wrong! Take it out!” And he did, and blood went everywhere. Ew.

(I’ll confess here – and only here – that my first, horribly unworthy thought was to wonder if eldest daughter found my meds stash and added something, like you know, Drano, to the vial. But I digress.)

So, after I reassured the boy that I would survive, and we cleaned up the just-changed sheets that got soiled, and after I grabbed a bite of dinner after my late night at work, I went into the bathroom to perform my nightly ablutions, thinking about nothing more complicated than what I was going to read before bed tonight. And there, with my panties around my ankles, I nearly died of a heart attack. Blood. Blood filling up the pantyliner I’ve been wearing to help contain the pessary-leakage. and my brain hollering: Ohmygodi’mhavingamiscarriage. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Until the, um, obvious answer finally dawned on my dim brain. This was from the stab wound, not anything more dire than that. I just bled way more than I thought I did, and something about the way I was lying when he gave me the shot just sort of funneled the blood into the most absorbent thing nearby. And yes, I immediately wiped frantically and confirmed that this was blood from the outside, not the inside.

But my heart’s still beating way too damned hard.

And my ass still hurts from whatever caused that track of fire feeling. Sciatic nerve or blood vessel? I’m taking bets here! Off to research!

Still floating on the “perfectly normal pregnancy” news from Tuesday. I even went to a grotesquely overpriced baby boutique in the neighborhood to inquire about the adorable onesie in the window.

Yes, it was way overpriced. No I didn’t buy it anyway. Yes, I’m still thinking about it.

No real symptoms, not even any weight gain, despite my indulgence in sweets yesterday (damn the bowl of chocolate some evil co-worker left in the break room!) Not complaining, mind you. It would have been upsetting if I were the only one in my family to suffer from morning sickness. I’m just as happy to be avoiding that. Tired all the time, but that’s sort of my normal state of being in a coffee-free world. Hungry all the time, too, but again, that’s just sort of me. Not sure the raspberry-sized sprog can claim credit for that one either.

And starting to get eager about getting past another milestone or two. Looking forward to that 12-week-mark like nobody’s business. End of PIO shots (which are really starting to irritate my poor abused sit-upon, both the injection site itself, and the bandaids I’ve been using. Must go find some latex-free ones…), not to mention, the end of nasty vaginal suppositories that make me feel like a leaky Easter Egg. The first day I am not required to put anything sharp or pastel-colored anywhere near my nether region is going to be a very very good day in my world.

And I guess one of these days, I’ll have to start hunting around for a midwife or OB/GYN. My RE is likely to discharge me one of these days, I’d think. I’ll have another US on Tuesday, which might be fun. I’ll even see if the boyfriend wants to come along & see a heartbeat.

As far as eventual delivery-plans go, I’d prefer a midwife, but am not sure if they’d welcome an AMA-patient like me. God – when did 38 get to feeling so old? Um, when I decided to have a baby at 38, I suppose.

39, actually, by the time Sprog is born. Dang.

I think I’m pregnant. I think the night-time peeing isn’t just PIO related, ditto the incredibly sore boobs. I think the cramping I’ve been feeling all week hasn’t been gas or nerves or anything other than my uterus getting used to the idea of playing host for a while. I think one of those average or sub-average embryos took a fancy to my innards & decided to stick around for a while.

I don’t think I ever really allowed myself to think in terms of what it would be like to learn that. And although every fiber of my being is resisting the urge to do little victory dances around the room, since there is still plenty of time for things to go terribly, terribly wrong: Miscarriage and birth defects and teenage smoking lie just around the potential corner, etc. But you know what?

WAAAAAHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

(Dance, dance, dance!)

And still, I’m thinking about doing one tomorrow. Because I am a dope, and because somehow it’s better to think ahead to tomorrow’s futile test that might possibly still have a chance, instead of thinking further ahead to the actual test on Monday, next when I’ll get a definite answer. About which I’m already terrified.

Still getting a bit crampy off & on, and I’m still waking up all night long – to pee, and just to lie there, staring up into the dark. I think that’s a progesterone side-effect, or maybe a prednisone one. It’s not too bad, and it doesn’t seem to affect me too much upon waking in the morning, but it’s noticeable. The PIO shots are getting a bit more painful, mostly because the bruising is getting bad on my poor butt.

Trying to decide between the beach and a day of writing at home. Which, since I know myself well enough to know it would turn into a day of obsessing over google-searching, is probably a bad idea. Beach just might be the best use of the day, despite my current photo-sensitivity. And it would be a nice treat for the boyfriend, so worth something right there.

I won’t obsess about tomorrow’s test. I won’t obsess about tomorrow’s test…

Hah.

Ok, IVF related stuff:

My hand is not as discolored today, which is good news. Looks like my flesh will not slough off after all.

Which is a relief.

Bad news is that my much-abused butt is starting to make known its displeasure at all the PIO injections. Bruised and lumpy, as promised. Poor boyfriend winces more than I do, when he has to stab me. Even so, even sore and lumpy, it’s easier than I’d thought it would be. Uncomfortable on the same level as a paper-cut. Truly no big deal.

The ambiguous news is that I was crampy all last night, and into this morning. I’m trying very hard not to read too much into this, but the timing would be just about right for implantation cramps, yes? Down, Susan. Down! I took an HPT & the HCG seems to have left my system, so in another few days, I’ll start testing in earnest. June 10 seems like a very very long way away.

To make a long, rambling, post short, I’m waiting. Waiting waiting waiting. Waiting to see if anything took. Waiting waiting waiting…

And, as people have reminded me, even though my initial embryos’ quality aren’t superstar material like I’d hoped for, it’s not like they’re not viable.  This could totally work, and until I hear otherwise from my body, or from these hokey internet HPTs I’m already peeing on obsessively, or from my doctor’s blood lab, I think I’ll just think of myself as Pregnant with a capital “P”. 

Why the hell not? 

My poor mother tried to comfort me yesterday by telling me that this would work because I have her genes and all she ever needed to do to get pregnant was to want to.  Um, yeah, that was when she was almost 13 years younger than I am now, and hey!  Newsflash!  Getting pregnant easily – not my problem!  But a couple of friends came through and said the right things – and how they knew just what I needed to hear, I’ll never know, but they did.  Thanks, guys – and Linda, this sprog is going to be honored to wear a chicken-hat just like its Auntie Linda.

And the computer meltdown – ok, financially, this could totally have happened at a better time.  Ie: not the same month as the outrageous car insurance comes due.  Not the same month that the slightly less-outrageous, but still significant medical bills came due, and not a bare week after I went and bought luggage and assorted clothes for our upcoming vacation.  But still, hell, I’m in a financial position for the first time in my life where it was possible, upon first viewing of the blue screen of death, to think of it as an opportunity to upgrade my life and not the end of everything until I could save up enough cash to scrape everything together.  Hell, if I look at it in a positive light, at least I have this ‘back up computer’ I bought last year, and at least I have a hard drive where everything has been semi-recently backed up.  So nothing’s lost except a bit of time and money, and that’s not anywhere near as bad as stuff I’ve lost in other catastrophic crashes.  (First novel, precious, irreplaceable photos, irretrievable emails, etc.) 

So I went downtown to the shiny flagsship Apple store & bought a new Mac.  Had a much better experience than at the store in SOHO, where no-one seemed to know how to answer my questions.  Here, everyone seemed on the level, intelligent, and generally the sort of computer people I like to deal with.  I’m excited about re-entering the Mac world, to be honest.  And I’ll be picking it up today or tomorrow, loaded with all my (or at least, so I hope) data, new programs, music, etc.  With any luck, I’ll be running the new Scrivener program I’ve been coveting within the week and being very very productive. 

And in the meantime, I’m feeling well enough on my feet today to make a lasagna, and to have enjoyed shopping for groceries in the sunshine today, and to be feeling like things aren’t quite so dire as they seemed yesterday.  Even if this month doesn’t work, we’ve got two more shots of IVF paid for with my insurance, which is nothing to sneeze at.  I can do this.  It’s not fun, but it’s something I can do.  It’ll work.   I’m holding positive here – this will work.