I thought about putting an inspirational infertility quote here, but instead I'll share that once I got out of a moving vehicle while on Clomid. I was hormonal, enraged and hulking out. I was a lurched animal in a cage.  Once I escaped, I walked for blocks while my husband slowly drove next to me. Eventually I cried it out, calmed down, and finally got back in the car. He never mentioned it again.

Tick...tick... tick...BOOM

Just when I celebrated the end of stimulating hormones, I was introduced to a whole new experience of injections. Stimulating hormones were a mere to preview to the main event, also known as progesterone and oil. 

The stimulating injections were a walk in the park compared to this hormone. All of the injections I've done until now have been subcutaneous, meaning they're thin, short needles that just have to get through your skin. They burned, made me fat and cranky, but they were tolerable. 

Progesterone and oil have been pushing me closer and closer to the edge. These bad boys are intramuscular injections. The needles are long and thick, and they have to pierce through my skin and fat, down to the muscle.

The actual act of injecting this acne causing hormone is a production in itself. Michael has to find the exact spot on the top part of my butt, basically my lower back/love handle area.

The nurse told him to make sure he doesn't hit my sciatic, which is super comforting to think that a needle's even flirting with hitting a nerve.

Once he establishes the bullseye, he stabs the needle in, the same way one would throw a dart. At this point, it's still not time to start to push in the progesterone.

First he has to pull back on the plunger to make sure that no blood comes up into the syringe. If any blood is pulled into the syringe, then he has to take the needle out, discard it, and start the process all over again. 

As if the idea of the needle isn't bad enough, let's throw in a bunch of factors that can potentially fuck shit up. 

So the needle's now in my ass and there's no blood in the syringe. Small victory. Now it's time to slowly push the progesterone into my muscle.

The progesterone is mixed with oil, so it's super thick. I was warned that I would be able to feel it going in, but I truly didn't expect to feel it all the way down my leg into the back of my heel. 

Just like anything else, I'm starting to get used to them. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a big wuss. I have a full routine that goes along with these injections. I have to be facing the t.v., holding my poodle (who is shaking more than I am), and I make Michael ask me a question right before he stabs me. 

The side effects that come along with progesterone are absolutely beautiful. They include weight gain, irritability, acne, increased body/facial hair growth, headache, breast tenderness, tiredness, hot flashes and dizziness. And lucky me, there's not one I'm not experiencing.

My blood test on Thursday showed that my progesterone level was on the lower end of normal, so they've now doubled my dosage.

With a double dose of progesterone coursing through my body, I'm officially a walking time bomb, destroying everything in my path. Think you know how to avoid an explosion? You don't. No one's safe.

I flipped on my dog groomer for keeping the dogs' leashes on while they were in their crates, in fear that they'd hang themselves. Then when I picked them up, I made everyone really uncomfortable when I cried, tears running down my cheeks, over how cute they looked. 

I successfully flipped out on both of my parents, while angry crying like a thirteen year old girl. I snapped on one of my barbers for asking me a legitimate question about his paycheck. And I cried at the front desk, in front of clients, when I realized I was only a week away from my blood test.

I've officially quarantined myself to my house. This means that all of this pent up hormonal rage has one target and one target only; my husband.

This poor man can do nothing to stay safe. If a bomb was about to go off and he had to snip either the red wire or the green wire to survive,  BOTH wires would result in immediate death. 

Last night was my low point. He had jokingly said I "wasn't allowed" to go out with my friends because I needed to rest. Mind you, at this point I look four months pregnant, can't drink, and clearly can't function in any social situation. There is nothing in me that would ever want to squeeze into a dress and hit the town.

But, this ignited a fire deep in my gut. And there was no turning back. I threw everything in my line of sight; water bottles, my purse, my phone - which I'm SHOCKED has survived this amount or hormone cycles, anything and everything.

I was screaming with tears in my eyes, "YOU'RE THE REASON I HAVE NO FRIENDS!"

That statement literally makes zero sense.

I was flailing my arms, like one of those blow up things you see at used car lots. The dogs took cover at higher ground upstairs. Michael stood, completely still, afraid to make sudden movements. I was a monster. 

After I eventually wore myself out, I sat on top of an air conditioning vent, pouring sweat with black mascara and liquid liner EVERYWHERE. Michael got a cold towel, put it on my neck, and slowly and carefully backed away.

I spent the rest of the night shamelessly googling "progesterone and rage" and "Can flip outs cause IVF not to work?". 

I meditated, got a good night's sleep, and woke up this morning with a new positive attitude. I can do this. I am in control. I took my time getting ready. I put on a black dress for work, makeup done, accessories were right. I was feeling good.

When I opened the door to leave, I discovered it was a solid 15 degrees colder than anticipated, and it was a monsoon. I knew at that moment there was no way I could wear that little dress that was making me feel so good. I had to turn around, go back in the house and start over.

I'm going to allow you to use your imagination for that meltdown.

I'm actually going to end this post without any clever wrap up. Why? Because after years of owning a mac laptop, I STILL can't figure out how to copy and paste. After trying multiple times and failing, the heat is starting to build in my chest. 

It's safest for my husband and this laptop that I just shut it down and walk away before it's too late.

 

 

 

Someone get me off this ride before I puke.

The Two Week Wait