I’m sitting at this beautiful coffee shop, listening to a chill playlist on Spotify, knowing my daughter is safe at daycare. This is super relaxing; minus my ongoing attempt to position my ass on the wooden chair so that the bruises from progesterone injections aren’t screaming at me.
I’ve also peed probably six times in the past 45 mins because apparently pushing a child out of my hoo-ha meant I’d never be able to hold my bladder for more than 20 minutes again.
I’m honestly probably a solid candidate for Depends at this point. Plus, ever since Lisa Rinna started endorsing them, they might actually be chic. And, if they show through my leggings I can just cover them with my Lisa Rinna Duster, that I may or may not have purchased on QVC. (If you watch Real Housewives, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t - don’t judge me.)
I peed on a resident last week.
Yep. Opened up the gates right on her hands. The Day 15 ultrasound during an FET (frozen embryo transfer) cycle is done with a full bladder. The ultrasound tech asked if I’d be comfortable with having the resident practice performing an ultrasound on me under her instruction. Of course I said yes. This place is the reason I have a daughter. I'm eternally indebted. They could ask me if I’d be comfortable running my mom bod through the hospital naked and I’d eagerly flop around for everyone.
This resident was incredibly sweet and thorough. She was also INCREDIBLY slow. What should have been a five minute ultrasound turned into a 30 minute ultrasound. She poked, prodded and pushed near my bladder with an internal ultrasound wand. (If you’re familiar with those, they’re enough to make you blush.) I curled my toes. I clenched every part of my body. I focused on the lyrics to a soft rock ballad playing in the background. I did everything physically possible not to release.
As she turned the wand inside of me to get a look at my right ovary, my hands clenched the table, my whole body trembled and I knew there was no stopping it. I started to pee.
She pulled back faster than a speeding bullet. Oh, now she was gonna work on her speed? Where were those reflexes 25 minutes ago when I was on the verge of passing out from holding my breath trying not to pee? They allowed me to empty my bladder before finishing the ultrasound because stepping on one of my urine landmines was impossible for them to dodge.
I left without making eye contact, with anyone.
Upside to my R Kelly moment; my uterine lining looked great. I was good to go for a transfer five days later. My instructions were to begin progesterone injections that evening.
Since I haven’t written about progesterone and oil injections since the dark ages, let me walk you through exactly what this gem of a hormone entails. Progesterone is the primary hormone in pregnancy. When doing in vitro, your doctor will prescribe either a vaginal suppository or injections that are administered starting a few days prior to your transfer. If you become pregnant, you continue with progesterone through your first trimester.
Upside to the injections is that the doctors are able to measure your progesterone levels through a blood test and change dosage if necessary. Downside is the injections themselves and the havoc they wreak on your body.
These injections are intramuscular. This means the needles are long “af” and they need to be jammed into your muscle, usually in your butt or love handle. Surprisingly the needle itself going into the muscle isn’t the painful part. The progesterone is mixed with oil (usually sesame or vegetable oil) so it’s super thick. Because my progesterone was low with my first pregnancy, they started me on the highest dose right out the gate.
When the oil is pushed into the muscle, you can physically feel it moving from your hip/butt down to your ankle. I don’t know if it actually goes all the way to the ankle, but it fucking feels like it.
We transferred an embryo two days ago. So I’m a week into injections, and my ass is already riddled with lumps and bruises. The side effects are kicking in, but this time I have a toddler to tend to. There is no more snapping out like an animal. There can’t be full on sweaty tantrums, lying on the floor crying.
I can’t allow the hormones to take control…in front of her. When she goes to bed, IT’S ON.
I now quietly “whisper scream” psychotic ramblings to berate my husband and softly sob into a pillow on the floor over the fact that I’m sprouting chin hairs again. (That right, chin hairs - eat your hearts out boys.)
Yesterday I told my husband his haircut looked like shit just to hurt his feelings. That may not seem like a real doozy, but on top of Michael being a barber, he’s also incredibly vein. That was literally the meanest thing I could have said. I sobbed and begged him to forgive me, then didn’t believe him when he said did, and continued to cry harder.
This morning I almost left a group message with friends of mine because they were talking about living healthy lifestyles, working out and consuming less than 1,000 calories a day. I actually typed “FUCK YOU GUYS” then deleted it. How DARE THEY get skinny while I’m on hormones that are making me swell up like a fucking hot air ballon? It’s bulking season bitches. I’m gonna need you to put your diets on hold.
At the present moment I’ve been trying to write a closing paragraph for 15 mins now, but my husband has successfully interrupted FOUR times. One FaceTime call, two phone calls and a text message. My eyes are now filled with tears of rage, so I’m no longer able to clearly see the computer screen.
Fuck it, I have to pee anyway.