It would seem that spending Easter lying on the carpet, playing Civilization IV with a husband who is actually in the other room on the other computer (this is deeply sad. I know it is. But I’m winning), eating cake and drinking port, is quite good for bone-idle slacker ovaries.
Today’s scan – one follicle, sixteen millimetres across. Due to pop in the next 48 hours, should it agree to grow another millimetre or two, and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t, according the the completely-different-from-any-other-consultant-I’ve-yet-seen consultant, who was quite happy about it, even though it’s day 21 already and I am seriously thinking, if we can’t manage any sooner than day 21 ON Clomid, and happily manage around day 21 OFF Clomid, what the freaking freak is the freaking point, not that I put it quite like that, as she was actually talking to me as if I was an adult and not a house-plant. Which is a novelty.
I was also firmly ordered to pee on OPKs, even though the very packaging says they don’t really work for PCOS people, because apparantly the Clomid overrides the PCOS, and to call them the second I got a positive.
I peed on an OPK this afternoon. Not positive. This gives H the night off. H is relieved. But he is very politely pretending not to be.
You see, H and I have been dutifully making the beast with two backs for days and days on end, just in case (and, oddly, the day H referred to it as ‘baby-dancing’ was the day that we did not, and I’m sure the violent nausea and general desire to set fire to the next person to mention baby-dust had nothing to do with it). Poor us. You may as well force-feed yourself 30 chocolate truffles every day for a week. It sounds extremely nice in theory, and even a little in practice, right up until day five or so, when the desire for a nice cool glass of water and an episode of Antiques Roadshow overwhelmes you completely.
Continuing with the policy of Sharing Everything So No One Can Invent Spurious Nonsense, a policy, by the way, that H tipped me head-first into and which I would have probably eschewed for its complete opposite left to my own devices, my mother now knows about the existance of The Follicle (but NOT, and I must stress the NOT, the endless humping – H may have no shame, but my mother is a Lapsed Catholic), and is Excited About It. I haven’t the heart to disabuse her too firmly (though I did try to do it very gently, which she found amusing) because there are bad health worries in the family and it’s all a little depressing, and it’s her birthday next week and ohhh, this’ll end in tears whatever I do, won’t it? Yes. It will.