I am, of course, freaking the hell out right now. That high-pitched whine you can hear? With the random pings, ftz-noises, bangs, and puffs of smoke? My neurons bursting into flames.
Once again, Satsuma the Great was in deep cover, and not visible by dildocam. We looked in from the top, as it were, and there she was, rather large and much burdened with great big black blobs. This being an external ultrasound, ÜberScanningLady couldn’t get an accurate count, but she gave up counting at 18 large follicles, one 20mm, three 19mm, ‘several’ over 18, and the rest over 15mm. There may be more.
‘What a star!’ said ÜberScanningLady, ‘Who needs left ovaries, eh?’
Not this happy camper.
Riverside Clinic found yet another adorable nurse from their seemingly inexhaustible supply, and she, with a flourish, presented me with my Retrieval Schedule.
‘So, tonight you take the trigger shot,’ she began – holy shit, this is really real – ‘And your final Gonal F and Cetrotide shots. You’ll need to take the Gonal F at 7pm, the Cetrotide at the usual time (10pm), and the trigger at 11:30, OK?’
(Holy shit this is actually happening)
‘No shots tomorrow!’ she continued, ‘And don’t eat after midnight tomorrow.’
‘Has your husband ejaculated recently? Yes? Good. Remind him not to do so again before Friday.’
(Oh crap they really believe I have eggs and there’s a point to all this)
‘You need to be here at 7:30am on Friday, OK?’
‘Wait,’ I said feebly, ‘do you mean this Friday? The day after tomorrow?’
She laughed, kindly.
We went through my file again to make sure we all knew what was what, and that I knew about the Cyclogest and Clexane and the Intralipid on the day of retrieval. She noted the list of miscarriages and expressed dismayed sympathy, which was nice, but also made me feel weird, because it seems this is unusually pants even for Riverside, where a swift perusal of the waiting room proves I am by no means the fattest or the oldest woman they are treating. (I am wandering off-topic here, but if the NHS limits IVF to younger, thinner women, the ‘better’ candidates, the ones who don’t miscarry with the regularity of the changing seasons, how come NHS success rates are so noticeably worse than those of private clinics, who will take on the fat, the shrivelled, and the medically complicated?).
And then she harshed the mellow by missing my vein on the first stab with the needle and having to wriggle the point about in my flesh, hunting for it AAAAAIEEEE OH MY GOD THAT FEELS REVOLTING.
I settled my bill, I collected the rest of my drugs from the pharmacy, and I trundled off to work for a hard day’s patient Sorting Stuff Out. I am taking next week off, so I can lie about on my chaise longue, weeping into my prunes while watching Doctor Who reruns, in peace. Therefore Stuff Needs Sorting Out.
So! I have emptied the last of the Gonal F into my muffins (exact right amount! Ha! Take that, pharmacy fees!), and very shortly I will go play with the last Cetrotide (alas, we have a spare Cetrotide shot). Incidentally, I got H to mix the Cetrotide for me the other night, and after a few minutes he admitted, ruefully, that it was ‘trickier than it looked’. Quite. *smug mode*.
Oh, my dear good Gentle Readers, I am nervous.