It's an absolutely gorgeous sunny spring day, when the air is so rich and nourishing you wish you were off somewhere remote, like a big empty meadow, where you could jump around naked without anyone seeing you.
Did I mention I'm a hippy?
All sorts of things are coming up, and I'm happy that basically all my plants made it, except this stupid, huge salad burnet I bought on a whim. The bastard tasted like soap and took over way too much herb bed real estate. There are also these bizarre looking things that appear to be some kind of bulb from the gazillion I planted. They look like little pink toucan's beaks on long sticks. What the hell are they? I can't say.
I had a moment yesterday after my acupuncture appointment, when a cloud passed over what's been an incredibly sunny few weeks since Dr. Spunk did his womb-spedition. Even though my acupuncturist said everything felt really strong and balanced, my mind and therefore my mouth started spouting all sorts of gibberish about money and drugs and odds and annoyance at the thought of IVF. Basically, I got all ahead of myself and anxious for about fifteen minutes. My poor acupuncturist, who's more or less a friend, didn't quite get it and was being very kindly down to earth, but what I really wanted to some encouragement. I want a siboombah, not a "your body will do what it can."
Sigh. Don't you hate it when someone wonderful, like, 90% gets it? But is missing that crucial 10%?
I went away feeling foolish, one for revealing my madness and two for having the madness in the first place. I stopped by my husband's work, where he was taking a break and was in a very sweet, loving mood. I asked him if he would be willing to wait until July to try the drug route, and he said sure, that one month wouldn't matter and then we'd know for certainish that the surgery wasn't enough to knock me up. Fortunately, my guy is descended from a venerable line of E. European cheapskates, so he's more than willing to see if we can get babified for free.
If no luck, then we hit the injections. I've only got so much IF mojo in me, so we've decided to fuck the Clomid. It's stupid and it doesn't feel...health promoting, you know? Like it's doing something not so good to you. By the way, dear comrades, for those of you who can compare, how do the side effects of FSH measure up to CC? Besides the smack in the wallet?
Selfishly, I'm also looking forward to training for one extra month without having to worry about giant monster ovaries. And continuing this mad dissertating streak I'm on (I've written 20 decent pages in the last week). And not fixating on my ladyparts and their wacky ways.
Or at least, not too much...
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6 comments:
Sorry to hear of your slight wobble at the acupunturist's (I had a very similar experience a couple of weeks ago), but glad that you have decided on a plan of action. Here's hoping that you won't need to go down the medicated route at all!
And well done on the 20 pages! Long may this writing spate continue!
Glad you have a plan in place. I didn't really notice any side effects at all from CC, so injectables have been much worse for me. Of course, I'm in the middle of stimming right now and feel pretty crappy, so you caught me on a bad day. It is tolerable.
We all have those wobbles - it's part of the territory. I would be worried if you didn't have one some of the time. I like to think of it has the mind's way of helping to ground us. Unfortunately, the person who you would think would be super good at that wasn't, and I'm sorry for that.
Also, injectibles really are the way to go. I remember when we were consulting with Dr. Uterus after he gave me the Roto-Rooter special on my tubes and he said something to the effect of, if you're going to do it, do it right. I hope you don't have to get to that point because you get knocked up the old fashioned way!
20 pages in one week sounds incredible.
I hate that feeling of foolishness after I've had a little meltdown like that; I brood about it for days, but then remember that more likely than not, I had it in front of someone who is a caring friend and who only wants the best for me. And isn't sitting around wondering about my weirdness, but is instead making themselves a pb&j or something completely unrelated.
YOu sound, except for your moment of worry, like you are in a really, really healthy place. I love to read that. I'm excited for the outcome of your summer, and I'm secretly hoping that the operation roughed up your insides kind of like when you sand your nails before applying polish so there is a surface to stick to.
I forgot to answer your Clomid vs. FHS question. I got crazy on Clomid-- it made me irrational, weepy, and felt a little like anti-Prozac, whatever that is. Plus, it dried up my cervical mucus, which seemed so counter-productive. I didn't notice a real emotional toll from injectible FHS at all, so I'd definitely vote for FHS if I got a vote.
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