This weekend was hard.
My body finally decided it wasn’t that big of a fan of the ethyl oleate solution which the progesterone is in. At first I just had two itchy areas, one on each side of my butt. I didn’t realize they were there until I found myself wondering why I kept absentmindedly scratching my butt while reading, talking to Q., staring in the cupboard to see if there’s a good snack on offer, etc. Then, of course, I felt the overwhelming urge to grab my crotch and spit. I mean, why give up the Major League baseball player impersonation when you’re just getting going?
Anyway, yesterday Q’s daily injection had by the evening become a red welt the size of a nickel. So now I’m waiting to see what today’s does.
My Frag.min bruises have started up. I’ve only got one nasty blood blister bruise thus far, but I’m now sporting five distinct yellow-green blotches on my stomach. The rest of my stomach is squishy (I’m not so good with the ab workouts). The bruises are really firm to the touch. I’m trying to go around them with each injection, but I’m starting to run out of space.
I felt all weekend like af was trying to break through. I always have a day before af comes where I just feel generally out of sorts- lots of low level cramping in the uterus, and a general heaviness in my abdomen, coupled with emotional instability (i.e., I will cry at anything). This weekend felt a lot like that. I found myself short-tempered for the first time since the retrieval, and had to really work at not snapping at Q. I’m still getting terrible head rushes- I lose my vision entirely every time I get up from the couch. So I think my blood pressure must be really low- probably from the damn blood thinners.
Mostly I was just really frustrated. I wanted to go for a run, but I’m not running until we know the result. I wanted to work in our garden, but that would count as too much exertion. I desperately wanted to clean our house, as the dust bunnies on the stairs were driving me crazy (wooden stairs + two cats +my propensity to shed +prevailing winds in the house that seem to deposit everything on the stairs = DUST BUNNIES ATTACK!). But we agreed that I wasn’t doing any intensive housework during this wait.
Q. does clean the house, but he has the biggest deadline of his career this Friday, so he spent the entire weekend working. I did his laundry for him, and bought him two-bite brownies, and tried to just be supportive without getting in his way. Asking him to take on the dust bunnies would have been cruel.
So I went for a couple of walks (and got dizzy on one of them), and read a couple of books, and read the newspaper and did the Saturday puzzles (two KenKens, one Sudoku and a crossword) as I always do. And inwardly I seethed with frustration. That Q. worked non-stop through another weekend (even though I know he had no choice, and that he absolutely hates how hard he’s having to work right now). That I couldn’t go and run. That I didn’t have girl friends in the city whom I could just ring up and see if they were free for coffee that afternoon, because everyone is so busy we have to plan our socializing ages in advance. I was even furious by the end of the weekend that I couldn’t vacuum (and let’s face it, normally I’m not exactly jumping up and down with joy at the thought).
It is interminable, this waiting. And no matter how many times I go through it, how many times I try to build up my defences, how many times we get a negative result, a small, stupid part of my brain insists on holding out hope that THIS time things will be different, and that therefore a good way of spending time when lying on the couch is thinking of different ways to tell people that we’re pregnant. Yesterday I caught myself thinking about how I’d like to organize my BABY SHOWER, for crying out loud. Not helpful. Every time I have a thought like that, I try to beat it down with a really big stick back into the deep, black, secretive, inner workings of my brain. But they just keep popping back up.
Bring on Saturday.