I thought I could, I thought I could...

Today started with a trip to the clinic for my second monitoring appointment. This time, J accompanied me because we planned to go out of town to visit some friends of ours in the Smokey Mountains to check out the Christmas Festival. We arrived early, and were taken right back. The tech brought in a sheet for J to record numbers on as she checked my ovaries for follies, and we were both surprised at the number of follicles she actually counted. There were about 20 measurable ones today! There were two at 13mm, one or two at 12mm, several at 10mm, and a few smaller ones.


As soon as we were finished—by 9:20—we headed out of town. I was instructed to call this afternoon to check my voicemail box for instructions and the results of my bloodwork. Periodically, I’d check it, but there was no new message for me until almost 2:00. That’s when Kelli, my nurse, left me a message telling me that everything is progressing nicely. My estradiol level was 1,371 and because I have so many follicles, they are going to reduce my dosage of Foll.istim. So, for tonight I should take 75IU, then take none tomorrow morning. Tomorrow evening and Sunday evening, I’ll take 225IU of Foll.istim (that’s down from a total of 300 on days prior), and beginning tonight (Friday), I’ll add the Gani.relix injections. Simple. No problem. Oh, and I go back on Monday morning for the next round of monitoring.

I happily wrote down all the notes I needed to remember and we headed out to the Dixie Stam.pede. The show was great, by the way! When we returned to our friends’ house, we were all just sitting around talking, and my alarm went off on my I.pod. I darted upstairs to take care of my Gani.relix injecting, thinking it would be as easy as the Foll.istim. Boy, was I wrong! I truly admire those of you who gave ALL of your own injections. I guess I’m just a wuss. Here’s what happened:

I washed my hands and cleaned off an area of my belly for the injection. Then, I was stricken with that same fear that I had before my first Foll.istim injection. I stood there for a few moments trying to psyche myself up for the shot. But I just couldn’t do it. I made an attempt, but it was apparently a poor one and the needle didn’t break the skin. That kind of freaked me out a little bit. I tried a couple more times, but I couldn’t even make myself touch skin those times. I even got out a Foll.istim pen needle to compare—yep, they were the same size. Why couldn’t I do this injection? I worked myself into such a frenzy that my stomach started to hurt and I had to put all my materials down to use the restroom before I made myself sick.

In the interest of following protocol, I assumed that the best practice would be to recap the needle (although, I suppose the best practice would have been to give the stupid injection already). That was fine until I went to try again. The needle was bent.  Boo-hoo-hoo. Now I have a worthless $102 syringe filled with medicine. (I have a plan for this if I need it, though.) Luckily, I thought ahead and brought three with me (knowing I would need a maximum of two), so I repackaged the damaged goods and pulled out a fresh one. J caught me getting the new syringe and asked me what was wrong. I briefed him before heading back to the bathroom. About five minutes or so later, he knocked on the door. When I let him in, the tears started flooding. He asked me what was wrong, and I just sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I just couldn’t do it. I had pleaded with myself in the mirror. I’d prayed that God would will that needle to just go in. I’d even taken another unsuccessful stab at it—pun intended. For some reason, I could not plunge that needle into my stomach. J was so great. He gently wiped away my tears and told me that I didn’t have to do this all by myself. He would help me. He said it was the least he could do after all I had already done. He bragged on me for being so brave and doing all of the injections myself up until this point. Then he asked where it (the needle) needed to go. I lifted my shirt, re-wiped the area (with a new alcohol wipe, as the first one had dried), and pinched the skin for him. He warned me that it may sting (it didn’t—I barely even felt it), and I was relieved to hear the plunger going in on the syringe. That meant he’d done it. And I wouldn’t have to.

So, I guess I’m not as brave as I thought I was. I thought I had this thing whipped. Turns out I’m just a big chicken who can’t jab herself with a tiny little needle. Thank you, Lord, for sending me my husband. Tonight, he came to my rescue when I needed him most. I don’t know what I would have done without him.

Happy weekend, all!

Hugs and baby dust,