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02/20/2004

This morning's stream of consciousness

Okay. I'm going to call them. First I was going to do it on Monday, but I didn't want to sound too eager. On Tuesday I just didn't, no reason. On Wednesday I was going to do it early so that I could leave a message and not have to endure human contact of any kind, but I waited too late. Thursday I thought, Enh, what's one more day? And here we are on Friday. I'm going to call any minute now. I am.

But first I will sing a little song. You can't stop the music...nobody can stop the music!...la la la la la, la la la la la, la la la la la, 'cause it's ea-si-er to do! Damn those Village People. That movie was like a fever dream. No, I've had more coherent fever dreams. Worth it, though, for the deathless line, "Leathermen don't get nervous. Leathermen don't get nervous." And for the haunting sight of a coked-up Steve Guttenberg being hauled through Times Square on roller skates, unconvincingly grooving to his breadbox-sized Walkman. Good times. Good times.

I am really good at drowning out my brain. I'm going to call. I am! Oh, but first I need to burrow into the bathroom vanity so I'll know how many amps I have left from last cycle. And Paul's in the bathroom where I've stored it. It's a little weird. He seldom uses the master bath. (I like to say that like an English butler would in a thirties comedy. Mawstah bawth. I am quite possibly the most annoying woman on the planet.) Even in the middle of the night, he walks the extra ten feet to the second bath instead of stumbling two steps to the near one. Occasionally I ask him why he does this, because his toileting habits are a matter of intense interest to me. "I don't want to wake you up," he answers. From this I infer that I do wake him when I use the near bathroom in the wee hours. (Wee hours! Bathroom! Ahahahaha. Oh.) And yet...and yet...I do not care. The Japanese call it a benjo when they're being crude. Benjo. That's a nice name for a kid. I will put it on the list.

List. List. Make a list of what you need to tell the nurse. Follistim. Needles. A sharps container. Here is why I am stupid. I am stupid because I'm going to order from Freedom Drug this time instead of ivfmeds.com, despite the fact that the medication is much cheaper when ordered from a slightly dubious source located somewhere near the ass-end of Spain. Why? Because they ship needles. Because delivery is quicker. And because this cycle I'm feeling uncharacteristically superstitious. See, the last couple of cycles with drugs from ivfmeds.com went totally yard sale — dominant follicle, early ovulation. And while I'm sure the drugs they sell are the same as the ones sold by U.S. pharmacies, they're just different enough to freak me out. They come under a different name, which is not a big deal; they come premixed, which throws off the ratio of powder to water that my clinic prescribes; and they have a big label on them that reads, "For intramuscular injection," when I do them subcutaneously. So. Not taking any chances this time. Screw you, Gibraltar, and your foundering economy, too. I know it is stupid but I'm not in the mood to second-guess this cycle.

If it ever actually gets underway. I'm going to call in a minute. Paul's out of the bathroom but now he's on the phone. Thank you, baby Jesus.

Baby. Jesus. I'll never get one if I drag my sacrilegious ass like this. I am so goddamned reluctant to do this last IUI. Mostly I just don't want to go to that clinic again and stare at the hideous wallpaper border in the waiting room. Or glare at the poster titled, "Ultrasonography in Infertility Treatment and Early Pregnancy" while a cool breeze wafts across my unclothed undercarriage. Or be falsely breezy and cheerful as I'm led back to an examination room for the googolplexth time.

Googolplexth. Gosh. That's fun to say.

Today is cycle day 21. I know I ovulated late this month, so I don't expect my period for at least another week and a half. Even if it came tomorrow, I'd still have enough meds to carry me through until a new shipment arrived; I think I have at least 10 amps left from last time. ("Amps" is an anagram for "spam.") I can put this off for another few days.

Shut up, Julie. Call them, you jackass.

You know, it's funny: I don't remember their number. There was a time when I was calling them almost every day. But I am serious now about calling. I will look up the number thanks to the magic of the Internet. Hey, my clinic redesigned its site while I wasn't looking. The stunning originality! They used a picture of an egg being crowded by sperm. Why don't any of these sites use pictures we infertile people are more familiar with? An exhausted-looking woman fighting back tears. A grim-faced man furiously working to fill a specimen cup. An artful representation of the tool used to aspirate follicles during retrieval. Nooooo. We get a healthy-looking egg being successfully fertilized by a single sperm, with dozens of extras just clamoring to get in on the game. Somehow it just doesn't speak to me, you know?

No more excuses. I am calling them. I have the number. I know how many amps I need. The phone's not busy. I'm calling.

Oh, wait, look. Here comes the cat!

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