To sleep, perchance to...um, how does that go again?
If Paul's sperm are as tired as I am, it's a good thing we're doing ICSI. We may get some eggs out of this yet, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if, when the embryologist attempts to introduce the needle, they do the cellular equivalent of grunting irritably, rolling over, and drooling long strings of saliva onto the pillowcase.
I've been operating on very little sleep. First, it was the hotel bed: hard, springy, and draped in scratchy sheets that I suspect of the taint of polyester, instead of the high-count Egyptian cotton of home. (Princess loves her nice things.) Once I got over that, there were the hot flashes, vivid dreams and frequent awakenings that always occur late in my cycles. Exhaustion put paid to that, but when Paul arrived and we tried to share a queen-sized bed, all bets were off. Not only have I been sleeping poorly, I've been getting up early for the daily stickin'.
Today, the combination of the accumulated lack of sleep, the ungodly trigger time (alarm set for 2:10), and the early-morning monitoring (alarm set for 6:10) have made me clumsy and witless. I was too muddled even to drink anything before trudging the scant fifty steps to the clinic, so the phlebotomist had to stab me twice, rooting around painfully and unsuccessfully in each arm. Twice was not enough. I was instructed to go back to the waiting room, drink a lot of water, and return when my blood was slightly less, you know, chunky. The third stick did the trick. Vein, pain, strain in vain. Inhumane! A stain remains.
Sorry. Getting punchy.
Furthermore, I was so groggy that I misspelled my name on the forms I was asked to fill out. J-U-L-E on one, with a caret and an I added after the fact. J-U-I-L-E on another, the handwritten version of a typographical error. I don't even want to know what a hash I made of my last name I think I just scrawled some convenient-looking consonants and a handful of vowels. It's how everyone pronounces it, anyway.
The other thing is that although I was given extensive instructions about tomorrow's retrieval, I have no idea what they are. I believe there are some prescriptions I'm supposed to have filled, but what they're for I do not know. (Please let it be Vicodin.) I got the vague impression I'm supposed to go, well, somewhere tomorrow at, um, sometime or other. And I was given a package for Paul that includes, I assume, the paraphernalia for some esoteric penis-blessing ritual. More than that I could not tell you. I was also given a handful of printed pages containing this information, so I felt quite free not to listen at all, slipping instead into a comfortable fugue state from which I have yet to emerge.