Put down the toothbrush and no one gets hurt

This morning I was booked for my first scan since starting injections.  My idea had been to stumble out to the car wrapped up only in my down comforter, one eye still resolutely closed against the unwelcome drizzly dawn, but when I gingerly lifted a corner of the duvet to drag it off the bed, Paul sweetly murmured something in his sleep that could have been either "Poor girl.  Good luck," or "Drop the fucking blanket or I'll stab you in the kidneys," and, you know, I just didn't have the heart.  For one thing, he looked so peaceful.  For another, I happen to know he keeps a sharpened toothbrush under his side of the mattress for emergencies just like this.  So instead I showered, dressed, and drove, arriving fifteen minutes early for my 7:30 appointment.

I am, as you know, a woman of decisive action, so I had scooted down to the end of the table before the doctor had even finished his polite knock before entering.  The doctor, on the other hand, was moving slowly.  In the time it took him to put on gloves, squirt a glob of gel onto the probe, sheathe it in a condom, and garnish the whole affair with another quivering dollop of goo, I could have applied to med school, sweated out an acceptance, matriculated and graduated, completed my residency, secured a prestigious fellowship, acquired six to ten years of experience in the exciting specialty of reproductive endocrinology, put on my own gloves, and done the scan myself.  Of course, now that I think about it, I would also have had to invent a time machine to throw myself back to that fateful day in the autumn of '89 when I swatted the alarm clock into silence, pulled the pillow back over my head, and muttered, "8 AM biology lecture, my ass.  It's not like I'm going to be a doctor."  But I had time to do that, too.  That's how long it seemed to take before he was ready to start the proceedings.  There was far too long and far too awkward a delay while I was, how you say, open for business.  I will be fair, however, and concede that time does funny things when you're not wearing pants.

The news is not discouraging, though it's still very early.  I have...something... developing on my right ovary, meaning a couple of measurable follicles, and slightly less, meaning nothing measurable yet, happening on the left.  If you are tracking the box scores, you'll want to note that my endometrium measures a respectable 7.3 mm; this is satisfying because in past cycles it has achieved comparable plumpness, and nothing cushier, only a day or two before trigger.  My E2 today after four nights of gonadotropins is 122; this compares favorably to past cycles in which it hovered around 150 after six days of drugs.  Now save that scorecard.  It could be valuable one day if Paul eventually does give me the shivving I richly deserve.

Dosage remains the same.  Next scan Monday at 9 AM, an hour so refreshingly civilized that I'm already planning which pillow sham to accessorize with.

Posted by Julie at 05:35:10 PM in Notes from astride the stirrups

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Put down the toothbrush and no one gets hurt

This morning I was booked for my first scan since starting injections.  My idea had been to stumble out to the car wrapped up only in my down comforter, one eye still resolutely closed against the unwelcome drizzly dawn, but when I gingerly lifted a corner of the duvet to drag it off the bed, Paul sweetly murmured something in his sleep that could have been either "Poor girl.  Good luck," or "Drop the fucking blanket or I'll stab you in the kidneys," and, you know, I just didn't have the heart.  For one thing, he looked so peaceful.  For another, I happen to know he keeps a sharpened toothbrush under his side of the mattress for emergencies just like this.  So instead I showered, dressed, and drove, arriving fifteen minutes early for my 7:30 appointment.

I am, as you know, a woman of decisive action, so I had scooted down to the end of the table before the doctor had even finished his polite knock before entering.  The doctor, on the other hand, was moving slowly.  In the time it took him to put on gloves, squirt a glob of gel onto the probe, sheathe it in a condom, and garnish the whole affair with another quivering dollop of goo, I could have applied to med school, sweated out an acceptance, matriculated and graduated, completed my residency, secured a prestigious fellowship, acquired six to ten years of experience in the exciting specialty of reproductive endocrinology, put on my own gloves, and done the scan myself.  Of course, now that I think about it, I would also have had to invent a time machine to throw myself back to that fateful day in the autumn of '89 when I swatted the alarm clock into silence, pulled the pillow back over my head, and muttered, "8 AM biology lecture, my ass.  It's not like I'm going to be a doctor."  But I had time to do that, too.  That's how long it seemed to take before he was ready to start the proceedings.  There was far too long and far too awkward a delay while I was, how you say, open for business.  I will be fair, however, and concede that time does funny things when you're not wearing pants.

The news is not discouraging, though it's still very early.  I have...something... developing on my right ovary, meaning a couple of measurable follicles, and slightly less, meaning nothing measurable yet, happening on the left.  If you are tracking the box scores, you'll want to note that my endometrium measures a respectable 7.3 mm; this is satisfying because in past cycles it has achieved comparable plumpness, and nothing cushier, only a day or two before trigger.  My E2 today after four nights of gonadotropins is 122; this compares favorably to past cycles in which it hovered around 150 after six days of drugs.  Now save that scorecard.  It could be valuable one day if Paul eventually does give me the shivving I richly deserve.

Dosage remains the same.  Next scan Monday at 9 AM, an hour so refreshingly civilized that I'm already planning which pillow sham to accessorize with.