Coming Up: Travels south yield promises of future pains. A stabbing is on the horizon. Poison lurks in teeny bottles, and untold horrors roil in the psychosomatic pullulations inside. Help lines blare an empty disconnection. Will our heroine, stabbed and stunned and overdosed with biohazards, be rescued by the handy internet research of our hat-pooping prince? As spider-babies simmer in secret caverns, our couple catalogue their vital essences and ready the coolers and containers. Will every excretion be pure and true? Will the extra ice be handy for a daunting imbroglio with flaming pretzels and Bhaktic berserking?
Frazzle Dazzle Friday and the Fertilitfun Farrago-go Countdown to a Stabbing
Ready my steed, for soon I shall blaze new trails across the abysmal atrocities of I-405 South (shudder). Yes, it's only about 4 exits, but these minor stretches and spans twixt entrance and exit are automobile Abbadon. Neither poking nor prodding could possibly compete with the anticipatory dread this driving ordeal inspires. But, this too shall pass. And, having fully offered up my pound of flesh (or fuel) to the fertili-gods, I will have my very own first-of-many ultrasounds with my actual doctor. To start my first day of self-shanking and engorged ovaries.
Let the merriment begin!
Yesterday I received my overnight box of biohazards. They came in such a nicely organized little series of kits and dire warnings. I'm pretty sure it's contraindicated to even look at the vials inside without having first scrubbed down thoroughly. Also, once they're mixed, I have to keep them in the fridge and "protect" them from light. Which is problematic because my fridge has a light bulb. And I'm constantly opening said fridge and engaging this light bulb. So hopefully those meds aren't too wussy. There are only so many makeshift paper towel suncatchers one can duct tape to a fridge door.
I'm kind of excited, really. I've never crossed the medical frontier. Assuming I don't kill myself mixing up my first vial and preparing the syringe, I will feel just an eensy bit like I'm done with playing house these past months and have moved on to playing doctor. If I don't kill myself anyways.
If I slip up and mix soy sauce into my gonadotropic-of-cancer-powder, and then accidentally shoot the bubbly air mixture into my eye... well, it's been a good run. Or, um, lugubrious stagger.
I'm a wee bit relieved to be dragged down to Kirkland for my first test. I'll be glad for the actual face time with my doctor. Being a long-distance patient can feel a bit disconnected. I get plenty of support through the regional care coordinator and via email, but that face to face contact adds something concrete and tangible in a time of high confusion. I'm doing what to my what? With a risk of wait, what?? All in order to possibly raise my statistical chances from virtually nothing to snowball's chance in a cooler level of hell of having a what?? Where's my child replacement sphinx cat? Where are my bon bons!?!
And any reassurance about this enormous box of stabby things and vials would be appreciated. I attempted to read the package material yesterday evening. I don't recommend doing so. Especially not while your husband is obsessing over collection mechanics of his very first stool sample. Yes, I'm about to start quotidian self immolation (hopefully with no fire, but we'll see), but you can guess the focus of last night's dinner topic: POOP!
We're an exciting bunch. See when you collect a sample, you get something called "a hat." This is not meant to be worn on the head. Ever. At all. Please do not. It's actually more accurately a "collection receptacle" from which poop-scoops and vials draw their quarry.
But clearly the evening endued juvenescence to the term asshat. And yes, you get some interesting results on amazon when you plug in shit hat. I don't know the specific details, except to say that it was the source of an evening's poop jokes, followed by a furtive and pallid withdrawal by the boyfrianceband to the upstairs bathroom. Some noises (though no screaming) ensued, and he emerged looking wan and shaken with a very large garbage bag of accoutrements.
This is only the first one, but I'm glad it shuffled itself out of the way before my grand premier of self-stabbing. I'd hate for things to get confused between the two. That could get messy...
Well I'm off to work on my mindfulness while stopping and going in the horrors of Friday traffic. In a spell. Once I gather my strength and my brain. I think I left that at the office in between files and boxes.
Stabby McStabberson and the DITK ART Show
Once upon a time, in the early courtship of your trusty (W)rights, Mr. (W)right required a liver biopsy for some trumpery truculence or other. I'm pretty sure it was part of the courtship ritual for the hand of Ms. Not-Officially-(W)right, though the exact details elude this old married lady. Nonetheless, it being part of the courtship ritual, I got to play nursemaid to a highly opiated boyfriend. Was that love in his eyes or just the oxy? I don't know, but the sparkles were scintillating. During his recovery in the hospital, the nurse would - of course - check in on him. Invariably, he would utter some words of "ok" before adding on - in grand theater voice "considering I've been stabbed in the liver!!!" A merry chuckle and expectant face generally garnered a tolerant half smile from our very busy nurse. But they stabbed me in the liver!! has been a catchphrase from that point on.
Having driven a total of 3 1/2 hours for a fifteen minute tryst with an ultrasound wand, I have been cleared to stab myself repeatedly in the belly. And have done so twice already last night!
And there was much rejoicing.
Yep. No appointments available in town required an eensy bit of a trek for what was an otherwise routine and (mostly) painless plunging of my innards with my actual doctor. No sphynx cats on that radar still. But my inner chambers have properly sloughed and no cysts are angrily snapping up from the depths.
Let the ART get ARTsy.
As it turns out, I'm not horribly squeamish about subcutaneous shots. One never knows until one goes against "every natural instinct" and thrusts a sharp stabby needle into her belly with some oopmh. I'm a little less confidant about all that comes before the self-poking. Mixing up medicine draws upon precision-skills and attention to detail that generally is not my thing. I was careful to avoid my natural winging-it approach. But no doubt did something horribly wrong, despite my how-to video binges.
There were two medications to administer. Both had to be mixed with bacteriostatic water (supplied, thank goodness). Both had special syringes for the mixing stage. Those entered the other vials at specific angles. The depression of the plunger (poor plunger just hasn't been the same since the days started getting longer) was intended to be a slow affair. About twenty million alcohol swabs were used. New disposable syringes with various dose levels that were in different increments than my original instructions and thus required several panic checks of my updated ones (was it 5 or 50??? This seems relevant!!)
While I sat at the table with furrowed brow wondering if this were some kind of additional IQ test of will for would-be-parents to prove themselves.
There were excellent instructions for the one medication. Everything I needed came in a single package (well, no smiley face stickers or gold stars, but almost everything). The insert was several reams long. I really didn't need to read the results of seventeen studies of the efficacy, results and complications for several different patient sub-groups (take-away: take this medication; it's probably not as effective as sacrificing a chicken in the full moon while screaming "Praise Dollywood!" AND it will probably cause any progeny you have to burst out of your stomach spewing acid and aiming to your significant other... but your doc already prescribed it right??). But on the lower quadrant of the scare-sheet (legal term), there were excellent instructions, such that would make IKEA envious.
The other medication came with "mix with bacteriostatic water." It took some thorough panicking and poring to find (1) a syringe for mixing (hidden in the cotton swabs), (2) the needle to go with that syringe, (3) bacteriostatic water. There never were any mixing or application instructions, so I just mimicked the rituals used on the more detailed medication.
Only one insulin needle went flying. Actually I just managed to drop it, nick myself and spend a few minutes battling with my needle jar (now that's here just in time for Halloween!)
Andrew very supportively sat on the couch far far across the room warily burying his head in his phone. A safe distance. Had he been any closer, a panicked wife might have accidentally dropped one vial, tossing syringes aloft in her attempts to mop up the contents, and injuring her husband in the falling prickle-rain to ensue. Had he been any further afoot, he might not have been available for the inevitable "um, honey, I appear to have stabbed myself in the eye... do you think you might drive me to the emergency room" wail.
Having mixed and stabbed, I thought a celebration was thoroughly in order. Oh yes, we turned on the heat. I even broke out my battery operated slippers. And then proceeded to nearly plunge to my death attempting to wear them down the stairs.
While I know several people do this from birth and all, I'm still going to be awfully proud of myself for at least a few more days before the side effects (whatever new mysteries of id and ego they may conjure up in me) take hold. If pooping in a hat is a good exercise for having children or getting old (my reassurance to Andrew on his previous stool sample collection imbroglio), then probably self-administering shots is equally so. If nothing else, I feel that much more competent carting my nephew's epipen with me in the future. Oh yes, I can stab myself, so you know I can stab a helpless anaphylactic child!
And with that, I wish you all a fantastic Caturday! We are set to try our very first attempt at yoga. I envision this being at least as wrought with hazard as any shivving about with needles!
Wish us luck and much of that right back to you for a wonderful however-you-choose-to-spend this free day six days before Halloween!
Stabby McStabberson's Massive Misdosage Mulligan
Well, I may have patted myself on the back so vigorously that the contusions shall pullulate in multi-chromatic blooms. And I may have done so a bit prematurely, there. Turns out that I am not the brilliant self-dosing and mixing ninja goddess that I'd imagined.
I mean, I still deserve significant kudos for not having stabbed myself (or any loved ones) in the eyes with biohazard lady-hormones. That said, I apparently still have problems with math. Major problems. Like, being unable to distinguish the difference between 37.5 AND 375. I was never great with decimal places.
I noticed last night that a vial of go-go-gonadotropins that I'd expected to last a week was half tapped already. This raised some minor alarm and prompted the more thorough investigation I perhaps should have commenced my project with. So, yeah, apparently I just returned about two to three years' backlog of FSH and/or made an impromptu decision to try to have a litter or maybe force ourselves into IVF.
Why I was not suspicious when the "very very small dose" I'd been promised looked to be a decent half of the syringe... I can only claim anticipatory panic over stabbing or poisoning myself.
Commence an evening of panicked phone calls, most of them ending in being cut off while on hold. Oh and a decent caterwaul of muttering about what a waste it was going to be if this completely derailed the entire month's cycle.
Being incredibly psychosomatic with a propensity for fainting, I managed to work myself into a lightheaded dither (of course, I've almost fainted in Russian Class learning about the wee little tsarovich's hemophilia, so I know the symptoms well enough not to panic). Around this point, I decided I'd best que sera sera, eat something, sit down, and maybe even try to go to bed.
Andrew, for his part, braved the abyss of the internet and did some research. I think he knows about as much as I do about FSH now. Or at least some supplementary information. This is good. And reassuring. When I start doing research by myself, well, I faint. But I also get way too many ideas of symptoms to start manifesting. Since I'm currently still having my first period in several years, there are plenty of strange sensations that I have now interpreted as "ova the size of bowling balls with riled tendrils of follicles intertwining and poking back at me in agitation." Having somebody read all the information (especially a guy prone to be queasy about this sort of information) and not start screaming about the emergency room was reassuring.
Having calmed myself to a state of edgy equanimity, I dragged myself through a bedtime ritual and determined to sleep well enough for a second front of calling the next day. Just as I was about to turn the light off, I made one final attempt from the bed. Somebody answered! Then I got cut off again. But I called back. And they answered again. And this time, they got my number first.
And so I waited for the on-call doctor to return my call in bed, half asleep, half conjuring side effects of spontaneous octo-ovulations.
Turns out, I do not need an emergency hysterectomy. The hysteria actually died down after a brief chat with a reassuring professional.
Her best overstatement of the evening was "Three-seventy-five? That's... a lot."
Her more reassuring statements boiled down to the instructions that I lay off the shots for a couple of days and start over later this week. Which is a lot better than "burn all your meds and flee the country!"
We'll see what my doctor adds to that on Monday, but for now, I'm on break. We'll call that a dress rehearsal. An expensive one that blew through a terrifying amount of very expensive potent magical lady drugs. But one nonetheless.
Hell, if I were any good at math I wouldn't have gone to law school.
Happy Sunday all. Andrew and I missed our yoga class yesterday by a hair. We were actually parking about five minutes after the class began and may have made it. But we didn't want to be those people who barge in late with a smelly new mat (and - in Andrew's case - some kind of crinkled gym padding that goes under his trainer) and don't have any idea what they're doing. Also, it seemed wrong to stress out over attending a class aimed at decreasing stress.
We may go today, although my phantom basketball ovaries aren't sure about my torso making any sudden or full moves this morning.
Frenetic freak-outs aside, it was a very nice day. And illusory psychosomatic explosions aside, today shall be as well. I have faith. And I don't have any shots to muck up tonight anyways! Small mercies.
Upward Saggy Snake Cow Warrior in a Post-Poisoning Recovery Pretzel The medical madness baton is passed for a brief interim to Mr. (W)right
As confirmed by two follow up calls from Seattle Reproductive - each of which stoked new bursts of thorough panic when I saw my doc's name on the caller i.d. - I am still clear of any emergency status; I'm still on a brief hiatus from my adventures in fertility fun.
Despite having shot away several hundred dollars' worth of fairly terrifying lady-hormones straight into my abdomen, I'm ok. I think. I mean, my stomach didn't burst and no teeny tiny babies with Andrew's face and eight of my very long legs teemed out into the room at any point yesterday. No bowling ball ova went sputtering through untold and unshared alleys. And I mostly just more or less survived the day without any noticeable complications.
At least from what I could read about the half life of my gonal-a-go-go, it sounds like if I was going to do something really stupid with the dosing (and this was me, so of course I was going to somehow), the first day was the best time to do it. After a few days, absorption rates start increasing, but the first day, it has a terminal life of about a day.
Sounds like it will likely just clear my system today or thereabouts and I'll start over. The on-call doc said that I may even have "primed the pump" a bit, but I think she was just trying to reassure me that my big cock-up was largely a financial and logistical problem. I only half suspect the follow up calls were really so the various medical professionals working this weekend could have a good, incredulous chortle.
I'm still waiting to check with my actual doctor today and see if I need to readjust anything other than the calendar. But I am definitely feeling less freaked out and more just vaguely disheartened and lacking confidence. But also lacking pullulating spider babies, so... all in all a win.
As I am back on-hold with my medical merry go round, I let Mr. (W)right take the stage. Having reconnected with the medical profession after several months (a few years) of avoiding yet another potential liver stabbing to address the idiopathic "weird liver thing" and/or maybe something to do with copper that isn't actually Wilson's, he's got some catching up to do.
Between our fertility stuff (with bonus analysis and genetic testing to prove that shacking up with an ethnically heterogenous mate was a good call) and his "weird liver thing," he will have submitted pretty much every form of bodily excretion by the end of all this. Maybe not snot. I don't think anyone's called dibs on his snot.
This weekend, it was the ever so exciting 24-hour urine test! To be capped off this morning with a blood test. He's also collected a second of his four required stool samples. I know this because he quite somberly announced it was time to do on Saturday evening. A fair bit after he had ascended the staircase, I discerned faint clunking and rustling noises. An eerie stillness. And about fifteen minutes later, I witnessed my bike-and-chain galloping down the stairs with a full garbage bag and a shocked look upon his face.
The urine test is a little less... terrifying. But it does require a cooler. And a jug. And copious use of the prefix piss-. Piss-cooler, piss-cup, piss-jug, piss-poor... Whichever. And a lot of piss-ice. Yes, yes we are grown ups. Really.
Despite the lingering freak-outs over routine rumbles on my end and the piss-project on Andrew's, we made it to my first officially yoga class. It was "Bhakti Flow Yoga," which apparently is all about making me feel hot, sweaty, and panicked. Or, um, synchronizing breathing with poses while repeating soothing mantras and learning about conservation of bodily energy (while flailing in a dither through several rapid-fire poses that are impossible to achieve without some kind of deal with the devil). I'm going back to "twisting Adella into rapid fire strange postures in the hope of landing her on her toosh with her legs wrapped around her head. It's apparently a fusion of Ashtanga (fast - flow is code for "flail" in my experience) and Bikram (hot). The heated room was maybe not my favorite part. A heated room means "a huge headache" in Adella land.
Those sequences get really fast and it's kind of hard to follow along a string of "cobra to dog to upward shiva to sun salutation one to quadrangle pose and let's meet in archiwakkawakkawakka" when you're twisted up like a pretzel AND everyone in the class is doing something different (some maybe just doing modifications and others just sort of floating in the air and standing on their heads for the heckuvit).
Flailing, panicking, roasting, and more flailing aside, I actually did feel pretty good by the end. I mean not "good" as in "a competent practitioner," but physically grounded and at peace in my aptly named corpse pose. I will probably opt for a more beginner friendly yoga class with more clement climes in the future, but I'm pleased to have made it. And so far I only ache. I don't seem maimed or hobbled.
I have survived stabbings, poisonings and pretzelings! I think. I hope.
Feeling mellowed out/drained from yoga and totally wiped after my little escapade in overdose land, I channeled my inner husband and didn't do that much yesterday. Or this weekend really. A lot more lingering and staring into space and filling up those interstitial times with unstructured space. I left a lot of stuff undone, and I imagine that will be a bit challenging. Or maybe I'll just have to buy more prepackaged food for a spell. Except we're set to run out of groceries by Tuesday at the latest. Ah well.
But it fit the saturnine sapor of a moody fall day, and did keep the adrenaline roil to a slower simmer.
Moody, yes, but once the rain had its fit, what a beautiful clearing followed suit. Definitely called for a walk (for me, while Andrew went on a short run). And apparently, an auto-awesome.
And back to Monday. One more day before I leap back into self-stabbings and all that nonsense. In the meantime, there's Pilates to exacerbate the soreness, and a full plate of work festivities to clear any relaxation fully from my mind.
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