The Injections
It’s pretty surreal when you finally start IVF.
You look in disbelief at the medication box; you are excited and terrified, yet you are numb: a very confusing juxtaposition that only few understand.
“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” I muse, “this kind of stuff happens to, well, other people.”
Isn’t that the general rule in life? We think these sort of things happen to ‘those people‘ but you never think its going to happen to you?
The thing is, there is NO special prayer or perfect formula to follow so that you can be spared (by the almighty) from tragedy in this life. So why do some people seem to suffer more? Why does tragedy and heartache strike some more than others? The degree of heart wrenching, unbearable tragedy that I see at work leaves me forlorn. I leave that question for the Ruler of the Universe.
I can sense that emotionally I am withdrawing. It’s been almost 4 years since we first started trying and I remember, with a sting of despair, the number of times I have hoped that something would work, yet it never has.
I don’t think it is healthy but I am almost robotic now; all of this part of the apathetic response that naturally and eventually ensues from this journey. I try to suppress my heart and allow my nursing brain to take over, besides, I don’t trust emotions most of the time anyways. EMOTIONS ARE FICKLE. At least that is what I am telling myself today. I don’t think my Psychologist would be very happy to hear me say that; she might even say that I am ‘suppressing’ or ‘avoiding’ my feelings. She’s probably right. But in this moment there is no point getting carried away with a set of emotions that will probably change by lunch time.
So my clinical nursing brain says “Ok. It’s time. DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO. Suck it up. Carry on. ”
I pick up the pre-filled syringe with follicle stimulating hormone and pop the little needle on. I wind up the appropriate dose and pinch a chunk of belly fat and then BOOM, I stab myself. I need to be strong because it would be supremely hipocritical of me to give injections to my patients but not be able to give an injection to myself.
The Follicle Stimulating Hormone (FSH) is much more tolerable than Clomid. The best way I can describe it is that I feel a little ‘off’ or ‘spacey’ with some difficulty concentrating, but otherwise there is not much to complain about. Imagine your ovaries as a small cluster of grapes with seeds inside. FSH signals a few of those grapes to grow big and juicy; it also tell the seed inside to mature. But they obviously don’t want them to get too big and ‘burst’, so a few days later I start another injection called ‘THE ANTAGONIST’. This one has a bigger needle and BURNS LIKE A MF.
The nurse suggested putting ice on my belly to take the edge of the sting, but I’m going to be honest, I needed to know how bad the STING actually was so that I could compare how much better it would be with ice. So the first day I just grabbed my belly fat, shoved the needle in and immediately regretted my decision. The patch on my belly became an angry, red, hot blob and stung for several hours. I iced from then on.
But the physical reaction did not compare to the emotional response; I actually found myself turning into THE ANTAGONIST. With each injection I felt this slow surge of anger bubbling inside me, growing daily and I desperately wanted to punch something.
My husband made the mistake of complaining about going to the markets to get food.
“I don’t feel like it.” He muttered in a dangerously brazen manner.
Didn’t FEEL like it?
HE DIDN’T FEEL LIKE IT?????
I could feel the surge of fury rising to eruption.
I didn’t FEEL like stabbing myself in the stomach twice a day either, so I could care less how he felt.
I lost control.
My voice rose to a pitch of ‘domestic’ perfection.
I grabbed a handful of wilted rocket/arugula and started fiercely throwing it at him (fierce is probably an exaggeration….cuz…c’mon, let’s be honest….who throws lettuce at their husband?).
He burst into laughter, instantly diffusing the situation.
I looked at him in shock and crumbled in a pile of tears, blubbering some sort of incomprehensible apology. I was letting the hormones control me; I didn’t want to let the hormones control me!
This loss of control infuriated me, and yet I knew that the worst was yet to come.
