I am swimming in hormones at the moment. That sort of statement normally sets my teeth on edge, I hate how flippantly the phrase “hormones” gets bandied about, normally to the detriment of womankind. However, at the moment, it is a fact – I’m injecting them all myself.
So, fertility treatment, another fun off-shoot of getting cancer ‘young’.
What to say, what to say?
Well, I lasted the first week, no side effects at all, that I was aware of. Day 8 found me in tears for no real reason (I’ve been on the verge of a sob-fest ever since), I coupled this with eating, scratch that, inhaling a box of chocolates, in a sitting. I did not share those bad-boys, no sir.
It is PMS on crack. Made worse because I have an awareness of what is causing it all. I can’t be all indignant when A. gently points out, that the problem is hormones and not the fact that the world secretly hates me. This takes the wind out of my ‘right to be emotional’ girl-power sails, because it so IS. I am not emotional, I am OVER emotional, the awareness factor really is no fun for me. It’s probably better for those around me, I am trying to curb my stroppiness, some what.
I’m also really, really tired. My month of freedom and busy social whirliness is having to be punctuated by naps, a lot of naps. I can sleep all afternoon and then sleep some more – I’ve become a Sloth or a Koala or something. Hence why I’m actually writing Little Blog more at the moment. If this blog serves as nothing else, it is at least record of how changeable this whole Cancer thing is – like we didn’t know already.
I am also relearning basic biology. I tried to bluff my way through the first 2 appointments and then needed to admit, I have very little memory on how my body works. It’s so shameful to admit you don’t know, yet relearning is so fascinating at the same time – plus none of the boys in my class are punctuting the lesson with gagging sounds.
I am presently growing 19 egg follicles, 19! The average (after fertility treatment) is between 9-13. I was proud of over-achieving until it became obvious that, I am dangerously close to Hyper-stimulation. 1 more follicle and I’ll be needing blood tests. I feel, for some reason, like a octopus with lots of egg sacks. Sexy.
They’re not small either (well comparatively), is it a surprise to anyone else, that they will be ‘harvested’ (yuck) at 17mm? That’s nearly 2cm, and there are 19 of them! Where am I finding the room? No wonder I feel fat at the moment……
I need to salute those out there, who inject themselves daily, often for long periods of time. I was full of admiration before, but I know exactly what it takes now and I am a chicken. It doesn’t help that my belly looks like a pin cushion.
The needles I use are the finest, thinnest kind but I’m still finding it counterintuitive to push one into my skin. It’s that puncturing sensation that I don’t like. It doesn’t hurt, hurt – but it stings a bit, the level of discomfort changes day to day with little or no reason, that I can find,
A is in charge of prep, neither he nor Dad could really stomach (boom boom) the actual injecting. I’d also feel, irrationally, resentful of them sticking me with a needle twice a day. Better just get annoyed with myself.
A and I run through almost the same script every time, it resolves around me hovering with a syringe millimetres above my abdomen and A. attempting to bribe me to take the plunge.
A: Ok, you can do this, there’s a cotton ball in it for you….
PG: I don’t want a cotton ball.
A: There’s a cup of tea too.
PG: I don’t want a cup of tea.
A: A pony?
(A will bribe me with anything but not a puppy….. proving these are empty promises – I’d have a field of ponies by this point if they weren’t. I do always get the cotton ball and the tea though)
PG: I don’t want a Pony, I don’t even want children. Let’s stop all this.
A: I know it’s not easy, but you can do it, you’re getting so good!
PG: I am not. We’ve been sitting here for 3 minutes.
A: Come on now, it will be over quicker than you know. Do you want me to hold you?
A: I’ll dance for you.
PG: Please don’t make me laugh, I can’t use my stomach muscles.
A: Ok, I’m going to get the cotton ball (exits)
PG in the meantime injects herself….. Can’t remember how to hold the needle and push the syringe at the same time.
A. returns to find PG with a needle in her belly and an exasperated look.
A: Do you want me to push the syringe in?
PG: I can’t remember how to do this.
PG finally sorts herself out, administers the injection. A hands over the cotton ball.
There’s really not any blood or anything from the punctured skin, but we still do this every. single. time. It’s our new tradition, I prefer our cocktail traditions, or movie night traditions more…..
Hopefully though, by Friday, my little octopus eggs (imagine if they actually were, there’s a shock 2-3 years down the line!) will be chillin’ in a freezer somewhere and I can go back to normal, well, normal-ish.