Here We Go

Hello sweet imaginary Succotash,

Why would I assume you're sweet, first off? I haven't met you. You could be a demon beast for all I know. But right now, you are wholly hypothetical, and I choose to address you as though you are sweet. Never a moment's trouble. Easy. It's a fantasy, one shared by many no doubt, but intensified by how demonic is the process I am presently undertaking to grow you.

After tracking my ovulation date over Christmas and phoning it in to the nurses, I was told precisely when to start applying a hormone patch to my belly. My poor belly, used and abused even before being stretched out of recognition. Right now it has shadowy outlines of adhesive in three spots. I patched and patched and patched. I left my vacation early to be sure I didn't miss the window. I patched some more. My period didn't come.

"Where is it?" I asked the doctors.
"This happens all the time," the doctors said.
"Not to me. I have never been this late. Ever," I pointed out.
"Well," they shrugged. "Your blood work says you'll get it this weekend."
Then the shrugged me out of the room.

"It's the patch," said my new acupuncturist, who, poor creature, is also serving as my de facto therapist, since I tell her about my mood as soon as I show up.
"I thought it was," I said.
"It is. We can deal with that."

I resisted acupuncture. I'm not, despite being someone who tells woo woo stories, someone who is actually a woo woo person. But enough smart, educated women I know - at least one a scientist - said it was worth trying. I gave it a stab (ha! Oh, dear) back in Ithaca, and walked out halfway through. It hurt. And it stressed me out.

I warned my new acupuncturist about this on my first appointment. "I'm squeamish," I said. I didn't go on to tell her that my husband refers to acupuncture as witch-doctoring and that I thought it was probably all a load of hooey. But I suspect she could tell. "Squeamish" is code for other things.

"Don't worry," she said.

Anyway. My period finally started last night, about two hours after my acupuncture appointment, and with it came instructions from the doctors office to start my pills. We are off and running.

Here's the recipe for Succotash this time: Two 50 mg tablets of Clomid, at night. Plus prenatal vitamin with DHA. Plus small spoonful of royal jelly, per acupuncturist book. Plus L arginine supplement, which acupuncture book suggests is good for poor responders. Then, after three days of that, add 150 IUs of Follistim (which must be kept in the fridge, and injected into the tummy fat using a cool pen device). Also add 75 IUs of Menopur, which must be drawn up and mixed with diluent and injected using a disposable syringe, also into tummy fat, though it burns going in there, so sometimes I resorted to using my inner thigh. So we do all that for a couple of days. Then we get checked out again. I bring consent forms and a prefilled syringe of Ganirelix in my handbag and a positive attitude, which is hard for me early in the morning, but I'm pledged to do my best.

The details, Succotash. They're killing me. They're taking up so much room in my brain I barely have room for anything else. No wonder I feel so stupid and slow. I feel dense. Uncreative. And tired. 

What else have I done? I have stopped putting sugar in my coffee. I have stopped drinking alcohol. I am down to only one coffee a day. I am trying to prioritize sleep.

This regimen is probably going to last about two weeks. The goal, Succotash, is to get my follicles to grow. Last cycle I had one that drastically outpaced all the others and so there was no point continuing. It was a disappointment.