Went in for bloodwork and ultrasound today. Tonight will be my fifth dose of stims.
All is well, though they don’t really elaborate on it. I have ovaries. They are making follies. And I don’t need to come back until Friday. Which is another three days (you can almost here Denver countdown clock of doom ticking in the background).
For the record, I have named my ovaries. A lot of people pick a baby name when they see the fetus on the ultrasound. All I ever get to see (so far) is ovaries, so I’m naming them instead.
On the left, we have Milo. Milo enjoys French literature, red wine and walks on the beach. He’s a little forward leaning, so we always have to play “push on the tummy” when we try and take a good look at him. Jaysus — the tech pushed so hard today that between the hand on my tummy and the probe in my naynay, I thought she was going to bypass my naughty bits completely and turn the thing into an impromptu colonoscopy.
On the right, we have Rose. Rose prefers baseball games, rum and coke and spinning classes. She leans toward the posterior and toward my ute, which makes ultrasounds easy and egg retrievals less so.
Funny episodes of note: When I asked if Rose’s position would cause problems during egg retrieval, the ultrasound tech launched into a discussion of how they prefer not to puncture both the vaginal wall and the uterine wall for an egg retrieval. And for the first time that I can remember, I actually just asked her to stop. I don’t want to know.
I am one of those crazy people who always want to know — I’m intrigued by it all. And this time, I just thought, “You know, I’m going to be under anesthesia and I just don’t want to know. Now or later.” I believe this means I am actually beginning to trust my doctors (eek).
And last night, sitting on the couch the hubby asks me: “Did the dog fart or did you just blow an ovary?”
Ah, he certainly has a way with the ladies. Going to have to keep an eye on this one and his smooth-talking ways.