like a junkies house, only with more electrical goods

Tonight was fun. Big mother of a needle #1, little needle #4. Rock on IVF. It’s a bit of a worry when the drug boxes in your fridge outnumber the yoghurts.

Cetrotide (stop that premature ovulation now) is bloody complicated. Step 1: vial of powder. Step 2: syringe with fluid Step 3: mix using GIANT needle in vial. Step 4: cha cha cha. Swirl it around til it doesn’t look like badly made cupcake icing. Step 5: Take another dirty great big needle, upend it, draw some fluid out of the vial without making it look like an aero bar with lots of freakin bubbles. Geez I managed to stuff that up. Big time. It took us 15 minutes to get it sorted. Kept getting the tip of the needle above the fluid level and sucking up giant gulps of air. Step 6: get rid of all the freakin bubbles. step 7: stick dirty great big needle in your fat roll Step 8: try not to freak out when your skin pulls out like mount kosiousko when trying to extract said needle. Or when your skin starts swelling up around the injection site. Youch. It never ends up quite as simple as the DVD, and I find people smile a lot less than on the drug company footage. It was a bit distracting that the big reveal on “beauty and the geek” makeovers was occurring at the same time was my little air bubble war.

Interestingly, the large needle made no difference, pain wise. It’s the original going in that hurts, so the length makes little difference. What does make the difference is the awkwardness of manoeuvering it in and out without changing the angle. If you change the angle in or out you end up with a worse puncture wound.

I feel like there’s going to be some kind of drug war going on  in me now. The luteinizing hormone gang with Gonal F as their home boy are going all out on the turf, stirring up business in the ovaries. Eggs baby, that’s their turf. But the new kid in town, Cetrotide, is swaggering around and making threats to anyone who tries to lay too early.  Who’s going to win? and the main question is am I going to be the loser in this street fight?

The Cetrotide is like a light switch, turning off your own hormones, so the rest of the chemical roller coaster can take you on a lovely scary ride. My little Gonal F buddy was a minor glitch afterwards, the main show tonight was the freaky Cetrotide experience. Seriously, you would think in this day and age they could come up with a simpler method for this, like a double chambered self mixing syringe or something. So much bloody kerfuffle.

I looked around me at the end of the carnage, and there were needle caps and swabs everywhere.  Hub in boots coached throughout and was very helpful, and cleaned up the carnage afterwards. He said he was proud of me, in the kind of voice that said “thank CHRIST you didn’t ask me to do that FOR you.” He would have come to the party if I’d needed him to step in, but I think it’s hard enough to do without having someone else controlling the pain and timing. I only had a little moment of flipping-stomach- I’m-going- to- pass-out, and that was pulling the needle OUT, funnily enough.

The fridge still looks a little junkie’s, but there’s food in there too. And although IVF is poisonously expensive, we haven’t hocked the furniture and the electricals yet. YET.

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8 thoughts on “like a junkies house, only with more electrical goods

  1. Pingback: like a junkies house, only with more electrical goods | maybe baby and the adventures of hub-in-boots

  2. Pingback: Back to crazytown | hubbub

  3. caliope

    Your post made me laugh! I know it’s naive but I had always wondered how anyone could be a junkie because they’d have to stick themselves with needles all the time. And now here I am, mixing solutions and sticking myself in the belly every day… good luck to you

  4. Great post. Especially reassuring was this sentence: “He said he was proud of me, in the kind of voice that said “thank CHRIST you didn’t ask me to do that FOR you” as I know my other half is definitely NOT going to deal with this. He recently had an accident on his skateboard and I was trying to put plaster on his knee and he was whimpering (I just realised this makes him sound like he is five, but you can add thirty years to that) – funny really.

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