Mister and I are a couple of weeks into our medications for another round of IVF. I finished taking birth control pills yesterday. Ironic, isn't it? You embark on a fertility treatment and the first thing you do is take birth control pills. To give your ovaries a rest before you lay the Follistim, HCG, and whatever other drugs you take to boost the number of eggs your old ovaries kick out.
Mister delivers the injections. It's a bonding moment for us. Me, oddly stripped with my belly in the cold (we like to do this in winter in our insulation-free igloo), Mister gently prepping swabs and needles.
Last night, I did my first injection. Pushing a needle into your own body is not like pushing a needle into a practice orange. There's resistance, then a small "pop," then a slide into place. I have to do two more injections (lupron) while Mister's out of town, and frankly, I am not looking forward to it.
I've mentioned to a few people that we're underway again. "How exciting!" a few friends have said. It's difficult to explain, but this is not exciting. When an embryo is put into your uterus, you should be pregnant, shouldn't you? But we weren't. IVF is not exciting. It's tense possibilities, false hopes, real hopes. It isn't something to look forward to. Mister and I are holding hands, walking down a path towards, we hope, Bama 2.0.
In the midst of this, we celebrate the pregnancies of six friends. Some of the news makes me break down (I sobbed for a good couple of hours and some more the following day). Some of the news is simply spectacular (after several miscarriages, a pregnancy that sticks, yippeekayay!). This is the impossible part to explain: those of us who have fertility issues are happy for everyone who doesn't and gets pregnant. But it also hurts. We want to know, but we'll probably cry a little. Or a lot. Then we'll give ourselves a shot and make a bad joke out of it.