Just Stop Trying and It Will Happen...

July 23rd, 2011.  CD15.

So yesterday was pretty crazy…

I woke up, used an OPK, went about my business for a few minutes, and returned to find that smartass little smiley face staring back up at me.

And then I freaked out.

You see, on Thursday, the day of my CD13 ultrasound appointment, my temperature dipped rather low.  Now, I know this could mean nothing because of the meds, and in fact, my temp did the same exact thing last cycle on CD13 and it turned out not to have been ovulation… But still, I was internally a little afraid that I’d surge on my own, and that smiley face all but confirmed my fears.

In a panic, I did what comes naturally to me.  I consulted Dr. Google.  Then I went to Twitter and my FertilityFriends for some advice.  Only then did I call Dr. Fran’s office to let her know what happened.

I waited around a little while before finally giving up on getting an immediate return to my psychotic phone message; I had to work yesterday, and I figured I ought to do my coworkers the favor of showering.  After said shower, I naughtily peed on another OPK, which promptly turned out negative.

I started imagining all the possibilities in my head: I surged early, and the husband and I had decided to forgo Sexy-Time the night before in preparation for a three-night-robot-sex-marathon the following day.  I had missed my mark.  This cycle was barely off the ground and already it was a bust.  UGH.

Finally, just as I was walking into work, Dr. Fran’s office called me.  She took a look at my ultrasound again, and said she didn’t think this was anything major to be concerned about, but she wanted to me to move up my Ovidrel trigger shot from Saturday night to Friday.

And so, when I got home from work last night, Operation: Free Ollie began.

First, I set the mood by watching this video:

Then, I locked myself in the bathroom out of sight of the poor, squeamish husband, washed my hands like I was prepping for surgery, and started dismantling the Ovidrel box.  I did just what they said–I removed the cap, I tapped the syringe so the air bubble was at the top, I pressed the plunger till all the air was out.

And then I just stared at the thing, trying to psych myself up enough to stab it into my stomach.  The internal conversation went something like this:

You can do this, Tracy.  You’re not a little girl.  You’ve had shots before–Hell, you’ve even given a diabetic friend her insulin once!

Yeah, but I was drunk then, I barely remember that!

Whatever.  Don’t be a wuss.  Pinch that stomach skin and stick it in there.

Aggh!  I can’t make myself do it!  What if I close my eyes?  Maybe that will work…

Yeah right, and then you’ll stab your finger and start freaking out that the most fertile part of you is on your hand.  I’m sure your doctor would love to get that phone call on a Friday night.  Just quit being a chicken-shit and do it already!

Okay, you’re right.  I can do this.  I am woman, hear me roar… or something.

I imagined that giving myself a shot would be much like it was on the video–quick and precise.  Instead, I stuck that needle into my stomach in what seemed like slow motion.  And then I stared at that ugly piece of metal and glass, raping my abdomen, for probably a good minute before I started pressing down the plunger to administer the Ovidrel.  Removing the needle was much quicker… Imagine that.

Afterwards, I realized I hadn’t really breathed in a while, and so I sat down.  Quickly.  And stayed there a bit.

Thank the Good Lord I didn’t keel over in the bathroom, because when I emerged, the husband was passed out on the couch after a long day at work.  When he realized I was back in the room, he kind of looked at me like “Hey, where’ve you been?”

I told him what the doctor had said on the phone this morning, and that her weekend prescription for a baby went something like this:

Tracy – Shoot up with drugs, try not to stress out about it, release an egg, provide a comfortable environment for said egg to thrive and become fertilized, and try not to do anything that will derail this effort.

Husband – Have a whole bunch of sex.

You know that obnoxious thing Tiger Woods does when he sinks a putt?  Yeah.  That’s pretty much what the husband did upon receiving this news.  Ugh.  Boys.

And so, here I am hoping that giving myself that injection last night was the final nudge Ollie needed to begin his journey to becoming my little tater tot.

I’m doing my part… I guess all we can do now is wait.

Oh, and have lots of sex.  Dear GOD, let’s not forget the sex…