because if past experience is any indication, by tomorrow I will have blown up like a flabby water balloon and won't be able to wear anything remotely fitted for weeks.
Yesterday my nipples were ridiculous. (And how's that for an enticing first sentence?) Like, very very very sore, very very very hard marbles sitting on my chest, screaming when grazed by, you know, air.
I was nauseous half the day too. And then I finally realized, oh yeah, I shot myself up with hCG last night, that's why my body is acting like it's pregnant even though I haven't ovulated yet.
My nipples are still ridiculous today. I'm wearing one of my super-armored padded bras to try to protect them. But I actually haven't started bloating yet, and the weird sensation of being able to feel my right ovary (and jostling it whenever I move) that I remember from last time is much less pronounced this time around. I do expect that to change in the next few days, but still, I guess that's the difference between one egg and three.
IUI this morning was uneventful. Husband had to get up very very early to go to the clinic and produce his sample; I followed an hour and a half later (which is how long they schedule between sample delivery and IUI, to allow for washing and processing). I had a teensy smidge of cramping from the catheter, but it was barely noticeable. They didn't tell us the count like they did last time, so we don't know what the quality was like. I lay on the table for 5 minutes afterward and then went to work.
I've been reviewing my blog entries from the month or so after my IUI last time, to remind myself of the symptoms I should expect (bloating, shortness of breath, etc). What it really reminded me of was how much I hated being pregnant. Of course I was happy to be
pregnant, but the actual experience of pregnancy really was miserable from start to finish. When I think back on it now, I tend to focus on those last few terrible months of bedrest, but I forget that from the day of my IUI, I was in extreme discomfort almost every day. I had a pretty good attitude about it at first, because as far as I knew, the bloating would get better (it did), the bleeding would stop (it did), the contractions would...well, we know how that ended. But my point is, I always thought things would get better. Even in the darkest, most depressed days, I assumed that by 35 weeks I'd have my bedrest restrictions lifted and I'd get to have some sort of normal pregnant life.
But I didn't. As fearful as I was going into pregnancy, not knowing whether my uterus would be able to handle it, I don't think I ever truly comprehended that barely a week would go by for 9 months where I wasn't in pain, exhausted, terrified, or all three. That before I'd even achieved implantation, I wouldn't be able to cross the street without gasping for breath and feeling like I'd been socked in the gut.
So now, staring down the barrel of what could be a very long 9 months, I am really, really, really not looking forward to the prospect of being pregnant. Even though this time I have the advantage of knowing that I should be able to make it until at least 38 weeks (when Bat Girl was born). And then the whole newborn phase, which I am definitely not good at. (Toddler, now, that I'm good at.) And that's if
this whole thing actually works, the chances of which are slim, and if not, there's a whole new level of treatment hell we move on to.
Can't I just please skip this whole thing and cut directly to having a 1-year-old?
Labels: infertility, pregnancy