So, the shot didn’t go as well as I thought it would.
Joey and I were at Joey’s uncle Ken’s house, in their bedroom with the door shut, because that was the only place we could find that wasn’t covered in Woestmans. (It’s Family Reunion week!) We were bent over the instruction book, trying to figure out how to properly dial up the 300 mg of Follistim, as per instructions from Dr. Babyplease, and we finally got it just perfect. I wiped off the selected area on my tummy with the alcohol pad, pinched my skin and….
…FREAKED OUT.
I started shaking, started crying, and got really, really light-headed. I stood there, holding the needle in my hand just millimeters away from my stomach and I squeaked, “I can’t do it, I can’t!” and Joey looked panicked. He put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Sit down.” So I sat.
He looked wide-eyed and fearful, the kind of look husbands get when they realize they can’t fix whatever is wrong with you.
So then he thought of something. He said, “I will go get help.”
He opened the door to the bedroom and saw Deanine, who is a nurse, walking past. ”Deanine. In here,” he commanded.
Deanine came inside and saw me flipping out and told me no problem, we got this; she took the Follistim pen and WHAM, into my stomach.
It didn’t even hurt, y’all. NOT A BIT.
So, that’s a load off…the injections don’t hurt.
But it was when I was standing there, holding the pen with the needle just barely dripping with medicine that I realized OH MY GOSH. This is so much more than a shot. This is me 100% admitting that I am broken, that I need these shots in order to get pregnant. And that upset me more than the prospect of a bit of pain.
There is so much psychological…trauma that is all tied up in infertility, and when you add IVF stress on the top of that it’s like maximum overload. Most days I refuse to let myself think about it. That’s how I get through. Keep busy, stay strong, don’t flip out. It usually works. And then some days, the big, monumental ones like today where I have to do something new, it just kind of seeps out and boils over in the form of tears and shaking and whatever.
About six months ago I would have called a reaction like that being weak. Now I just call it normal.
The good news is, I feel much more empowered to shoot myself up again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. And if I melt down again? I still have my MIL handy for a few more days, and she’s just as good at giving shots as Deanine is.
Oh, and my sweet and amazing present? A Cinnamon and Clove Bud three-wick candle. Best MIL ever.
