And so it begins.
Everything got off to a good start, i.e. despite everything seeming so easy in the clinic with the nurse explaining to me how to use the Gonal F pen and how she made it all look so simple, just like taking a lid off a felt tip pen and writing with it, and then I get home and promptly stab myself in the finger with it (a painless, but surprisingly bloody affair).
A bit like my first scan today (ewww TMI).
And thank God I’ve never been in close proximity to an Epipen emergency. It would be a disaster for all concerned. “Hang on, let me just check Youtube for a video of someone doing this! I know you’re lying on the floor with a swollen windpipe, unable to breathe and gasping for air, and your face has swelled up to the size of a beachball, but it’ll be fine! Just five more minutes! Oops, you appear to have died.”
I still can’t believe I’m doing this. Felt very brave today, injecting myself (well, once I had managed to get it into the right spot). Sort of like a diabetic or other variety of ill person for whom every day must be a struggle, and who must literally be covered in holes from all the injections.
Anyway, have spent millions of pounds on it now so it had better work. Although on the plus side, if it doesn’t, at least I won’t be having a baby with a man who may well be a total minger.
Oh God, banish terrible thought from head. What if the baby grows up and reads this, and realises it has a terrible, cruel mother, who only cares for her child’s physical attributes and once said to a colleague that she hoped her baby didn’t turn out to be autistic.
OH GOD WHAT IF THE BABY IS AUTISTIC? AFTER ALL ITS MOTHER CAN’T EVEN USE AN EPIPEN!!!!! Is it called an Epipen? I don’t even know. What else is one to call it? Gonal F pen? Anyway, I told the nurse I was “familiar with Epipens” in a sage and knowledgeable manner today when she brandished the pen and asked me if I had seen its like before. As in, we had a five minute training slot on it at work back in 2008. So there you are, I am familiar with Epipens.
Anyway, I’m off to stalk the many anxious and often hysterical chatrooms on the interwebs dedicated to women having fertility treatment. Women like me. I bloody knew this would happen. I knew it in 1995 when I did that GCSE coursework on it. I should have just cut my losses and had a baby then. Then I would never be in this position. I mean, what have I even done between 1995 and now anyway? Only GCSEs, A levels and university. Other than that it’s just been a load of drunken carousing really. Should have given up my youth to tend to the youth of tomorrow, like any good Daily Mail reader would do. Bloody career is a quintessence of dust anyway.
Oh God now I’m really depressed.
AND the leaflet inside the aspirin pack of the aspirin I have been ordered to take (apparently it helps to prevent heart attacks in people with angina, though I’m not sure that that’s the reason I am supposed to be taking it) says it may impair fertility. The nurse assures me that this is not the case, and that they always prescribe it, but I have been obsessed with reading those little leaflets inside packets of tablets and sanitary products and assuring myself of their devastating accuracy ever since I read an article in Just Seventeen about somebody who had ACTUALLY CAUGHT toxic shock syndrome from a tampon. You know, it could happen.
Let’s hope not though, as I’m on my period at the moment and would hate to think that there could be a deadly reaction when one mixes the dangerous triumvirate of Gonal F, aspirin and tampons.
What with those and the folic acid, I am going to be literally rattling this month. And to think that last time I got pregnant all it took was a couple of buckets of wine.
OK so I lost the baby. Doesn’t count. Must have been because I wasn’t taking a weird concocotion of medications.
Right, I really am off now. I am starting to bang on about nuffin’.