It’s hit me, I’m exhausted.
Early start this morning for blood test: E2 = 216
This is apparently too low, they prefer to see the levels at 500 at this stage, so I have to increase my Puregon dose to 300 ml. This has never happened to me before… fear is starting to creep in.
Next blood test will be Friday, plus the famous dildocam ultrasound to see how I’m responding. If the blood test is anything to go by, not well.
Bugger, now I’ve got more stuff to worry about. So much for CFG's 'Perfect Start'.
I’m dead on my feet today, but somehow I have to find the energy to go to a play tonight, ‘Festen’ at the Opera House. We’re meeting a couple of my friends for a pre-play feed and drink. This is something I usually look forward to, but all I’m thinking is, I wonder if anyone will notice if I have a snooze in the dark.
Sunday and night were great. No pregnancy announcements, C&D haven’t started trying yet (remember that innocent feeling?). D spoke with C and told him some of what we’ve been thru, so maybe the horror of our experience will spur them on to start.
Emiliana Torrini was wonderful. She had the lovely ‘Bjork’ accent and told little stories about her life before each song. Her new album ‘Fisherman’s Woman’ is chock full of charm, songs that make you just want to stand on the spot and sway.
I’m also losing my marbles.
Monday, my first day back at work after 2 weeks off, and I’ve walked all the way to the train station, queued up to buy my ticket and can’t find my wallet. I’m running home and calling D, manically asking him to search the house. Swearing in my head all the way, retracing my steps and checking in the kerbs. Arrive home to the living room thoroughly searched and no wallet. I’m now crying and cursing that I’ll have to cancel all my cards, and can’t get to work while I just quickly check my backpack.
I never put my wallet in my backpack. It’s where I put my book to read on the train and banana.
‘It’s these bloody drugs’ I scream at D, ‘I’m losing my mind’!
‘It’s good’ he says, ‘now there’s nothing to worry about, don’t panic I’ll drive you to work’. Bless ‘im.
Now all I need is one of those George Castanza beds rigged up under my desk.