|My super silly unicorn, cupcake and robot |
lucky socks... complete with super special
blue procedure room booties.
I call it a clean-room because it's part of a fucking lab and that's what you call it. I know this because I sell the industrial fans that create a positive pressure in the room so the germs from the outside don't get inside. That's why there's a "whoosh" of air when you open the door. ... I'm rambling. Anyway, this room felt cold and scary. Not at all the inviting, or at least comfortable, rooms I'd grow accustomed to. Luckily, I was only awake for a few minutes. The middle of the room featured the standard OB, short ass "could you come down just a bit more please" table that we've all got paper stuck to our asses (or worse!) on before. Only this time, there were large metal bars holding u-shaped padded leg-holsters as I have dubbed them. These things will expose areas of your girly-bits you've been trying to hide for years. If you have the opportunity to get a Brazilian before hand... I strongly suggest you do as it absolutely will be on your mind.
Anyway, they put the oxygen tube up my nose and burrito my ass to the table in a blanket fixed with clamps so my arms don't fall to the side. This was awkward and the closest thing to a straight jacket I hope to ever come. Then I remember mumbling something about being good and high, the anesthesiologist piping "that's me!" me and the nurse telling me not to fight it. I woke up still high but back in the prep room.
They nearly immediately told me we managed to get 11 and while I was upset, I tried to stay positive. Adam joined me shortly thereafter and the embryologist popped her head in later to let us know she'd call me with a report and that they found one more! We waited for the anesthesia to wear off before getting dressed and going home. We stopped by Sonic on the way home to celebrate a job well done. This was the worst mistake EVER!
Of all the research I've done on this... of all the countless talks I've had with doctors and women going through it I have never been given the single most precious portent of advice I wish I would have received. Ladies, I blame this on women's inability to discuss their asses and shitting schedules with their friends... and frankly, I am also to blame. I can get down-right irritated when people talk about such things as such things are not polite in 99.9% of conversations but in this case... an exception should be made. So I'll make it.
Ladies... if you're going through IVF... DO NOT EAT LIKE A RABID COW BEFORE OR AFTER YOUR RETRIEVAL. From what I've been able to piece together from the myriad of folks who have said "Yeah... that happened to me too" recently, I've discovered that the anesthetic shuts your fucking digestive tract down. The whole fucking thing. My stomach stopped processing food. My intestines stopped moving it along. My ass... well... you get it by now. I was miserable. All the cramps and the blocked everything and the sour stomach, all coupled with the fact that my RE had to beat the hell out of my right ovary to get it where he needed it to be and then sent the goddamned big-ass needle straight through my uterine muscle 6 or 7 times for good measure, made it to where I couldn't even sit up by the time I'd managed to snarf down one Sonic cheeseburger. Pain pills... did, not, help. Laxatives... made it worse. Prunes... may have done something, I really don't know. All I know is, I missed 3 days of work and was thanking Jeebus that I felt better for the transfer.
The transfer, however, is for a different entry. As far as you know... I went home on Wednesday with 12 beautiful eggies all the hope (and bloat) in the world.
It didn't keep.