So this is happening now. . .

We took the plunge.

We bought the meds.

We are officially poor again!

Oy, I've spent the last ten years saving for a "house."  Well, hopefully that house is going to look like a fat, naked baby that I pop out of my hoo-ha.  I am now an expert on administering injections on myself.  I stab myself four times a day.

It's kind of like a baby advent calendar.

Each day that passes is like I'm opening a tiny window, only, instead of a piece of cheap, waxy chocolate, I treat myself to about 5 Trader Joe's Peanut Butter Cups.  They are the devil.  But truly, it feels like each time I'm poking myself with my fancy, ritzy, rich lady medication, I'm counting down to the day where I might actually get to meet my baby.  Checking off days on a calendar has never felt so exciting.

My belly looks like the surface of the moon.  It's been bashed and bruised and generally effed up.  I have to go on a hunt each day to find a spot that isn't full of nerve endings or bruises.

And I couldn't be happier!

Honestly.  In many of my posts, I feel hopeless.  Now I am full of hope.  I am responding well to medications (I'm above average in all categories: size of my follicles, number of my follicles, amount of smiles I give to nurses in the office and level of patience with blood draws).

It's not fun, really, to prick yourself, but I'm trying to look at the glass as half full.  Pretty soon, they are going to take me to their alien spaceship and steal my eggs, and then the real waiting game can begin.  Right now I have the feeling that as long as I inject myself correctly and do what they tell me, I'm in CONTROL.  That's big for me.  I know I'm not fully in control.  Anyone who thinks they are is an idiot, but at least I feel like I can help this stupid situation.

I'm going to ride this pointy wave all the way into next week when I go for my egg retrieval.  Who knows, maybe the BEST will happen.

Wish me luck!