“… You can live the life you like. You can even marry Harry but mess around with Ike. Good, isn’t it grand …” I vaguely remember that. And I can recall turning on my side for the rump shot of progesterone. Sade’s greatest hits played in the recovery room. I remember hearing it, but I don’t remember singing along. A nurse said she wanted my autograph, so I must’ve done a decent job. I was hazy but soon awake enough to walk. At home, I slept the rest of the day — the whole day.
I think I’m done with the abrupt sleepiness from the fentanyl, but the Mr. keeps reminding me that it hasn’t been 24 hours since the procedure (it’s 8 a.m.). That’s the recommended time before I can operate heavy machinery. I didn’t think of it like that, but I guess it is a good idea that I’m working from home today editing printouts from last week. Even with uncomfortable bloating and a literal pain in the behind, I find it hard not to be celebratory.
My doctor extracted 15 eggs. Based on today’s call from the embryologist (how do you even become one of those?), seven of the 15 were mature and all seven were fertilized. Now, it’s a matter of days before the transfer of two embryos and yet another dreaded two-week wait. I’m done with injectable medications. Instead, I’m taking antibiotics twice a day, estradiol twice a day and progesterone inserts three times a day. One is to ward off infection from the procedure and the other two held prepare my body for implantation, the next hurdle.