Third Time is a Charm???

Before I started this blog, I thought about it for a long time.  Each time I considered creating a blog, I had a wealth of brilliant ideas!  A wealth, I tell you. Amusing, wry stories of this or that would string themselves together in a beautiful tapestry of creativity. 

That would make the best blog entry EVER I would say.

Can you see where this is going?

Now, once I’ve started this damn thing, I can never think of anything to say.

An update: Today is CD 11, which means tomorrow I go back to the Dr. for yet another ultrasound to check on the follies.  With my luck, he’ll think the IUI should happen on Easter Sunday, only he’s going to be out of town that day. Or, we’ll schedule the IUI for Monday, which means I’ll need to do the trigger shot myself.

In our first visit a few years ago to the carnival of fun known as Infertility Treatments we were expecting to do the trigger shot followed by an IUI.   My former Dr. informed us that we would be taught how to mix up and give the shot ourselves, at home.  The plan was for BeBop to learn how to properly administer the shot and in order to help this along, we were to bring an orange to the hospital.  BeBop would practice on this poor, unsuspecting citrus fruit so that he would know what he was doing when it came time to stick me.

Just so he took his whole training seriously, and kept in the forefront of his mind the fact that he was soon going to be plunging a long needle into the delicate flesh of my nether-regions, I took a Sharpie to the orange and in big black letters wrote:

MY WIFE’S ASS

Of course this cycle was canceled at the last minute, so instead of an IUI and the hope of getting pregnant we were left with a rotting orange bearing a rather unappealing reference to my ass on it.

A word about these ultrasounds.  When I started seeing a fertility doc, he suggested an ultrasound.  I had visions of Rachel from Friends in my head, reclining on a hospital bed as they rubbed gel on her belly, then moving a non-threatening mouse-like thing across her stomach.  Looked easy enough.

No one mentioned the words ‘internal’ or ‘transvaginal.’  Bastards.

When the doctor pulled out a wand-like thingy that looked entirely too BIG to go in THERE, and then proceeded to cover it with a condom…I almost peed myself. 

What the FRICK?!?

Doesn’t someone in here need to buy me dinner and a movie, for crissakes?   OR AT LEAST A GLASS OF CHEAP CHARDONNAY??

Of course by now I’m used to the whole deal, but each time I think of having another ultrasound, I wistfully think of my Friend Rachel, and wish for the nice, OUTSIDE kind.