Yeah, yeah, it's not proper grammar, shoot me. Or better yet, why don't you lend me some of your eggs. Well, not actually lend them, as I won't give them back. Just give 'em to me.
My Easter basket is empty. My egg carton has run out of eggs. I have bacon, eggs needed.
While I haven't yet got the phone call from Dr. Slick or even Battle Axe yet today, I'm assuming that I won't, unless some miracle occurs. But you see, my name isn't Mary, and I won't be carrying a baby that was conceived through immaculate reception (as my Hubby likes to say). If I do ever carry a baby, I'll be using someone else's little eggies, as mine are no where to be found.
Those follicles shown on the little monitor today? Most likely empty. That thin line you saw? My monophasic (or whatever B.S. that spewed from his mouth) uterus that didn't respond either to the meds. I didn't really think that still being on my period was such a bad thing. Well it is, if you're injecting yourself with maximum doses of drugs that should have shut it off right away. I should have had multiple follicles popping out of them there ovaries. I should have. I should have two freaking ovaries that are producing eggs. Good grief, I'm only 37. I'm not ancient. Hell, I'm not even old. But tell that to my good-for-nothing ovaries that are in my abdomen.
I may seem bitter, and I can't lie, I am. But I'm not crying. No, I'll save that for later, although when I was at my acupuncturist's office on Thursday and told him how Dr. Slick didn't like my asking questions, he was very comforting, and actually made me cry a bit. No, I'll save my tears for when the numbness wears off.
Dr. Slick said to take some time, we can discuss options. Hubby says he needs a while to think things over, pray on what we should do. I'll let him. While he's doing that, I'll start researching. Find out exactly what donor eggs will entail, including costs, facilitation, what if any my insurance will pick up, finances, etc. I've got work to do while Hubby thinks things over and prays about it.
We invited his folks to breakfast this morning when we got back into town. After a while, I told them that if we do have kids, they won't be biologically mine. After giving a bit of support, my MIL says that maybe we should just stop for a while, as God tends to give prophets to those women who are barren. Who the hell does she think I am that I am going to get a prophet? I'm not Mary. I'm not Ruth, or Sara, or any of those other ladies who are selfless. I'm Tori. I'm the girl who in college was promiscuous and am now paying for it. I forgot to mention that during the u/s that Dr. Slick tells us for the very first time that my left ovary (you know, the one that likes to hide during all the ultrasounds and is painful to look at??) is connected to the back of my ovary with scar tissue. Gee, thanks for just now telling us this, doc.
So I'm going to have a prophet, huh? Only prophet I'll have is if I can sell my boobs to some chick who has none. That's the profit I'll get.
Once I get over my bitterness and can clear my head a bit, I'll start thinking. I'll start making my plans. I'll start determining if I can use my insurance to my advantage (Nancy, sorry if I gave you sh*t for saying you shouldn't fill your left over prescriptions so you can provide them to someone who doesn't have insurance, as I'm thinking of using it for a donor, if need be). I'll figure this thing out. If there is one thing I am good at, it's figuring things out.
I'll get it done. One way or the other, I'll get it done. It may take a while, but you'll see. I'll get it done.
