I'm a little bit in a egg retrival funk. I'm going to blame it on nerves... and sleep depreviation...and my friend, Stress. Where is the at-home acupuncture kit when you really need it? My daddy use to tell me to never marry a farmer. Who knew he was right-- I should have married an acupuncturist. Then I could be sitting here on the couch with tiny needles sticking out of my forehead, hepped up on hormone shots watching Whitney Houston's funneral coverage and feeling more calm about being violated tomorrow morning and not as sad that Kevin Costner isn't a close, personal friend. He seems like the nicest guy, doesn't he?
But the Husband is much funnier than any acpuncturist I've ever met and a sense of humor is really important when you are going through all this infertility junk.
All I know is that I'm having a little pre-egg retrival pitty party. Poor Whitney. Poor Me. And for good measure, poor Michael Jackson.
I know, I'm being a little dramatic... of course having the potential to create a baby is much better than being dead... but tomorrow I'm going to have a needle injected into a very sensative area to suck out a bunch of eggs that I worked very hard to create and I don't think Whitney is... nor MJ for that matter.
The sensible side of me knows that this will all be over before I know it. So suck it up Emily! Soon I'll be home resting in my super comfy bed and watching re-runs of Designing Women and the Gilmore Girls.
Send some good thoughts and prayers my way this week. I'm going to be needing them...
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