I'm taking daily injections of progesterone (which is the hormone that makes you crazy during PMS), and they've started to take their toll. Sunday I was needy. Monday I was whiny. Tuesday I was grumpy. Yesterday, I slept through the afternoon, sent my dad and husband to the pharmacy for my various needs, and then yelled at them when they brought back the generic version of the prenatal vitamins I wanted.
But let me speak my peace: I specifically asked for the expensive Rx prenatals (Duet DHA) because they're small. If you've ever tried to take prenatals, you know that they're uniformly gigantic. The somewhat swallowable ones I've been using are simply becoming too much of a burden for my hormonal and nauseated self. You can imagine my frustration and disappointment when my Rx arrives in a box called "Renate DHA," which I open to find pills about the size of my pinky finger—not the tip, the whole freaking thing.
Still, that's not something I would usually fly off the handle about. By the time my hormones level out, my cat will be the only person who will talk to me.
On Monday, Dr. F inserted three little embryos into my uterus (we'd originally planned on two). They were the size of specks of dust, and I can't help but panic a little over how fragile they are. The little guys could divide themselves unevenly into oblivion, they could simply stop mitosis, they could fail to find a grip on my uterine walls—it seems like anything could happen (or not happen).
I'm rooting for my little specks of dust hardcore. Those finger-sized pills are going down because these little guys deserve every shot at survival. On Thursday (one week from today), I find out if I'm officially chemically pregnant. They'll have a good idea whether zero, one, two, or three survived the ride, and then they'll ultrasound in another month to see if I'm still really pregnant.
Remember Kitty Surprise? Those plush cats that had velcro openings in their bellies that would produce 2, 3, or 4 kittens? Well, I'm starting to feel like one of those. I'm also starting to feel like my younger self when I first received that coveted reproducing kitty. As far as I'm concerned, I want all my little speck babies to survive. Three please! Not because I want a huge family, or because I really want the struggle of triplets in my life, but because I just don't want anyone to die. Not in my uterus.
I'd vote for just one, or maybe two, but that would mean I'm hoping that little number three meets his barely multicellular end quite soon. Death is an inevitable part of the human procreative process, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept.