Ok, so...I predict we will make it to Random Musing #3472 before something appropriately IVF-y happens.
We are on hiatus, people; repeat, on hiatus. So I'm afraid the liguistic equivalent of Barry Manilow muzak is going to have to continue to pipe through my keyboard, through the fibre optic cables of the world wide web and straight to the optical fibres of your eyes. Hell, why should I be afraid...perhaps you should be...
Here's the latest.
I had a blood test on Monday morning - that would be yesterday. I have a lovely vein on my left arm too, that's what the path lab chick said. I am convinced she was trying to pick me up.
We are having coffee on Friday. I plan on showing her the vein in my left arm and maybe, if things go really well, the one on my neck. I know. Racy with a capital Aarrrrr.
Anyway, due to the public holiday, the results didn't get down to the IVF doc's office until today - faxes like to respect Labour Day too: they like to march in the parade, partake in a spot of unionising over a sausage sizzle.
So the doc rang this morning and asked me to get another blood test on Thursday.
"Why?" I asked the lovely receptionist. "It's nothing at all to worry about whatsoever," she said. At which point, I start worrying and feeling a bit sick before sensing anger and impatience rise up my neck in a hot wave.
I mean, why did she choose to be so emphatic when telling me it was supposedly nothing at all to worry about? I think we all know now that if over-analysing is an Olympic sport in my mind, then I am its fittest, most-medalled record-breaker.
"Nothing at all to worry about whatsoever." Nothing at all, whatsoever. Superfluous and unnecessary in normal speech - IF THERE WAS ACTUALLY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT!
Anyway, turns out I am having a slow cycle and the bloods need to show that I have ovulated before they can pop another embryo in.
And ordinarily it wouldn't be an issue...and it's really not...but we fly out on holiday next Monday. We will be gone 10 days.
The embryos need two or three days to thaw, and the doc won't be able to make a call on whether or not I am ready until later Thursday. I don't know if they work weekends and, frankly, we are just going to run out of time.
I'm a journalist who works to deadlines every day. I'm impatient. I put a lot of pressure on myself. I like to plan and know I can rely on certain big things in life. I am genuinely looking forward to being pregnant and I cannot wait to meet our baby.
Line these qualities up in a row and, what does it spell? A very annoyed Bec.
But I have to remember that there is no rush - no deadline applies here. It will happen, I just have to give in to the process and trust that forces at work outside and inside my body - ones neither I or any doctor on the planet will ever understand - must take over now. Time to succumb...it's the only way to be free.
Besides, that's one more month of drinking! Yee-haa!