The tale of how my laptop woes brought the entire cohort of Apple Store employees of Bridgeport to its collective knees is a tale for another day, gentle 19s of readers, because today Miss Tasha is going to reprise her role as Dirty Sock, in the odd story of her life.
So as part of this fertility hooha (technical term), I did the Clomid Challenge last week, which is another one of those hoops they have you go through to tell you….something. I wonder sometimes about the point of all these tests when you’re old as dirt, because the likelihood is that the results suck, in which case they tell you you’re out of luck. But if the results are good, those don’t seem to tell you much either, and they’ll probably still tell you your chances suck.
Last week I decided it was time to pick a donor, and because of the GRACILE Syndrome, my choices were limited. Luckily, one of the ones I had to choose from – Joaquim (this is a new fake name to override his original fake name) – is an avid cyclist, speaks Russian, and is a world traveler. Good enough for me!
After selecting and paying, I’m informed via email that “a vial of Joaquim has been transferred into your account.” Which seems a bit forward of him, I must say. No dinner and dancing first? For some reason it also brings to mind Young Frankenstein, and bug-eyed Marty Feldman as Igor accidentally selecting the “Abby Normal” brain. Not sure why.
On Sunday I get the results of the Clomid Challenge, which, can I say, I kicked ass at. Yes I did. An FSH of 9 beforehand, 11 after, and those are damn fine results, my friends, damn fine.
Today, however, was the sigh-inducing mid-cycle ultrasound, to count those pesky follicles again. Sigh. At least this time I was prepared for sucky bad news, me with my 4 wee but fierce contingent of badass follicles, left to do all the heavy lifting on their own.
Except there weren’t 4. There were 13.
Thirteen little plump rock$tar follicles. Okay, some seemed to be a bit smallish and slackerish, but still. THIRTEEN! Yes, Miss Tasha was grinning like a fool at this bit of amazing news. Now, as the very nice ultrasound woman told me, they could very well harbor shitty quality eggs (paraphrasing). Yes, this is true. But I’d much rather take my chances with the possibility of having 12 shitty and 1 good egg, over 3 shitty and 1 good.
Because all I need is one good egg.
So, suffice it to say, Imma hang out here a little while longer on my log, soaking up the sun, no rush to go anywhere, no sirree, thankyouverymuch.
My Ukrainian – I mean Finnish – ancestors would be proud.