Cooch and other fun vagina-related terms (click to broaden your vocab.!)

I've been mentally stuck. In a holding pattern much like our embryos in the petri dish. Well, they're not holding, they can't help but multiply, but they're not IN ME so in my mind they're in a holding pattern too.

Dan and I are petri parents!

It's a really weird feeling knowing that after many years, shots, and tears, we actually managed to coax our genetic material into dating. But we wanted them to be sluts. We wanted them to do it on the first date. Do it and get knocked up. And apparently they have.

Here are our stats thus far:

23 eggs were extracted out of my vag. on Monday. Think I covered that one in a previous post. (BTW, very thankful we were able to even do the retrieval b/c upon further research I found out many OHSS patients are cancelled before retrieval and all those shots (expense, pain, and expectations) were for not. Jeeez.)

So... 2 kicked it. They saw the world was a scary place and said F you and jumped off the bridge holding hands. RIP you little boogers.

21 were game to give this world a whirl. They were injected w/ Dan's material (oh LORD why is the TV so bad here?)* and my eggs were all, shut up, No. Way. Why the hell were we being SO coy before *titter, titter*? You guys are hot. Weeeelcome.

3 days pass. They pick 4 of the strongest ones and send the other 17 to Antarctica with a label clearly marked: "Whitey Couple's. Repeat: Whitey Couple's. Don't pull any Abby Normal shit here or we'll be sued—They're Mei-guo-ren (A-mer-i-can)."

And that leaves us with 4 little pookies splitting and multiplying in our (from what I've been reading "souvenir") petri dish.

As of Wednesday night (12/24):

• Blast #1: THREE cells.
• Blast #2: FOUR cells.
• Blast #3: looks up to older sib #2: FOUR cells. (#2 says get a life, stop copying me.)
• Blast #4: bossy, YOU BETTER SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AT MY TEA PARTY AND MIME DRINKING OUT OF AN EMPTY MINI CUP WITH A DELIGHTED SMILE WITH ME: FIVE cells.

Fluid in uterus: kinda minimal. Good.
Ovaries: 7 something? Is it centimeters? Millimeters? Shit. The only numbers that have ever been my strong point is my idiot savant-like predilection for remembering everyfuckingbody's birth date (it's a curse, really). So 7... whatever size they are, 7 being TOO large still. 7 being still pretty darned close to still looking like grapefruits making out. Not so good.

Me: What do you think? Think we can do the fresh transfer on this cycle?

RE: No you crazy bitch get out of my office.

Me: Ok. But before I do, think you can write me an Rx for cough syrup meant for someone over 2 years of age? I swear, I hate the crap. I'm not addicted. Just kind of a touch tired of coughing 24/7 *patiently, gently smiling with molars clamped*.

RE: You went through that WHOLE bottle the ER doc gave you just yesterday. That was supposed to last 3 days.

Me: Yeah, maybe for a 2 year old. And... I. I. Spilled some. Need more. Give it!!!!!!

RE: How about this half sized bottle that's weaker than the shit you're complaining about?

ME: Um. No. TWO please.

RE: Fine.

So he leaves the one bottle on his desk - right in front of me, so I put it in my purse and after receiving my IV albumin drip
(quality pouty-faced self-portrait.)
and my long-needled progesterone shot in my ass, I go up to pay for the visit and to pick up the 2nd bottle the nurses prepared. Guess what? They prepared TWO (insert happy jig). Count 'em, I got THREE altogether! That was Wed. night.

It is now Friday afternoon and I'm down to half of my third itty bitty baby bottle and still coughing. Granted, I shared a little with Dan, but still. Why the fuck didn't he just give me shit that would knock it out BEFORE I possibly have one of my hard-earned embryos implanted? Maybe b/c I'm petite he cannot fathom the kind of coughing I can conjure up. I told him I actually vomited from coughing so hard for God's sake. I mean when I belch, it's so freaking guttural, Dan is always nice enough to apologize as if it came from him. I do things big.

*(It's the Demi Moore-shaving-her-head-to-prove-she's-a-serious-actress movie that actually kicked her off the map. Backfired Demi. But wait, you did do Charlie's Angels. Hmmm. Ok. Wait, you DID marry Ashton. Ok. Now you're golden.)

When DH gets home, we're off to the RE's to find out if my OHSS symptoms are under control enough to warrant going for the transfer. Tomorrow? Sunday? Crap, again, not sure. I'm on a ride I'm not steering here - go easy.

*(Ooh. She just said, "SUCK MY DICK." What am I saying? This movie is brilliant!!!)

On a Christmas note, went to Japanese BBQ w/ Naomi and Drew which is right off ZhongXiao near Fuxing - one of the main drags here. They have one of their major department stores across the street from the restaurant - SOGOS (much like our Macys or Bloomingdales). The Christmas decor in front of that Sogos was DONE UP. At least in comparison to anything else we saw around here. Taxi drops us off around 9:00 PM. People are taking pictures in front of the display, holding up their ubiquitous peace sign, looking snuggly in their winter wear, smiles abound... Cut to 11:15 PM as we're the last guests closing out the restaurant. We look across the street before hailing the cab... THEY WERE ALREADY DISMANTLING THE DISPLAY. It wasn't even boxing day yet! We thought it was nice and telling about what their true perception of Christmas is here: marketing ploy. Annnd that's it. Oh you, America. You and your influence.