Oh, what the hell.

Disclaimer: This entry contains information regarding our adventures with trouble trying to conceive. Feel free to skip over if you wish to avoid too much information regarding my reproductive parts. I won’t blame you. I’d rather skip this stuff, too.

I’ve been sitting on this here entry since yesterday morning. Part of me didn’t want to tell the Internet about it because it’s damn personal. Part of me did want to tell the Internet about it because it’s damn exciting.

Excitement won over dignity.

I had my third visit of the week at our RE’s office yesterday morning for bloodwork (hormones) and an ultrasound (follicle size). My elbow pits are spotty and bruised. Someone would likely mistake me for a drug addict.

Need a quick female anatomy lesson regarding what happens when? Check out Dr. Spock.

My first visit of the week, Sunday, showed something like four potentially good follicles. Tuesday’s visit showed three, but none were mature enough to release an egg. Yesterday, I finally showed two fully mature follicles, both measuring 20mm, ready to rock.

Once they got the results from my bloodwork, the nurse called to let me know all systems were ready for launch. I was instructed to use the Ovidrel trigger shot last night (triggers the release of eggs following use of follicle stimulating medication). And I panicked.

Yes, I’ve been offering up my veins for prodding on a fairly regular basis lately. Yes, I’m trying to work toward birthing a human.

I still hate injections. In fact, I like what the English call them: jabs. “Shot” sounds a bit melodramatic, even for someone who’s afraid of them. A jab? Entirely accurate.

I digress.

I was able to laugh about the jab with girlfriends all day yesterday, but when the husband pulled the syringe out of the refrigerator last night (yes, a COLD jab!), I was thisclose to barricading myself in the closet.

Instead, I took the suggestion of my good friend, Laura, and stretched out on the bed, covered my face with a pillow and went to my happy place. With a jab.

I won’t lie. It did pinch. Just a little. But it was honestly no big deal. The pinched skin my husband held at the injection site was more painful.

Long story short, my nether regions have been prodded by various doctors this week, I’ve had blood drawn from three different veins and my husband stabbed me with a needle. It was all done with anticipation and excitement because, for the first time in who knows how long (several months? several years?), I’m ovulating!

Note: Use your noggin if you strike up a conversation with me. Unless you’ve discussed intimate matters with me in the past, bringing up something as personal as ovulation and the baby-making plans during this time is going to get you an equally personal question in return. Don’t ask if you aren’t willing to tell.