Saturday night I went to bed secure in my belief that I could handle whatever is thrown at me during our infertility treatment. I looked over the dresser with its array of medicine, needles and alcohol swabs and said to myself, "No sweat. You got this." Somewhere around 3am, I realized I was wrong. I tossed and turned the rest of the night thinking about my first shot the next morning. I wondered if it would hurt as bad as I thought, was anxious to know if my dear husband was up to the task at hand and when I did fitfully sleep, I dreamt about the horrors of having progesterone shot into my derrière.
When Ken first stirred at 7am I rolled over and said, "Get up, we have to do this now. I can't think about it anymore." He was caught off guard because my confidence (actually bluff and bravado) the night before let him sleep soundly knowing his highly hormonal honey was good to go. We went into my office where I had all the medication laid out and the dam broke. I started to cry and confess that I was, in fact, REALLY scared about what we were about to do. Once the tears were dry and I blew my nose, I dropped trou and assumed the position.
What followed can only be described as very anti-climactic. I barely felt a thing. It literally hurts worse to pluck my eyebrows than to get this shot. I walked around the rest of the day on a cloud of elation and sank into a glorious peaceful nap that afternoon. It was then that I realized just how tightly coiled my fear had made me over the previous few weeks since I first received my box of medication and syringes.
Fear is a funny thing, you can think you have it whipped and it sidles up beside you without you knowing. I hope that confessing it both out loud through another ugly cry to my husband and electronically to all of you will help me recognize and shut down the other four letter f-word in the future. :)
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