Let's Take Some Shots

I thought that I’d start this morning with some song lyrics that are really meaningful to me right now.

Shots shots shots shots shots shots

shots shots shots shots shots

shots shots shots shots shots

everybody

everybody
-LMFAO

Take a minute to let those words sink in.  Let a tear fall at their beauty, if you need to.

Are we ready to continue now?  Good….

Today was my “injection class,” and, well, shit just got real.  I’ve never minded shots, but when the nurse brought out the BIG needle, the one used for the trigger shot, and the look on my face made her pause, look at me, and ask, “Are you ok?”, I realized that the reason I’ve never minded shots is that I never look at the needles.  The nurse brings in a tray, I turn my head away, done.  But now, when I’m not going to be just getting the shots, but actively involved in the pointy metal thing going through my skin?  Shudder.

But I won’t have to think about it too much, because the shots are Henry’s job; I’ll be staying a comfortable distance from those needles until the last possible second.  I also know I’ll get over any squeamishness quickly - by my calculations, if I stim for 10 days I will get 26 shots in that time.  That’s not counting the blood draws I can expect “at least every other day,” the IV that will deliver my sedatives during my egg retrieval, and various other things that will go down my throat or up my vagina between now and the end of the year.

So yeah, for the next month, my body is just a thing to be manipulated. Like when the nurse showed Henry where to inject my trigger shot: as I pulled down my pants and leaned over a table so she could point out the exact right place on my butt for him to put the needle, it was like a scene from a porno for people who love redheads and middle aged nurses.  “IVF: Sperm Sluts."

Speaking of pornos, is it weird that I find the idea of Henry giving me shots to be strangely sexy?  Not so much the shots themselves, but the care he’ll take in mixing the medications, the idea that he’ll want to do it without hurting me, the fact that it’s his way of contributing to this process… I picture him mixing the drugs in our kitchen, with his beard and his ever-present plaid flannel shirt, and then bringing the needle out to me on the couch and kissing the spot when it’s done. The mix of sensitive, tender caretaker and doing-what-needs-to-be-done provider that I see in those imaginings kinda gets me going, and is almost enough to make me not mind the shots.  Am I crazy?  Is this just my brain’s last-ditch effort to keep baby making sensual?

Of course, that’s just the husband of my fantasies.  The husband I have in real life clearly saw the same porno scene I did: as we rode the elevator down after our appointment, he smiled evilly at me and said, “I finally get to stick it in your butt.”