Revving Gently

The effect of immersing Harry in a mainstream peer group has been fairly apparent. The ‘Neh-neh-ne-NEH-neh’ derisory hum – you know the one – suddenly emerged in his limited musical repertoire, and the day is punctuated by frequent utterances of ‘Why’ and ‘What’s dat?’. We get into a stickyish loop with ‘what’s dat?’ in particular, because he hasn’t yet acquired the vocabulary to do justice to his thoughts, and finds it easier to extend a conversation by simply repeating it ad-nearly-infinitum. However, having the ‘What’s dat, Mummy?’ conversation when he first wandered into the kitchen and found me jabbing needles in myself was a bit of a trial, and I was eventually obliged to tell him that Mummy was poorly and needed medicine.

Which isn’t exactly untrue: I eventually bared my poor suffering tonsils in mute appeal at our practice’s seemingly permanent locum young GP early today – he seems to have flowered a fair bit since the hip-dysplasia-Googling incident – who asked me lots of questions about heartburn, said throat appeared ok-ish really (and it does, I’ve looked. How can there be so much pain and so little inflammation!?), recommended salt gargling, doubted that an infection was still hanging on in there after this length of time, but cheerfully slid a prescription for amoxycillin across the desk anyway. Hellloooo green crap and thrush! I stoutly denied heartburn to him, but now I’m actually sat down, I realise that I do, in fact, have it slightly. Hmm.

Today’s scan went well: my left ovary has emerged from whatever ligament it was cowering behind, and has achieved glorious parity with my right; I have 7 follicles on each side that are starting to edge shyly into the teens. I had bloods taken on Monday that apparently decreed that I should stay throttled back at 225IU Gonal F per day; they are tentatively talking about retrieval next Monday. I am on course, they feel, to beat my previous egg record (10, of which 9 fertilised). There will be triumphant clucking from the Hairy henhouse if I find 12 or more in the nesting petri-dish when I wake up, and indignant squawks if I don’t.

I have just commented to John about my memory of him – quite spontaneously – reassuring me as soon as I’d woken up from egg retrieval: that they had managed to snare 10 eggs. ‘It wouldn’t have entered my bleary head to think about it that soon after coming round, but I was really grateful to know!’

John, with a level stare, ‘You asked about it 35 times in the first minute. And several times a minute for the next 35 minutes. Then you told me about something at work you hadn’t done. Then repeated it again. And then some more. Then you started asking about the eggs again.’

Ohhhh.

Fun times coming for him on Monday, then.

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15 Responses

  1. I remember coming round from an anaesthetic and interrogating the nurse about the exact anaesthetic equipment they’d used. For some reason it was of utmost importance.
    Glad the left ovary seems to be playing ball too.

  2. Well that sounds wonderful. Good luck with the Vaginal Needle Of Doom.

    I forget wh came up with that. Geohde?

  3. I have no memory of waking up at all. My husband was in the waiting room, and I vaguely remember being walked over to him. Then I remember walking to the car. And I remember a little of the drive home. No one has told me what I was talking about.

    Glad to hear that Harry is curious, that you don’t appear to be colonizing all the viruses in the neighborhood, and that your ovary returned from vacation in time to attend the party. Much luck with the next part – can John guest post and tell us all the hilarious things you said while under the influence of anesthesia?

  4. George has nothing on Curious Harry. Nothing at all!

  5. Ahahaha! Get to clucking!

  6. Here’s to one dozen of the finest free range hairy farmer eggs next Monday!

  7. Another possibility re: the sore throat might be nasal discharge dripping down your throat in the night. Both Mum and Dad have ended up on a spray to dry things up slightly and for both of them coughin/waking up with sore throats have gone.

  8. Monday! Much luck. And many good eggs.

  9. Also holding out great hope for things going brilliantly for you on Monday. And beyond.

  10. cluck cluck cluck

    And oh, poor John.

    But yes, please, can he report back?!?

  11. The thing is he could say you’d said anything and you’d have to believe him. Maybe slip a dictaphone in your pocket next time.

    Best, best, best of luck with the retrieval I hope you get lots of lovely fertilisable eggs.

  12. Great news …. Here’s to Monday!!!!!

  13. Aha! The ‘what’s that?’ and ‘why?’ stage! Enjoy. Diva always used to ask at the top of her voice whenever the only truthful answer was ‘well, it’s that gentleman’s nose/tummy/breath’ or ‘because when two GROWN UPS like each other very much, they think that’s a fun thing to do NO IT IS NOT FUN FOR SMALL KIDS NOT EVEN A TINY BIT’.

    Sore throat – probably post-nasal drip, if it’s that damn sore but not noticeably swollen or red. Post-nasal drip sounds pathetic, but hurts like the bloody-blue-blazes, on and on, day after day, gah. Antibiotics will do bugger-all for it. Are you allowed pseudo-ephedrine at the moment? Of course not. Forget I mentioned it.

    Retrieval MONDAY? Oh Lord that’s soon. Will be flustered on your behalf all weekend.

    Best wishes, darling.

  14. Good luck for tomorrow my dear!

  15. I thought they wrote how many eggs they got on your hand so you can see it yourself as soon as you want to – a good suggestion for your lot

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