I’ve been at the clinic for ultrasounds and blood work for the past three mornings in a row.  My estrogen levels apparently spiked higher than they ever have in any of my previous cycles, so the clinic is keeping a close eye on me.  My estrogen and estrodial levels are being closely monitored, and they’re slowly reducing my dosage of Follistim to prevent me from going into hyperstimulation.

Believe me, I am feeling those higher estrogen levels.  I’m cranky, bloated, nauseated, and tired of carrying around these two distended, alien creatures the doctors are calling my ovaries.  Seriously.  When I went in for my last ultrasound, the doctor actually gave an audible “Whoa!” as soon as they came up on the screen.

I’ve put on my requisite 5 fertility pounds, but I feel much, much larger than that.  Ty says I still look good, but I snapped a photo of the two of us, so you guys can be the judge:

His decision to grow out a sweet 'stache hasn't helped matters.

I actually had a runway gig last night.  Considering the way I felt (see above picture), I wasn’t all that psyched about doing it.  I showed up early and started changing into my first and, thankfully, only outfit.

The skirt wouldn’t zip up.

I cursed as I realized that I had been fitted for this far before I’d ever gone on the drugs.  It wasn’t exactly roomy back then either. When it came to this skirt, apparently 5 extra pounds made quite the difference.  I was about ready to shoot myself in the face when one of the designers came around the corner and saw me struggling.

“Oh no,” he said. “You are NOT telling me it’s too small now.”

I was preparing to vomit out a healthy pile of excuses and explanations, but he simply reached around, fixed the tangled fabric, zipped it up with no trouble, and ran off to fix some disasters elsewhere.

The show ended up going down with only minor hitches, and I was allowed to take off as soon as my set was over.  Unfortunately the end of my set coincided with when I had to do my injections.  I retreated to the changing room, which was like Grand Central Station at that moment, but it was the only place I had.  I laid out all of my many syringes and vials and tried to ignore all the odd looks I was getting.  One girl finally came up to me and peered over my shoulder.

“So, is this for like…? Are you like diabetic or….?”

I was about to tell her that I was an egg donor, but I knew that I was in no mood to answer the 500 questions that would follow.

“Oh, no.  This is just a part of my weight-loss plan.  I’ve already lost 17 pounds in two days!” I stabbed the Lupron syringe into my stomach for emphasis.

I was met with a look of both disgust and genuine, perhaps even jealous curiosity.  Thankfully, she just slowly nodded and walked away without asking any questions, as I hadn’t really planned the charade that far.

Aside from being cranky and pulling the legs of total strangers, I am pleased to announce that my retrieval is all on schedule for Tuesday morning.  I’ll be taking my trigger shot tonight at 8:30, and it’ll all be downhill from there!  Until Tuesday!

PS — Operation Jack Off Room Investigation was a success.  The drawers were stacked with messy piles of smut mags.  I was expecting and maybe even hoping for a neatly cataloged and extensive library of naughty DVDs, but I only saw one unmarked DVD tucked under some Hustlers.  Whatever. Porn is porn.