As much as I plan that This Cycle Will Be Different, I am stumbling once again through the same aching minuet of doubts, fears and exaggerated emotions.  My doctor’s office is requiring some legal paperwork that is ridiculous, redundant, unnecessary, repetitive, and we already did that.  Which brought on the requisite, inevitable "I Can’t Do All This" crying jag, to which my husband responds with "I’ll Take Care of It, Honey," one of his greatest hits that never gets enough airplay around here. 

My cysts are back, except they never left, and are causing me some pain even though we haven’t started with the estrogen (see my "Fool of a Took!" Mines of Moria reference in some previous post if you want to relive that bit of pop culture cleverness).  So I feel like crying about that too, except Danny the wonderful neighborhood pharmacist will soon be calling to say my Vicodin is ready, so we’ll just nip that tearful middle-of-the-night stomachache right in the bud.

Just in time, too, since I’m doing a little bit of OTC drug rehab.  In addition to my other physiological oddities, I am (I think) very very sensitive to caffeine, so that a strong cup of green tea can wake me up at 4 a.m.  Well, five hours is plenty, don’t you think?  NOT.  Yes, all you Starbucks-slamming coffee whores, enjoy it!  I can’t even think about coffee if I want to sleep.  I have this special fall-asleep-like-clockwork but wake up at 2, or 3, or 4 a.m. kind of insomnia.  People are always giving me sleep hygiene advice, how to fall asleep advice, and cognitive therapy advice that is kind of like "have you tried Robitussin? while relaxing? on vacation?" for the insomniac.  And you can all shove that warm milk where the sun don’t shine. 

Anyway (hostile? Me?) I take my special pink pill, Benadryl, but I’m kicking it for my cycle, and for my poor dry skin.  So only a tea bag or two for me, instead of large heaping teaspoons of loose tea, and maybe some Valerian to sleep, and I have to drag out every sleep-hygiene good habit to get me through the little islands of wakefulness that await.  But the Vicodin will help with all that.  I won’t sleep, I just won’t mind.

Today I went for my Day 3 bloodwork and ultrasound, and got the call from my doctor’s office.  "We want your estrogen to be below 50," she said, as if I could help things along by thinking masculine or menopausal thoughts, and then when she called later she said "Well, things look good!  Your estrogen is 24."  Well, yippee, I thought, how many times a day would I cry if we could get it down to 10? 

I signed up for this, I signed up for this, I am paying money for this.  I just have to remember that.

Speaking of numbers: I may be fat, infertile and covered with eczema, I may cry a lot, I may have ovarian cysts as big as my head; but I took my blood pressure at the grocery store was 116/61.  Not too shabby!   My interval sprint training is paying off and I am so happy that I can control at least one health index of this rebellious body.

I need: good sleep.  I need to see a bunny.  I need some nice lime-scented lotion.  Or maybe I just need to breathe, remember how lucky I am, be at peace with my circumstances.

And go get my *&&%%$# Vicodin.

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