In the days since my egg retrieval, I've felt like yogurt with blueberries. I don't mean that I felt like eating them. I felt like I became yogurt with blueberries. Here's how.
Imagine a cup of plain yogurt. Or vanilla, if you need to. Then put ten or fifteen blueberries in the cup and stir. Now imagine that the yogurt is my insides from my belly button to my pelvis. The blueberries are the internal bruises.
This has been a very exhausting business, and I've gotten a lot fewer things done this week than I'd planned. When we go in for the embryo transfer (and the news here is that the embies are doing really well) I'll have to endure a day of bedrest. But the embryo transfer doesn't hurt. I'd think they'd suggest the bedrest, instead, for the surgery that had to precede it. They probably know that you're not going to want to get out of bed anyway.
Today, on the fourth day after the surgical egg-sucking-out, I decided that we could not live with the lawn the way it was. It was embarrassing and unsightly, and with all this talk about home maintenance (the three kids and the principal came by yesterday to apologize again for the broken window and give me apology letters), I should do my part.
So I mowed the yard. Just the front yard. But boy, did it do me in. Wear me out. One of those. When I crawled into bed tonight, I inspected my two lawnmower blisters on my hands. It's so nice to be wounded in a way that's completely unrelated to fertility.
And may I say that blisters hurt a lot less than blueberries. Who would have guessed?
(Postscript: I should note that James volunteered to mow the lawn, but I literally pushed him away from the lawnmower. That's just the way I am. The yard looks delicious now, but it is hard to see from my bed).