The progesterone shots were not too bad last time. Sore, sure; a little swollen, you bet; some bruising, absolutely. Ah, the good old days.
Yesterday, around five a.m., while lying inert on my left side, I was awakend by a shooting pain in my right...in my right...hmmm...hindquarters? Haunch? There is no good description of the PIO location, but feel the back of your hipbone and head spinewards half an inch.
Foolishly, I rolled over to my right side and, in so doing, discovered a whole new world of hurt, a world named AssHip. I spent the next twenty-four hours making little mewling sounds and dreaming of the moment when my enforced bedrest would end. I tried pillows and propping, massaging and meditation, but what I needed, oh so desperately, was to stand up and relieve some of the pressure from the ever-swelling AssHip, which was unwillingly bearing a substantial part of my supine weight.
When I managed to arise this morning, in preparation for my first day back at work, I was prepared for the agony of getting up but was shocked by the searing, stabbing misery of walking. It felt like my glute had been nearly severed, and my leg buckled. It was at this point that I noticed that I had gained a large saddlebag-like protrusion from the AssHip.
The new and different progesterone, perhaps? Could that be the cause? This one is in sesame oil; the old one in peanut. I've emailed the IVF coordinator with a heartfelt plea for help, but who knows when I'll hear back? The thought of inserting another needle into this swollen internal bruise makes me consider doing a bunk.
I found a pair of fat pants--fat slacks, in fact--that accommodated the AssHip, and managed to clothe myself. Jeff had to drive me to work, as I was not confident that I could operate the brake pedal with sufficient force in an emergency. (This proved to be a mixed decision in, erm, hindsight, as we were sideswiped by an apparently license-less, insurance-less hit-and-run driver on the way home. You see, if I
had been driving, we would have been long past the intersection of Highway 92 and Interstate 880 South and would have missed the whole sordid episode. On the highways and freeways of the world, however, Jeff purposely chooses the slowest car in the slowest lane and then just tucks in behind for the duration. He says it helps because then he doesn't have to "think as much about driving." Sometimes, he accidentally follows an elderly Oldsmobile driver to a destination that is not, in fact, his own.)
To top off my day, as if the AssHip and our brush with the recklessly uninsured were not enough, I am also coming down with what is probably the flu, as I have been nauseated and woozy all day, and perhaps a tad feverish. Unless, of course, I can blame that on the progesterone, too? (And, no, it is not three-days-post-transfer pregnancy symptoms, for anyone optimistic enough to say such a thing.)
In closing, if you are a veteran of the AssHip, or have any medical training of any kind, for the love of mercy, I beg you: help me
. I have iced and heated, heated and iced, and it has helped not at all. I cannot, of course, take any kind of pain medication or intravenous vodka, but the AssHip demands something