Just how sneaky can old father time be?
This evening brings the end of cycle day 23. That means, going on history, of which we have a month, or two, or twenty four, that we have three to five days before this cycle ends and the red menace sails into port.
What that haggard old vessel doesn’t realise is that this time, we’re waiting for her.
We’ve lulled the wench into a false sense of security, she’ll sail through the mist towards land expecting to see us ashore pulling hair and gnashing teeth. She’s in for some shock when she sees us with our feet up, in stirrups.
Of course she may never turn up, which is always preferable and possible. Improbable mind, but possible.
Today we took possession of the whole set of medication for the upcoming IUI cycle. Of course the pharmacy has made a liar out of me regarding my statement that we wouldn’t need to pay a single penny.
We had to pay out of pocket for the plastic syringes.
Bizarrely, not the days of clomid, nor the pregnyl, nor the powders, but just the plastic syringe. That’s 40 cents we hadn’t budgeted for.
It’s a curious sensation to not dread the coming days, sitting here listening for the sound of a flushing toilet, waiting for the bad news. ET can piss away to her heart’s content this week without being afraid to look down.
Urinary vertigo is what she’s had for 2 years now.
So, by next Monday, and the end of a delightfully metric 25th cycle, we’ll either be ecstatic to know that we have a bun in the oven, or that we’ve drugs in the fridge.