Last night was the first night of Gonal-f. Watched the complimentary CD showing how gosh darn easy it was to use the pen. Really, it can't be that hard, right? I do have to say, it is a pretty big contraption, and when you have hands that require child-sized gloves (I'm not kidding-big fat fingers, but overall pretty dinky), try to poke and press without pushing the whole thing through your skin. Just a wee bit intimidating.
I assume my usual routine. Alcohol wipes? Check. Injection site picked? Check. Both the bedroom and bathroom doors closed so Husband can't see me? Check. (Don't ask, I just don't do this sort of thing well with an audience.) Proceed to sit in said bathroom for five minutes trying to psych myself up to just stick the damn thing in already!!!! Wimp out, get chastised by Husband for (1) not doing it myself and then (2) breathing too hard because I have managed to work myself up so much that he is now dealing with my stomach moving too much to put it in. He finally does it, I never even felt it go in due to the extremely fine gauge, and I slink back to the bathroom to make my contribution to the family sharps container.
Good God, why did I freeze up like that? I don't know if it was a case of the whole reality of this hitting, as in "oh my God, am I really doing this again? Are we ready for this? Am I ready flor this? Holy crap!...." You get the picture. I aspire to do much better tonight, especially now that I know the needle really is pretty tame. Typical me, work myself up sooo much that my fear far surpasses anything related to the reality of the situation. I really hate that I do that. However, spiraling out of control seems to be a strong suite of mine. Great.
The other thing that this whole thing demonstrated to me is that I can finally put my finger on why I get so irritated with Husband when it comes to stuff like this. First, I should probably preface this with the fact that Husband always, and I mean always has had things worse; pain, any situation, you name it. I don't know why it has to be a competition, but if he's trying to make me feel better, well, it ain't cutting it. I've pointed this out, only to see one great big spectacle of denial. He simply does not know how to just shut up and try to be empathetic. It would have been so great if he had just said that he knew I was a little freaked, and that he would count with me and we'd do it together. Not make me feel worthless and weak because I couldn't do it. I know that the problem is with me, but it doesn't help when he "can't understand" why I was having problems. Like I am the most irrational, stupid, and weak person. Just for the record, it took him 15 minutes to give himself the shot that he takes for his psoriasis the first time. Ah, the joys of selective memory.
This whole incident also brought back why my labor and delivery will not be one of the bright spots either. I'm not talking about the physical aspects, because there is NO way that is a bright spot. What I'm talking about is when I was trying to push my 9lb 2 oz, almost 23 inch long baby who hadn't rotated the way he was supposed to out, with an epidural that had taken away ALL sensation in my legs and perineal area (and the ability to even move anything below my waist) and the urge to push. Did he once say that I was doing OK? No. Did he sympathize when I literally dry-heaved on every push? No. What did he do? He criticized me for not "listening" and not doing what I was told. What? The freaked out nurse wasn't telling me when to push, and in the state that I was in, I couldn't tell from the monitor when it WAS the right time. All I knew was that (1) the epidural had robbed me of the urge, but had stopped working on the contractions and (2) I have never felt so alone in a room full of people before, especially feeling as vulnerable as I did. He thinks that yelling at me will get me to "snap out of it." All it does is make me retreat even further. It's that whole honey and vinegar thing. He does it at work, but apparently, that doesn't apply to me. If I would try to discuss it now, it would all be attributed to hormones. Is this just a chromosomal thing, or is he really that out of it?
I have to admit, this really scares me. What if the same thing happens again? Why can't he just stroke my hair or hold my hand and help me find the courage? Why? Why is that so tough? I think that he has forgotten how tough this whole thing can be; from conception to birth. I know that I haven't.
I guess that turned into a rant, but if anything, I need to remember this so if we actually are successful, I can make it abundantly clear what I need and expect. Either that or he pays for a duola. He's a good guy, he really is, and he can prop me up some days. I just wish it were more on my terms as opposed to exclusively on his. Accept me for my frailties. Starting down this road again has brought them all back, and I really don't want to feel broken again.