My morning poke

Big B reached into our dwindling supply of progesterone the other day and he declared that we were "out of needles." Whaaaaaa? Apparently our drug provider of choice failed to put enough in our last refill. So, calling our friendly 24-hour pharmaceutical provider hotline, I was able to get a prescription for needles called into our local pharmacy. Except not the pharmacy by our house, oh no, but the one 10 miles away. But hey, that's okay - we'll do anything for our daily dose of hive-inducing progesterone in sesame oil. LOVE the way that stuff feels goin' in. Mmmmm, mmmm. Can't get enough. Especially at five in the morning.

As we pick up the syringes and needles, I notice that they're completely different colors than our last ones. And the numbers on the packages were really small (meaning really BIG needles). I asked the pharmacy, "are these the right needles? they look really big!" She replied back, "they're the right needles if you're a horse. They are very big." Since I am not a horse, although my arse is so big that I may look like a horse from the rear, we got things kind of straightened out. However, the syringes are actually too small so the oil can't get sucked up into the syringe without a lot of conniving.

There's a few things I really look forward to at my morning poke:

• The bonding time with my husband. It really brings us close together as he searches my ever-expanding derriere for a spot that has less cottage cheese and more, ahem, muscle. Sometimes it takes awhile and we get to chat about all kinds of topics like politics, our bosses, the meaning of our lives (at five in the morning).
• Having a warm, wet washcloth applied to my bum. Especially when it isn't wrung out and it drips down my, err, great divide, and makes a big wet mess of my undies and pj's.
• The left side. For whatever reason, my left "bum" is a lot more sensitive. I can feel every drop of that wonderful concoction going in.
• The Deep Breathing that I get to practice. Especially on the left side.
• The exit. Every, and I mean every time BigB takes the needle out, it hurts like a mother. I dread the exit. Loathe the exit. It feels like he's grinding it around, but he swears he's pulling it straight out.

I'll really miss the morning poke. Really.

Moment of Truth

I was such a wreck today. But dang, I got a lot of work done. It's amazing what you can plow through when you're trying to stay busy to keep your mind occupied. By the time 3 o'clock rolled around, I could hardly walk - my knees were shaking so badly.

Big B met me at the Drs office. We had to wait in the exam room for 15 minutes before the doc came. It's pretty humbling sitting on an exam table, naked from the waist down, in front of your husband. "Dontcha think this look is sexy? Would you like me to wear one of these at home?"

The doc came in and she was in a black suit. The kind you wear for a job interview. Ummm...where was the white lab coat? It was totally disconcerting. I felt like I should be pontificating my weaks and strengths as she got busy with the magic wand. I made myself look at that looming screen. I needed it to be over with. And, wouldn't you know, there was a little blinking light. A heartbeat. I'd heard about it - but never seen it. It was truly unbelievable. I sat dumbfounded as she poked around and determined that everything to appeared to be in the right place, the right size, and the right rate. There were no tears, just disbelief. "b-b-b-but I haven't had any symptoms in five days!", I stammered. "Oh, I hear that all the time. Just wait a few days." She handed me a little printout of the tiny little bean and told me to go see an OB in three weeks. I think Big B had to put my pants back on for me and lead me out of the office. Praise God from whom ALL blessings flow. I just keep saying that, over and over.

Can we just skip tomorrow?

I have totally worked myself into a frenzy. My first ultrasound is Wednesday afternoon. I have convinced myself that we aren't going to see anything. My symptoms have diminished - hardly any nausea, less twinges and pings in my uterus. Boobs are still hurting - but not as horribly, either. And, yes, I know that not everyone has symptoms, and they change from day to day, blah blah blah. But I feel different than a week ago.

I pretty much laid on the couch all weekend and did nothing. Just slept and watched horrible movies. I'm totally depressed. Of course, my close friends and family have been through this with me before, so they aren't so ready to jump on the, "it's going to be just fine" bandwagon. I think they think the worst, too. And Big B doesn't want to even entertain the idea, let alone talk about it.

I am dreading tomorrow's appointment. I don't want to go. I've been bursting into tears at random, and can just imagine what tomorrow will bring. Big B says to imagine the best case scenario, not the worst. I wish I could.

Major Queen Itch

I got to spend the day with my mom today, which was super cool. I actually really like hanging out with her, and we rarely get to do it.  She agreed to assist me in the herculean task of finding a new butt cradle (i.e. couch).  Bless her heart. 

At one point, she cocks her head and says, "why do you keep scratching your ass?" She didn't really say ass. She said bottom. But lets face facts. Its not my bottom, its my ass, and she had caught me red-handed, hand down pants, scratching it. 

So I explained to her about my PIO-induced hives. I had thought my dogs had sprouted a new epidemic of invisible fleas, but after some google-oogleing, found out that it was probably hives from the PIO. Lovely. They are huge welts, and itch insanely. 

I have been caught by more than my mom. Co-workers, librarians, uncles, Thai-take-out-dude have all experienced my ass-grabbing. I now do it so often, that I don't even know that I'm doing it. It's a naturally occurring phenomenon. I will have a conversation with you, and my hand will gravitate toward my backside and just start a rubbin'. It feels sooooogooooooooood. I do try to keep my hands outside my pants, but sometimes,  in the privacy of my home or amongst family, I will admit that nothing will separate my hands from my bare hive-covered buttocks.

Let Me Introduce Myself

I'm borrowing this intro idea from Liddy over at The Unfair Struggle. I don't know if I've ever truly introduced myself on my blog, so, here goes nothin'!

My name is Kandi. Well, it's not really Kandi. That was my nickname until I went to college. At that point I deducted that Kandi would really only be a good name if I was choosing a profession in porn, stripping, or prostitution*. And, since my college offered none of those degrees, I would have to make a switch to the full name, Esmerelda. Just kidding. It's Kandace. My family and friends from high school still call me Kandi. No one else gets to. Except for blog readers. Because, heck, anyone who takes the time to listen to me bitch and complain about my struggles with life and infertility can call me whatever-the-hell-they-want (except Whiney Bitch, please). As long as they keep listening.

Which leads me to my story of struggling with infertility. Apparently, I never clued-in to the fact that as women get older, they produce less and less eggs, and the ones they produce aren't quite as "fresh" as might be required for baby making. I only thought my chances of having a baby with some sort of genetic problem would increase. So, I followed my dreams and chased that corporate ladder and glass ceiling - having a blast the whole time. I wasted most of my twenties with a guy who swore he would never get married or have kids (which both have happened in the past year for him), and moved from coast to coast (twice) by myself having fun as only a single girl can.

Finally, beginning to hear the faint rumblings of my internal Big Ben, I moved back to my home city when I was 33. Found Mr Right (or Big B as I like to call him) when I was 34, got married when I was 35 and started TTC when I was 36. Just in time, right? Naaaaaa. My eggs were already dusty and crusty.

After six months of stupid ovulation charts and temperates (and NEVER seeing an ovulation), we went through every imaginable test and straight to IUIs - 5 of them. 4 failing, and one sticking only to miscarry in my 10th week. After that, on to a second mortgage and IVF. The first one apparently worked as we got our betas back just two weeks ago. We're trying to remain calm until our first US next week.

As for me, I love to bake cakes for friends and co-workers. And cooking in gereral. And I love photography - I even have a somewhat ironic side biz taking baby, children and sr photos. I have strong faith in God and try to incorporate that into every area of my life (Jesus drank wine, right? And swore from time to time?). And, apparently, I like to write.

Whew. That was a lot. If you stuck through the whole post you get a Gold Star.

*please note that if your name is Kandi, Candy, Candi, or Kandy, don't get mad at me for my connotation of our shared name. It just wasn't for me. I couldn't pull it off. PLUS my maiden name happened to be a slang word for "puke." I got tired of hearing, "I ate so much Kandi I xxxxed !" Not a good way to spend your school days.

Are your ears burning?

So, yesterday morning, my co-worker walks into my office and shuts the door.

Uh - oh. Somethin' big must be going down for door-shuttin' time.

She whispers to me, "I was talking with vendorX, and she said that she was talking to another guy here at work who told her that you were pregnant."

Are you following? So, a vendor is told by someone else that works for my company (but in a different department) that I'm pregnant. She, in turn, passes along said intel to another person in my company (in my same department), who then comes to me.

The good news is the person who came to me already knew. She's the one person in my office I confided in. And whom I completely trust would never ever spill the beans to anyone.

The bad news is that after just two weeks of seeing the ever-elusive double pink line, my "secret" is somehow common knowledge being passed about by practical strangers! At the coffee stand: "Would you like non-fat or soy with your latte?" "Soy. Oh, and have you heard that the woman in marketing is pregnant?"

I mean, for a vendor, whom I hardly ever work with, to casually chat about it to one of my co-workers? This means the guy who told her must not think anything about spreading "the news"around willy-nilly - and that no "top secret" code was given to him when someone decide to bless him with gossip fodder.

I was so pissed. There was definitely some steam coming out of my ears.

How Did This Happen? We hardly know that we're pregnant...we haven't even seen/heard the heartbeat. Plus my FE said we didn't need a 3rd Beta. So, as exciting as the news is, its not something we're casually passing around as common knowledge until at least the second trimester which isn't until December.

I went directly to the source - the guy who spilled the beans.

Me: Hey, guess what I heard? I heard from Suzy that she heard from Sally that you told her I was pregnant!
Him: Oh, really? I said that? I don't remember saying that.
Me: She definitely said she heard it from you.
Him: I didn't even know you were pregnant!!
Me: Then why did she say she heard it from you?
Him: Well...I think I was speculating that you were.
Me: Speculating? I know I've gained some weight in the past six months...
Him: No! I never look at things like that. I just knew you and Big B were trying and I speculated that you were.
Me: Well...can you NOT speculate any more? This isn't information that we're sharing with people. We just found out ourselves and with everything that has happened over the years we need to wait until we're good and ready.
Him: Oh, yeah. I won't talk about it anymore. I won't even tell my wife.

Speculating? You speculate that your stocks are going to go up. You speculate that dinosaurs existed. You speculate that gossiping about your co-worker is going to get you into some hot poo poo.

Let's just take this little soap opera a little further. I happen to have another friend whom I've bragged about in other posts. She's awesome and I'm lucky to have her as a friend. I also work with her. And her husband. They know all about me and Big B. Probably more than they ever wanted to know. They swore up and down that they wouldn't share our news with anyone. Me thinks her dear hubby went over to said blabbermouths house (they happen to be friends), had a few brewskis while playing X.Box, and let the lips loose. So, I had to have a little chat with her, too. Talk about damage control.

The biggest thing I worry about, is that everyone at work finds out, including my boss. And if something does go wrong with the pregnancy, I have to face everyone, all day, every day.

Am I over reacting?

Show and Tell

I thought I'd bring my two-headed dog to Show & Tell this week. Whaaa? A Two-Headed Dog you say? Yes, my two headed dog:

This is Charlie, my 9 month old Boston Terrier and his second head, Lucy. We came across them one day and decided that Charlie had either eaten Lucy and was trying to "pass" her, or he was giving birth to a puppy, or perhaps they morphed into one, two-headed dog, that we now affectionately call, "Charlcy."

Apparently Lucy had no problem with her little brother (who is now bigger than she) completely covering her entire body. She continued snoring and seemed not concerned.

Let's go back to the beginning, shall we? I got Lucy four years ago - when I was still a swingin' single. I had the sweet condo downtown and all I needed was a cute puppy to attract all the hotties in the neighborhood. Lucy weighed 2 pounds when I brought her home. She fit in the palm of my hand.

She laughs when you tickle her tummy. It's awesome.

She saw this police horse in the neighborhood, recognized the familiar black and white markings as her own, and asked the horse, "are you my mother?"

We welcomed Charlie into the clan last March. He was a consolation prize after the miscarriage. I needed something small to love and mother.

We soon realized that Charlie was alpha dog. So did Lucy. Thus the two-headed "Charlcy."

I hope everyone has a friend like this

Last night we went to a surprise bday party for my friend's husband. We didn't know too many people, but it was still fun. This girlfriend, "C", is my only close friend who has gone through fertility treatments. She even miscarried about the same time as I did - but she went through a partial molar pregnancy with trophoblastic disease, which has to be the absolute most horrible thing ever. Talk about rubbing salt into a wound. But "C" has been so great about everything. She's the one who is happy for me, even when I can't be happy (yet) for myself. She always asks how I'm feeling, and responds, "that's how I felt with my first!" There's something very comforting in someone believing in your pregnancy, despite all the caution. She also knows those cautions and still has joy for you. It's hard to explain, but there's a difference between "stupid clueless joy" (not having any idea what you've gone through or what the risks and complications of fertility treatments are at 38!) vs. "been there done that but I still have hope and joy for you." 

So few people actually know that this thing worked (at least for the moment) and that I'm walking around pregnant, worried sick that I'm doing or have done something to ruin it, or that it's disappeared and I wont see anything on the ultrasound in two weeks. Those who do know, know better than to be ecstatic yet, and so are kind of waiting in silence - just like me. For this one person to be happy for me, and have joy, and be positive despite it all. And, I know, that if it, God forbid, doesn't happen to turn out like I hope and dream, she'll still be there for me. Okay, there's tears all over my laptop. I better stop before I shortcircuit something. 

Cake Wrecks

One of my favorite blogs, Cake Wrecks, just won Best Humor in the Blogger's Choice Awards. This site just makes my day. I LOVE to make cakes. I believe it is my second calling in life (I still haven't figured out what my first one is). There's something about making a cake for someone that just warms my cockles. My cakes are the generic, normal, but totally from scratch variety. I don't decorate them...just frost. But the cakes on this blog are decorated. And NOT in a good way, IYKWIM.

I just have to share a recent posting. At first glance, its a sweetly decorated cake for a baby shower. But look closer:

The baby is coming out of a woman's stomach. Like a piece of shrapnel. I really don't know anything about birthing or C-sections, but this isn't what I envisioned it would look like.

And the woman has no head or arms. But, thankfully, she is in a nice, pink leotard. The baby looks pretty happy - not all pink and red and wrinkly like most other newborns.

Makes me wonder if the baker has no idea at all what happens during birth, or perhaps she has popped out a few of her own but has successfully blocked all memories and morphed them into a pink and lavender happy place where your head is successfully separated from all the stress and pain.

Where's Emily Post when you need her?

I'm all in angst. I'm supposed to have dinner with a friend tonight and I'm totally dreading it. This is the friend who is married to my husbands best friend. This is the friend who got pregnant on their first month out of the gate trying, just three months after my miscarriage. This is the friend I've totally been avoiding.like.the.plague.

I know I'm avoiding her because of the Big Elephant In The Room. You know the one, right? That she (probably) feels bad because she got pregnant immediately and we've been trying forever. So we don't talk about her pregnancy - we ignore that topic. Or do we? Will she go on and on about every little thing so much that I start gagging on my salad? I'm sure she'll bring up how much she misses me, and that she and her hubby really want to be a support for us, blah blah blah.

What do I do? What do I say? And to complicate things, Big B (my hubby) is dying to tell his best friend (her husband) about our latest news. After all, it is his best friend. Shouldn't he get to tell someone? I don't want Big B to tell him. Because then he'll tell her. And then she'll make a big deal about it and probably tell all of our other friends. I don't want her to know because she doesn't know what it's like to be sitting on pins and needles. To hold your breath for weeks on end, waiting for that other shoe to drop. I don't want to piss on her parade just because mine's been rained on over and over. Ya know?

I do want to be happy for her. I really do. I know its something I have to work on and get over. I can't live my life alienating one friend after another because they get pregnant or have a baby, or already have babies, or are wanting more babies, or tired of the babies they have. I'm getting all teary-eyed thinking about this. I really want to cancel. I don't don't don't want to do this.

If you could only have 5

So you're stranded on a deserted island, and can only have five things. You've played this game before? What if it was foods? What five foods would you want to be stuck on an island with? Think Lost, without all those hatches of weirdly packaged containers of peanut butter and candy bars.

Here's mine:

• Good white crusty Artisan bread (baked fresh every day, of course)
• White wine (Pinot Gris from the Willamette Valley)
• Cheese (preferably a tray of all kinds, but if I have to choose one, probably Beecher's Flagship)
• Kalamata Olives (pits removed, please!)
• Greek Pizza (artichoke hearts, feta cheese, sundried tomatoes, maybe some chicken)

I know. Strange. No chocolate! BFF and I played this and we decided that it was a tropical island and that there would be copious amounts of fruit, like mangoes and pineapple. Otherwise there would definitely be some sort of fruit on the list. Gotta keep things movin', *if ya know what I mean.*

What are your fave five?

Open 24 hours for Hurling

Just sayin'...this whole 24-hours a day vommitty feeling had better be worth something. Dammit. The only time I feel like I haven't caught some stomach virus, ate at a crappy restaurant, or stayed up drinkin' way too late last night, is when I've got something sliding down my gullet. Doesn't matter what it is...just something. I went to the c-store by my office today and bought Nilla Wafers, Cheese Nips, Pop Tarts, pretzels, and a rice crispy treat. Thank gawd I didn't eat them all at once. I just know the guy sitting in the office next to me was thinking, "geesh, how much is she going to eat?" Screw him. Maybe I'll sneak into his office in the morning and puke in his waste basket.

Bulk sized fear and tiny glimmers of hope

We went to CostcHo today - why do we subject ourselves to the torture?? I practically hyperventilate when we turn into the parking lot. It's a complete zoo. My blood pressure starts its steady climb as I watch a ten-car backup develop as some lazy ass waits & waits for that perfect parking spot near the front door. Or the way life and limb is risked just trying to enter the frickin' place. All these people are coming out at breakneck speeds, so they can hurry home and break into their jumbo-sized premade Caesar salad and chicken bake.

Yet we go back. Again and again. Never escaping without at least a $200 bill - and there's only two of us! Even with a list in hand and nerves of steel, we still find our xtra large cart full of things we had no idea we needed.

"Honey, are we out of granola bars?"

"No, I checked before we left. We're outta paper towels, though."

"Just think, in eight months we could be buying these huge crates of diapers and wipes. And formula. Are we low on soy milk?"

The 2nd beta looked good. It doubled. Just. They don't want to see me back for two weeks. I'm trying to remain calm. We want to be happy, but no longer naive to the fact there's still a lot of hurdles to cross. We're being cautiously optimistic. There's random baby comments peppering our conversations, but we're not running out to buy strollers or pick colors for the nursery. I'm just too freaked out. Just one day at a time, right? Trying not to dwell on fetal poles or sacs or heartbeats. I honestly think this is way worse than the two week wait. We should be dancing in the streets and the happiest people on the planet - but we're just too scared. Too worried. I don't think we'll ever feel secure until that baby is safe in our arms.

I'm in love with Ch-ch-ch-chi(a)

I got a new thingy in the mail yesterday. It's a CH.I flatiron. It has changed my life. My hairdresser used it on me about a week ago when I got a new cut and color and oh my gawd I was a changed woman. It was not soccer-mom me(without the soccer or the mom part), but some sleek, coiffed, bad-assed babelicious. I tried recreating the moment with my old flat iron, but it did NOT work. At all. Convinced that I needed the exact recipe my stylist used, I when on a spending spree: new iron, new conditioner, new styling creme. Big B nearly had a heart attack - "I thought we were on a budget lockdown!" Whaaaa. Maybe for him. But not for me and my self-indulgent and self-gratifying needs!

It really did make a difference. Even the cutie-patootie (very young) graphic designer in my office commented on how "awesome" my hair looked. So...worth every penny in my book. What I didn't know when buying the thing, was that there were choices.


You could choose the camo-in-pink option:

Or the designer bag option:

I went for the plain ol' version. I am fairly mesmerized by it, though. It makes my hair feel super soft and not all rosanna-anna-danna. I could easily see myself morphing into "one of those girls" who totes the thing to work with her for a little afternoon delight of mid-day flattening.

And, just for the record... got my beta back. 200. It's a positive. The night before I had the worst cramps. I just knew AF would be banging on my door any second. But we POAS anyway. My jaw dropped about two feet when the second line came up almost immediately. Crazy.

combustible gas with a scoop of rocky road

Any Heroes fans? I am so lost. 

Note to self: do not read blogs or play mahjong while trying to watch Heroes.

And...don't feed dogs pretzel sticks before favorite tv show. It's hard to concentrate with lethal farts aimed in your general direction. Running from the room with your hand over your nose does nothing for following a story line. How can 12 pounds produce such a copious amount of stinky gas?

My beta is supposed to be on Thursday. I haven't made an appointment yet. I don't want to. Do I have to? Can't I just wait and see what happens? I don't want to know. I'd rather just sit in this pool of dread like every other month for the past year and a half and just wait for the inevitable to begin. I know I'm not pregnant because:

Pregnancy Symptoms Checklist

Sore boobs = NO

Frequent urination = NO

Super tired = NO

craving ice cream = YES (but I've been craving ice cream since I was three so that probably doesn't count).

How can I possibly crave ice cream when I've got enough deadly gas in this room to probably kill a few brain cells? How? How is that even possibly appetizing? Yet I crave it. Rocky Road.

St. Gerard's the MAN

My dear friend sent me the sweetest gift today...it's a St. Gerard prayer card and medal. For those who don't know St. Gerard, he's the (Catholic) patron Saint of children (unborn children in particular), childbirth, mothers (especially expectant mothers), and motherhood. 

(It's kinda ironic that the patron saint of all things mother is a man, dontcha think? He must have been a pretty sensitive guy -very in touch with his feminine side.) I'm not Catholic, so the whole idea of having a dead guy pray for me is a little weird, but I'm intrigued just the same. Apparently there's St. Gerard festivals all over the world - an entire festival around fertility! And motherhood! And babies! . They have a HUGE one at St. Lucy's in Newark. It's every year and thousands of people come for the merriment:

 There's a parade with the St:

And a feast with traditional Italian festival fare for all the ivf mamma wanna-be's all hopped up on synthetic hormones (mmmmmm.....zeppoles!):

This is a serious party, people! Fun! Laughter! Frivolity! Food! Frosty beverages! Merriment! Joy! There's a special "Blessing of Women Praying to Conceive" and another "Blessing of Expectant Mothers." Society usually hides fertility/infertility, it's something whispered about, hid, shared with a few close friends (or few hundred bloggers). It's refreshing to see how people come together to honor motherhood and put on a party!

I've never been. But this year's is in a few weeks. If I can find a cheap flight, I think I'm going. I'll either need some cheering up or will be needing to put in some serious prayers of thanks to the Big Guy.

Here's St. Gerry's prayer, in case you're interested:

O  good St. Gerard, powerful intercessor before God and Wonder-worker of our day, 

I call upon thee and seek thy aid. Thou who on earth didst always fulfill God's design,

help me to do the Holy Will of God. Beseech the Master of Life, 

from Whom all paternity proceedeth to render me fruitful in offspring, 

that I may raise up children to God in this life and heirs 

to the Kingdom of His glory in the world to come. Amen.

Fashion Not-Nista

....fall is here.

I usually welcome it with open arms. What could be better than big fuzzy sweaters and warm socks? My body type was definitely created with the colder seasons in mind. I've never been a big fan of exposing my skin, I'd rather just cover it up.

This fall, as I'm dragging my warm clothes from under the bed and from the storage room, I'm finding stuff just a little too snug. And these are the clothes I bought last fall because all my others were too tight. Uh oh. I am totally blaming this on all the fertility meds and months of reading deeply into the "no vigorous exercise" and "stay off your feet" attached to one year of nearly back to back treatments. Am I justified? I think so!

So, my clothes don't fit. And I don't want to buy any because I HOPE AND PRAY that I'll be needing to buy maternity clothes pretty damn quick. This leaves me with a few skirts and pants for work that aren't particularly comfy and definitely aren't the cutting edge of fashion.

Have I mentioned that I work on a college campus? I have huge windows in my office where I get to see a daily, day-long parade of 18-22 year-olds flaunting their tiny waistlines and hot off the runway outfits (its an expensive private school - daddy has big pockets). I'm not even sure I can pull off the fashion trends. Like this one:

Does any one else have doubts about ankle boots with skirts? It just seems wrong. Or am I just showing my age? I did have someone ask if my intern was my daughter (whaaaaa? She's 24!!!).

My No-Herb Garden

I had my first experience with Chinese medicine today. Upon referral from another fertility-challenged friend, I visited Dr. J Acupuncture & Herbs. The name seemed kinda sketch...when I think of herbs, I think more of making a rub for our Thanksgiving turkey than a cure for my barren womb tomb.

I was ushered into an examining room, and Dr. J, who was just the sweetest gal ever, immediately launches into a round of 21 questions about cycle days, meds, numbers, grades. I was totally impressed - I don't know what I thought...that she got her creds from the internet?But she's the real deal. She said she was going to treat me as if I was pregnant (I loved that! I almost kissed her right there). Then she looked at my tongue (apparently I'm lactose intolerant), took my pulse, and tapped my belly. She stuck a needle in my forehead, three in my belly, and a couple in my feet. It didn't hurt at all.

She told me all about how the female channel runs from your cooter up to your mouth. She explained that this phase (implantation) is like a seed planted in the spring, you don't want a big storm that disrupts it - but rather that it should be guarded and kept very still (no herbs for me and apparently no sex). She had me lie in the dark, with some awesome Chinese medicine music playing in the background (where do I get that CD?), and meditate on the little seed in the garden of my womb. I was out in like two seconds. She came in a few times and checked my pulse (to make sure I was still alive? To make sure I wasn't doing aerobics while she was out of the room?) It was the best nap I've had in a LONG time. Ultimately she put my hour of relaxation to an end came in and pulled out the needles, and said she'd see me again in two days and I can't wait.