You’ve taken prescription drugs before, right? For the most part, they do what they’re supposed to do. But every once in awhile, you get the privilege of taking a medication that has the kind of side effects that leave you feeling like you just came off a roller coaster in hell where angry people threw heavy objects at your head for fun.
No? Just me? Well then clearly, you’ve never taken fertility drugs.
About two weeks ago, I started taking a drug called “Provera,” which, in layman’s terms, sends signals to the woman’s uterus that it’s time to start a cycle. This drug doesn’t send those signals quietly. Oh no. It launches your hormones into overdrive, sending you into the ugly cry over the fact that you think you *may* have just hit a ladybug with your car, even though your husband assures you that you probably didn’t since the car is still in park. Worst yet, for the first several hours after I took the pill, I would have this foggy, unfocused feeling.
Donnie Wahlberg could have been standing in my living room wearing fig leaves and playing the ukulele, and I seriously wouldn’t have noticed. I spent most of those 10 days staring off into space, wondering where my mind had wandered off to (usually to daydreaming about Donnie Wahlberg wearing fig leaves and playing the ukulele.)
***For those DW fans, I am apologizing here for not drawing him in said fashion. I’d like to think that someday, he’ll want to be my friend, and I don’t want to offend him off gate.***
Once the Provera, and cycle, come to an end, it’s time to take pill #2. Enter–Clomid. This happy little pill tells a woman’s ovaries to release eggs, which increases a couple’s chance of getting pregnant. If you thought the Hazy Abby with Awesome Daydreams was fun, wait till you meet Mega-Hormonal Abby on Clomid.
Brian and I would argue about Clomid’s worst side effect. I say, without a shadow of a doubt, that the hot flashes associated with this drug are AWFUL. First, my ears start to burn. Then my entire face gets red and feels like it’s going to pop off like an over-filled thermometer. By the time the heat creeps to my neck, I’m ready to move to Antarctica, where I plan to bathe in the frigid waters with glee. All I can do is sit back, let the wave take its natural course, and pray that the AC stays on long enough to get me through the 15 minutes of sweat-inducing, swear-inducing flash.
Unfortunately, the rest of my little family has to live in the igloo that is our house throughout the course of treatment. Brian has taken to wearing hoodies and socks, as well as staying bundled up beneath our thickest afghan, to battle the sub zero temps in our living room. However, he does so without a single complaint, even with icicles hanging off his nose.
For him, though, I think the worst side effect is watching me go through the mood swings. I can be telling him a joke one minute, complaining about politics the next, and in ten minutes time, I’ll be sobbing my eyes out about my lack of Word Press skills. The most fun ones, though, are the ones where I get angry. One little thing—something left in the middle of the floor that causes me to trip, an item that I need not being in the place it’s meant to be when I go to find it, an asinine comment on Facebook (by someone who’s comments are always asinine, therefore usually expected.) And suddenly, my Clomid-driven rage monster emerges.
I have to fight down the urge to break things, roar at the top of my She-Hulk voice, and eliminate all threats to my safety. However, I usually allow myself to slam around, say mean things loudly, and rant until the feeling passes—and all the while, thinking to myself that it’s the Clomid reacting to the situation, not myself.
The honest truth, though, is that if these pills work, I’ll be over-the-moon happy about it. Obviously. We’ll all throw a party and dance the Happy Fertility Drugs dance. It’s all about the destination, not the journey–even if the journey is filled with pretty colors and hot flashes and rage.