Man alive, these hormone shots will be the death of me.

I started them last Thursday, Day Three of my cycle. Now, giving them isn�t a problem. I only have to remember to carry out of Stabbing of Me away from The Boy, who cannot even watch me measuring out of the elixir, swabbing the needle and my already considerable belly with an alcohol wipe and tap-tap-tapping the shaft of the needle to ensure I don�t kill myself with an air bubble. Last night, I began idly wondering if this squeamish behaviour is, in fact, a precursor of the squeamishness to come. Heaven help me if that�s the case.

The problem is my reaction to the serum. Our caseworker Meghan, a wonderfully upbeat person, assured me the side effects were few and far between. Then I read the helpful sheet that the pharmacy sends home with your scrip. Yikes. Friday morning dawned with clouds, a skiff of snow and an annoying headache. By the time I got to the office, looking at my monitor just wasn�t going to happen. Lisa (my ride back home to an isolated washroom) was late getting in, and by the time she hit the door I was rocking back and forth, making noises that scared Joan, the other phone lady.

The rest of the day was mostly a blur of porcelain, ginger ale and Bailey. My little dog has a way of knowing when I�m in considerable pain and she gets all matronly; it�s very cute. The closed door of the bedroom irked her to no end, so she camped out between the bedroom and the washroom so she would at least get to see that I was still alive between bouts of projectile vomiting. I only wish she had opposable thumbs so she could have given me a wee neck rub.

Saturday, I was somewhat recovered although mightily dehydrated. I managed to get the things together the dinner party I�d been planning since November, even though only one out of four of my guests were well enough to attend. *sigh* There were times I could feel the PMS Monster rising up inside me, urging me to take someone�s comment (usually The Boy�s) in the wrong way, but I managed to fight it down successfully. Thank heavens the only attendee was my best friend of 29 years and she knows I�m medicating so all was good.

Since then, it�s been like the usual 9-12 hours of PMS I enjoy before the Crimson Wave hits has been stretched out like a huge blob of Silly Putty, stretching to cover almost this entire week. I always have to think about what�s coming out of my mouth and find myself fighting back the tears at even the silliest of offhand comments. I hate this. And this isn�t even the joy of pregnancy, kids. I don�t know if I�m strong enough, I really don�t.

See now, I was going to regale you all with the menu from Saturday night and all I�ve done it whinge and moan. I promise, I will get to it. Right after I run out of Puregon.

Posted at 4:01 p.m.