IVF 5: In which I cause trouble

Today I had yet another ultrasound, this one to serve as a baseline for imaging my follicles over the next couple of weeks. Dr. Earnest Resident was plumbing my sparkle hole, while Dr. BigShot watched and grunted. Nurse Blondie was standing by, as of course was devoted Dr Hyde (who longs for the day when they let him run the ultrasound machine--we are both aching to push all the buttons on that sucker).

My ovaries were demurely tucked out of sight, so Dr. Earnest had to press on my abdomen as she moved the ultrasound wand at odd angles to get a glimpse of the follicles. “1, 2, 3…” she counted through my right ovary. When she hit “..11, 12…,” Nurse Blondie gave me an “aren’t you the impressive egg-layer” sort of look. The combination of the relief that I was producing plenty of follicles, the funny smirky smile on Nurse Blondie’s face, and the vaguely tickly feeling on my abdomen--I burst out laughing.

What happens when you laugh? Well, all your abdominal muscles tighten up. Dr. Earnest, who had been intent on the ultrasound screen, gave a startled “Ooh!” and scooted backwards as her hand flew off my now-rigid stomach, as though she were worried I had somehow ruptured mid-exam.

Then we all had a good chuckle. After everyone stopped laughing, Dr. Earnest had to restart the counting--it’s not like she could hold her place. This should have calmed me down, but instead I was beset by a horrid fit of the giggles. It was all I could do not to laugh some more, particularly after she re-counted my twelfth right follicle. I tried to think of sad things (dead puppies?) but the giggles are the giggles, and this was probably their least efficent follicle-counting mission ever. Not to mention when she switched over to the left side, and once again we reached 12--I was squirming with suppressed laughter, and Dr E eventually gave up after 14, saying to Nurse Blondie, “Let’s just call it 15+.”

I have to have perhaps four or five more follicle-measuring ultrasounds before they go in to retrieve the eggs (for which I will be anesthetized--and after today's performance, they'll probably want me two degrees warmer than dead). If the giggles recur, I will need to start bringing a Russian novel to the stirrups.