...and I'm pregnant. Like, really pregnant. I took a test two days after that last post and saw a line. Faint, but there. The second lines kept getting darker and darker with each new test and each passing day. I went in for my first blood draw and it came in at 402. (They wanted to see a number of 100 or more. I sure showed them!) Then I went back again the day before yesterday for a routine, 2nd blood draw. They want to see the first number double every 2-3 days. I did them one better: I damn near trippled it! The results came back at 6483. (If it had doubled every 2 days, it would have been in the 3500 range)
Which leads me to believe that there is more than one Andrea-Jeff hybrid in there. And let me tell you how glad I am that the number is that high. Sure, for the obvious reason that it indicates a viable pregnancy, but because my symptoms kicked full-freaking-force in about 2-ish days after that first positive hpt. I was worried that I was just being a drama queen about the symptoms, but the high level of hCG let me know that it's not (all) in my head. I know the progesterone shots make me tired, but I was beyond tired. Like, think of Lance Armstrong doing back to back Tour de France races. That tired.
Also, I developed a sixth sense. No, no dead people involved, but this sense can't be categorized as "smell" because there's a supernatural and superhuman component to it. For example, I can smell what you had for dinner.
Ok, not really, but did you know that couches have a scent? As does paper? And if I can smell those things, you can be sure that the smell of the dog kibble bin in the garage, the boys' morning breath, the trash can, and egg no*gag* (sorry, I can't even type that without wanting to vomit) are a million times stronger. I've joked that I want to get a job freelancing as a CSI bloodhound. I can put those puppies to shame.
And I am proud to report that I have not complained about a single symptom thus far. Well, I did complain once, but I had a very valid reason. See, I can't look at an avo*gag*do without wanting to spew. I was supposed to make gua*gag*amole to bring to a family gathering on Christmas Eve, but the idea of mashing the avo*gag*dos was more than I could bare. This is so very wrong because I am a Californian and it is a requirement that I love avo*gag*dos. And I do. On grilled steak, mashed into heavenly perfection and served with chips, on all Mexican dishes, you name it, I want it served with avo*gag*dos.
Or, at least I did.
But other than that, there has been no complaining. I'm more than happy to be tired, I'm more than happy to have superhuman smelling powers, I'm even more than happy to toss my cookies about once a day. My favorite parts about puking (no really, I'm being serious here...I have favorite parts of the event) are when:
1. Mid vom, Jeff says, very sweetly might I add, from the other side of the bathroom door, "Are you ok? Can I get you anything?"
and 2. When the fun is over and I exit the oval office, he's waiting for me, grinning ear to ear, hand in the air to give me a high five. I have my own, personal vomit cheerleader.
I love that man.
So anyhow, there ya go. I'm one of the luckiest people I know and got knocked up (with most likely more than one spawn) on my very first shot (pun totally intended) of IVF/ICSI. Jeff has to go to China for a freaking month, so my awesome IVF nurse moved up our first ultrasound to the day before he leaves. We should know how many aliens are in the Mother Ship by Monday afternoon.
Until then, have a wonderful New Year!