Week 3 of down-regulation. Oh look, let’s not beat around the bush. I loathe, loathe, loathe everything about buserelin.
Bad things about buserelin
- Head of fuzz.
- Temper of barbed wire.
- Patience of toddler.
- Hot flushes.
- Reduced interest in Great British Bake Off.
Good things about buserelin
- Absolutely nothing.
Well, all right, I can see that this isn’t quite the outpouring of positivity and hope that it should be. On a less miserable note: it’s all going quite quickly; the injections are a piece of piss this time round; no household appliances have been damaged; everyone is still alive.
Down-reg scan on Friday. Prior to that: my thirty ninth birthday. Let my 40s kindly be the years where I do not have to self-inject synthetic hormones.
Leaving all the crap to one side for a moment, I am actually finding this part hard. This is probably mostly due to the incompatibility of my constant desire to lie in bed and pull the duvet over my head with the more pressing demands of e.g. the Nipper, work, etc. However, I am also forcibly reminded of the last cycle and its unsatisfactory outcome, especially as, had all gone well, I would have been due this week.
Still, nobody likes a wallower, so best pull myself together and concentrate on important things, e.g. the long overdue (and fanciful) escalation of my music career when H presents me with a USB midi keyboard for my birthday on Thursday, if the confessions I have extracted under duress are accurate. Now that has perked me up.