The embryos and I are resting comfortably.
They, like their mommy, enjoy turkey burgers and a good nap around lunchtime. It's a leisurely life we three live. And I could get used to this whole bed rest deal.
In all of this luxurious relaxing, I haven't forgotten that I had promised the details of my rather embarrassing moment of realizing I was still wearing my underpants as I sat on the operating table. And in deciding how to describe this in greater detail, it occurred to me that nobody wants to go back and read the details once I've spilled the punchline. Yet here I go, sharing details. Because I love details.
So. My loving husband and I are shuffled into the operating room for the big embryo transfer. He got to look all sexy and Gray's Anatomy-ish in some blue scrubs and face mask. I got to look all nursing home-ish in brown slipper socks, a johnny, and a robe. And let's not forget the powder blue shower cap. The nurse instructs me to sit on the table and pull the johnny out from under my bum. This is getting old hat for me. So I do as she says. And she's chatting away, attaching the big yellow stirrups to the table (these are no normal stirrups, ladies), when I realize that something feels, well, wrong. And I'm all nervous because here's my scrub-sporting husband and we're getting ready for the biggest, most glorified pap smear of my life, and I'm having a hard time figuring out what feels so, so wrong.
And then I realize. It's my cool breeze. It's missing. So in disbelief, I reached down under that johnny just to be sure. And where I expected to hit skin, I hit cotton. And by now, the operating table is all set up. The nurse has the big yellow stirrups waiting. The embryologist is smiling expectantly and I'm pretty sure making eyes at my husband. The doctor is at the back of the room, washing his hands. And I say, sheepishly, "um, I think I'm still wearing my underwear." Either that or my vagina is especially cottony-soft today. And she doesn't blink an eye. Doesn't miss a beat. She says, "oh honey, happens all the time!" (NO, it doesn't. Ask any infertile, and she will tell you that the first thing she does at any appointment is meticulously hide her underwear safely from view. Well doc, joke's on you, cause this time, I decided to hide my woo woo instead.)
So, what else could I do? I looked around the room. At the nurse, the nurse in training, the slutty embryologist, and the hygienic doctor. And I slipped those undies off in two seconds flat, bunched them up into the smallest little wad I could manage, and handed them to my husband with a smile. Who says IVF isn't sexy?