My fleshy needlepoint hobby has taken a rather interesting turn. And when I say interesting, I mean shithouse.
It’s taken a year and about 32,089,014 injections of every size, shape and level of bastardry imaginable but I think finally I’ve met my nemesis. This absolute prick of a medication is the latest form of infertility torture that Dr. Sickboy has come up with to entertain himself.
Clearly feeling that I haven’t been stabbed quite enough, Dr. Sickboy has decided to up the ante with a five week course of “Clexane”, a blood thinner that he suggests could be beneficial to successful implantation. And forget about a daggy old set of steak knives, this little beauty’s gift with purchase is the possibility of necrosis, osteoporosis, acute haematoma and haemorrhaging to death. Bonus! Yay!
So, obedient little sieve that I am, I have been diligently stabbing myself every night with this new and rather big bitch of a needle. And it’s beating me. Literally. At least, I’m beating me. Bizarrely, these pre-packaged individual shots appear to be blunt and virtually have to be punched in. Every shot has left a spotted bruise and my stomach is now looking like some kind of animal print/murder victim hybrid… So much so that it’s occurred to me that if Cruella de Ville really wanted a spotty coat, she could have saved herself the trouble of hunting puppies and just started injecting herself with one of these fuckers.
Not content with just being difficult to administer – the seventy five gallons of liquid that has to be injected each and every time burns like acid the whole way in, and for a good ten minutes afterwards. And I’m simply loving it! No, really Dr. Sickboy, it’s a frigging hoot.
Regardless, I’m prepared to do whatever it takes and will keep on doing battle with the blunt bastards for as long as it takes, or until I bleed to death. But then agin, at this stage I’d probably stick my head up an orangutans arse if they said it would help.