I’m eating cake for breakfast. To be more precise, I am eating some sort of ultra-sinful tiramisu cream cake that jumped into my cart yesterday at the grocery store. “Hormones”, I told Arthur when he asked how said cake had ended up in our cart.
“But you’re not even on the medications yet,” he remarked.
“Hormones are my story, and I’m sticking to it.”
Arthur decided at that point that his best course of action, instead of arguing with the clearly irrational, was to join the madness and added a piece of even more crazy-looking stuff that had chocolate poured over it.
In preparation for the upcoming IVF cycle, I’ve been attempting to prepare myself to give up all my vices by shamelessly, lovingly indulging in them for the past week or so. Cake is only the latest one. While I know that yes, I can still have cake while pregnant, it’s probably better if I eat less of it and more of fruits and vegetables. You know, things with actual nutrients.
Not so for fully-leaded coffee. It’s going to hopefully be verboten for the forseeable future. That stuff I have been sucking down like no one’s business. To me, preparing coffee is almost a religious ritual. I get it from my father, who taught me how to select good beans, hand grind them in a ceramic burr grinder, use filtered water, and pour it all into a French press in exactly the correct proportions. Then, for proper coffee, it must be topped off with real half-and-half or cream.
Normally, I’m a one cup a day kind of girl. Recently, however, I’ve poured myself a cup any time I see coffee available. Sometimes two. Watching Arthur’s eyebrows go up as I mainlined a third cup for the day at church, I shrugged. “Hormones,” I told him.
I’ve also been going to the gym more. I’m realizing that despite the fact that I’ve spent a few months getting back into shape after a nasty injury, IVF and the sudden proscription of bending, heavy lifting, and other gym type activities is going to turn all my hard-won muscles back into an amorphous blob. Don’t get me wrong here, if I can be a pregnant amorphous blob, I’ll be thrilled. At the same time, there is a sense in which having to give up my one healthy habit to keep myself and any pregnancy, well, healthy seems rather ridiculous.
Also because even though I’ve never really much enjoyed going to the gym, it’s amazing how motivated I’ve become now that someone has told me it’s going to be forbidden. Reverse psychology at its finest.
I have no doubt that between major caffeine withdrawal and my tendency to get terrific headaches with the Follistim, not to mention the usual hormonally-induced mood swings that I’m going to be a barrel of fun to live with once stims start up in about two weeks.
But what can I say? It’ll make for some nice memories as I’m staring down more vegetables at dinner and sipping decaf coffee that by all rights doesn’t deserve the label of “coffee”. For the moment, I’m enjoying putting the “fun” back in preparing for the treatment of my dysfunctional ovaries.