What a morning! 

You know that vertical part of each stair, the part where you can stub your toe when running up the stairs, if you aren’t paying attention?  Well, at our house, that part of the stairs is an eggshell white of sorts, and each step is wood.  Here’s a photo of Maggie, modeling a sample for us from the top of the stairs:

And I’ve often wondered, as I’m squeegee-ing my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser in preparation for seemingly weekly cleanups, how it is that coffee spots or other beverage items end up drizzled on those parts of the stairs.  

Well…today, I found out. 

I woke up slow, over the course of, I don’t know, an hour’s worth of snooze buttons.  The Beloved was up shortly thereafter, off to her morning routine of coffee>feed dogs>iron clothes.  Except that as I was drying my hair, which was occurring between Coffee and Feed Dogs, I heard a slide-thump-thump-thud.  And in the 0.297 seconds that followed me as I ran to the top of the stairs, these thoughts escaped my head or lips:

Ok, that was too short of a roll for it to be a dog going down the stairs.
I didn’t hear glass.
It’s too quiet.
“J, are you ok??”

No Answer.

When I arrive at the stairs, I see the dogs staring back up at me from the bottom of the stairs wondering why the alteration of their breakfast routine, and the Beloved standing halfway down the stairs, silenced by shock and pain.  I couldn’t help but notice the miraculously intact coffee mug with half of its contents still remaining, sitting neatly on a stair, the rest of the contents dripping off the Beloved’s pajama pants. 

Turns out her flipflops sabotaged her on the way down and she fell down a few steps hitting her back on the last one.  Which I figured.  Because had it been her head, it would have been WAY LOUDER.  We check her out and other than bruised and slightly scalded from the coffee, she’s relatively ok. 

“J, what can I do for you?” I say, as we walk gingerly to the end of the bed in the guest bedroom so she can sit down.  “I need a towel for the coffee I spilled.” 

No, not an ambulance, or a massage, or a shoulder to cry on.  But a towel.  (I’ve trained her well, riiight?!) 

I walked in to the clinic with much anticipation and maybe just slighty less apprehension than that, based on the result of my last suppression check

I disrobed from the waist down and awaited the audience.  In walked the Reproductive Endocrinologist (RE), the IVF Coordinator…and…a new associate of the practice.  I quickly made him comfortable with my “all visitors are welcome” introduction.  Speaking of introductions, my oh-so-cool IVF Coordinator introduced him to me like this “Dr. C, this is R, and she is minus six weeks pregnant.”

As the RE prepared for the ultrasound, I told him this experience felt much like an audition, except that the audition was also my first rehearsal.  He probed and the room grew quiet and the three of them stared and stared at the monitor, pointing.  I finally had to say, “um, ok, folks, I need y’all to talk it out out loud.”  Oh, no, they say, everything’s fine, we’re just looking.  It seems my fibroid was putting on a show.  Our IVF Coordinator asked “did you lose your keys?”

Heart thumping loudly in the back of my head.

The results?

Cysts: 0
Antral Follicles: 9
Utering Lining: 3.5
E2 Estrodiol: 43

To which the RE responded: “Congratulations, you’ve got a call-back on your audition.” 

Stims start Saturday.