I have never liked rollercoasters, and this one especially involves so many needles.We're on Day ... oh, who knows; maybe 4? ... since the transfer and I've embraced the moodiness wholeheartedly.  Yesterday morning James gave me my progesterone shot at the very outskirts of the area that I had iced down.  It burned terribly.  I guess he was trying to avoid shooting into the bruise that is two inches in diameter that takes up most of that hip.  After the bandaid, I buried myself under the covers and started to wail.  I was so tired of it all.  The day before, we learned that none of our 7 extra embryos survived to be frozen, so these two kids that are inside me now are our only hope, well, for this $15,000 round.  So much for getting discounted do-overs or siblings.  So much for their hanging out with Walt Disney and Lenin (or Stalin?).  My hips were also feeling a lot worse than pin-cushions; from my observation as a seamstress, pin-cushions don't feel pain.  All day long I feel the bruises and ghosts of prior stabbings.  They sting and itch and ache.  And then there's the fact that part of my butt seems to have lost feeling.  I may have given it frostbite.  If I come out of this having lost part of my butt, I'm going to be very mad.  Especially if it turns black and starts to rot before falling off.  That's adding insult to injury.  No: it's adding INJURY TO INJURY.In my hormone-induced teary delirium, I wanted to cry out that this is the hardest thing I've ever done.  But actually, going to law school at night while working full time was harder, as was living in Mexico for a year by myself.  But if it weren't for my misdirected endurance of misery as a way to prove myself to no one in particular, which I have totally talked myself out of through 4 years of therapy, this would be the hardest thing I've ever done.  Let's say that, aside from law school, it's definitely the most expensive self-inflicted misery.  There.  And I think I'll like children more than a law degree.But at least I have a friend throughout.  When James came home after we found out that nobody got frozen, he cried into my chest that he was so sad, and that he thought we'd made a big mistake not to implant the third little embryo that was looking promising at the time of the transfer.  We'd opted to just put in two because three would mean a greater chance of twins, which was higher-risk.  In fact, we really WANT twins (I am one) and we definitely didn't want to waste the third little guy.  But I tried to console James that we'd be just fine.  We had the best and the brightest smothered in blood inside me, just where they wanted to be, and that everyone was happy as a clam.  Maybe a clam that burrows into blood.  Vampire clams.  James has been tip-toeing around my volatile emotions.  He's gotten so tired of cooking for me, but doesn't want me to cook for him, so we've been eating out.  (Oh, that reminds me of my half-burrito that I've saved for lunch today.  Yea!)  He's also done his best to clean up the kitchen because he knows that makes me happy.  I noticed that he "ran" a load of dishes in the dishwasher that just got rinsed; the soap trap never opened.  No wonder we have a lot of dirty dishes in the cabinets.  But how good was he to THINK he did the dishes, then even (unfortunately) unload the dishwasher! Today I noticed a glass on top of the highest kitchen cabinet, pushed far into the corner, as if -- dare I say? -- hidden.  How could my glass with the chickadee picture on it that I inherited from my grandmother, which my brother and I had always requested when we went to Grandma's house, have found its way up there?  I got on a chair and pulled it down.  It had been one of the lucky rinsees-only, so it was covered with a conglomeration of dirty-plate residue.  And it had a crack down the front of the little chickadee.  My grandma's glass was broken.  And hidden.  For all the sentimentality that I have towards that vessel, I had to laugh.  James HID the broken glass?  My 33-year-old husband HID the broken glass?  That was so funny!  I brought it down to the kitchen table and left it there with a note inside it that said, "It's okay.  Don't worry!"  When James saw it, he sheepishly said, "I just didn't want you to be sad."  Today I'm feeling much better.  I went to a luncheon yesterday at the Women's Business Center about doing email marketing, and as usual, I left the Center feeling very excited about this new thing I can do for my business.  I got very inspired and came home and finished a wall-hanging I've been working on.  This one has a picture of a pomegranate, made from a combination of fabric collage and painting, with shiny "miracle" beads as pomegranate seeds, and a quilted background.  I'll post a picture on my profile page.  Pomegranates are symbols of fertility, and this is called "Fertile Ground."  So with that, I'll go post the picture and have my burrito-half.  Maybe today I'll try to take a picture of my big butt bruise.  That's a big bruise on my butt, not a bruise on my big butt, even though my butt is pretty big.  Just to be clear.