My babymaking efforts took me to many locations this summer.

A bowling alley. A public bathroom. A music festival. At school between classes. A wedding reception.

Unfortunately for my husband, it was not as fun as it sounds.

Months ago, I wrote about my struggle over whether to go high-tech while trying to get pregnant. After speaking with my specialist and learning my chances would improve greatly with the help of fertility drugs, it became a no-brainer to take the next step.

Injecting myself wasn't as easy to agree to.

A woman is supposed to mature one egg a month. When it gets to the right size, my body should ovulate that egg.

Add injectable medicine into the mix and my body will develop more than one egg, giving my husband more perfectly ripe targets each cycle.

Many women are prescribed five days of the pill Clomid, which can be a wonder drug. I have been told, "Just take Clomid; you'll get pregnant," but I learned that injectable meds would increase my chances almost twofold.

As I waited patiently for the pharmacist to hand me my drugs from the refrigerator, I was feeling pretty confident that I could stab myself with a needle the way the nurse taught me.

But I hate needles. I have had bad bloodwork experiences where the technician struggles to find a vein, only to stab me a second time before asking another technician who is supposedly good with needles to help.

The idea of willingly inserting a sharp metal object full of fluid that stings just doesn't make sense. The end result of getting pregnant makes it worth it, but that is not guaranteed.

Luckily I had Hugh Grant on my side for the first few stabs and jabs. My nurse suggested I use TV as a distraction after the needle and dosage were ready to go.

With Hugh looking cute, the needle still looked ugly -- but not as awful. Squeezing a section of stomach skin in hand and syringe in the other, I looked ahead and slid it in. Ouch, but not as bad as the buildup.

After losing my injectable virginity, I was ready for anything. I had to be because it's not always convenient to administer daily shots that need to be kept cool at all times.

I have learned how to smuggle my medicine in a lunch bag cooler into work, school and even a concert. I now know that it hurts less on the left side of my stomach than my right.

But I'm not alone in this fertility medicine process. Because the drugs are so potent, I require almost daily monitoring each treatment cycle. That means early -- really early -- morning trips to the doctor for blood work and ultrasounds, and then ripping off the gauze and tape where the blood was taken as I rush to work as if I just left my house, not a hospital.

While the medicine is supposed to help me get pregnant, it comes with a nice set of side effects, including bloating, mood swings and exhaustion, not to mention occasional bruises from blood work and my own needlework. Sometimes I don't know whether to pass out or cry.

I also struggle with who needs to know what I'm going through and who should stay in the dark. Obviously, I'm a really open person, but when it comes to infertility I hesitate.

If I tell my boss that I'm going through this, she might understand why I've been more down than up lately. However, I risk letting someone into a very personal part of my life and set myself up for potential follow-up questions.

The last thing I want to hear is, "Did it work?"

It hasn't, and that's not something I'm comfortable talking about. I made the mistake of filling in one friend about my first round of treatments. When she pressed me for more information, her first question was, "Why didn't it work?" as if I have the answers.

The more people I tell, the more people I have to tell when it doesn't work. I don't like to spread bad news.

When it comes down to it, this choice I've made with my husband is very personal, and I hope it will be successful.

My dream may be only one shot away. That makes the pain of poking holes more than worth it.