Ok. This post is not for everyone. If you know me in real life, I think it’s best if you just move along. If you're a coworker? Don't even think about it. Seriously: begging, demanding, and all that. This is my space, and you need to step back.
I’ve been trying to get pregnant for awhile now. That probably doesn’t surprise too many of you who can read between the lines of no caffeine and a lot less stories that start out with, “Ok, so while I was totally drunk this weekend…”
“For awhile now” means since September 2002. Stuff went wrong. My period went away. Nothing happened. Meh. Clomid was the answer, according to my doctor. No, I don’t know if my tubes are blocked. No, we haven’t had a semen analysis. We’re lazy and assuming we’re only dealing with one layer of problems for now.
So this past month: Five days of Provera to force me to have my first period since September 2003. Five days of Clomid. Sex, sex, sex. Blood test to check progesterone levels to see if I actually ovulated. This week was supposed to bring either a period or a positive pregnancy test. I didn’t think I was pregnant...I didn’t feel pregnant. But I was sure I ovulated. I was sure something had finally worked. Now it was just getting the timing right. And maybe…maybe I was pregnant. It was finally, finally a possibility for the first time.
At 4 p.m. yesterday my doctor’s office called. No ovulation. Not even close. Time to start the whole process all over again at double the dose. No biggie. Better luck this month.
I went home and drank a bottle of wine. What’s the point now? Waaaahh and self-pity and all that. And I cried and tantrumed and drama queened. The words “what if” and “never” were thrown around a lot. I don’t want to do it again. I hate Clomid. It gave me headaches and hot flashes and basically turned me into one colossal, hormonal freak-out all month long. Sex on command. Not in the mood? Tough. Chop chop, the calendar dictates copulation. Anyone who tells you to “Enjoy the trying!” should be dragged out back and shot.
And then after the bad sex you wait for two weeks. Treating yourself like you’re pregnant, hoping you are, suspecting you’re not. Turning down alcohol at dinner while friends suddenly shriek, “You’re PREGNANT, aren’t you?!” and then congratulating you before you can stop them.
And Clomid is the Junior Miss of infertility treatments. It’s the chocolate cupcake of fertility pills. This is the easy one, y’all. I’ve done it once. People on my sidebar have been through the hell of failed IVF cycles and miscarriages and ectopics (and all of the above) and still have no baby. Shut up, Amy.
I’m not strong like them. Like Julie and Monica and all the others. Even if they don’t feel strong...I couldn’t go through what they’ve been through and still be anything other than a drooling, manic-depressive mental patient. They’re amazing women and I’m a spoiled, weak little brat.
And if I can’t hack this…Jesus. I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. I had a dream last night that I woke up and there was this little baby…just old enough to stand up on wobbly legs…holding on to the edge of my bed. I picked him up and cooed his name and pulled him into bed with Jason and I. He was gorgeous and chubby and the feel and smell of his little body was so real it makes my chest constrict just thinking about it.
Then I woke up and killed my hangover with a strong cup of coffee and some Excederin. Then I stopped at the pharmacy and re-filled all the prescriptions for Provera, Clomid and prenatal vitamins.