Have you ever turned off the alarm in the morning, gotten up, showered, and gotten dressed, only to then wake up and realize you had actually hit snooze and now you’re late for work?
That happened to me this morning, except I got up, went to the bathroom, POAS, and got a BFP. I went to the bedroom to tell Elizabeth, but then I looked down and saw that the two lines were flashing and changing shapes, and my heart sank as I realized I was only dreaming.
So I woke up for real, went to the bathroom, POAS, and got a BFN. Got back into bed.
I feel pretty much the same as always: disappointed, but not surprised. Neither one of us cried this time.
Then I turned on Facebook to see a friend announce that his girlfriend is expecting a baby. Neither one of these kids are financially or emotionally ready for a baby, and yet one has miraculously begun to grow for them. For free!
I was not feeling so much appreciative joy so I shut the phone off.
Now Elizabeth and I are drinking coffee and watching a squirrel transfer his litter of babies from one tree to another. He takes them down one at a time, pauses in the yard to readjust the wriggling things in his mouth, and climbs up the tree on the east side of the yard. He stops a few times on the way up to catch his breath. Then scurries down the end of the longest branch at the top and tucks his baby inside. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a squirrel do something that makes sense to me, and it’s fascinating.
A week ago today I had my 5th iui. I wish I had something to report, but I don’t.
Other than some monster ovulation pain the day of the iui (thanks, Clomid!), I’ve felt totally, disappointingly normal. No symptoms at all. I have some emotion-feels about that.
The 2WW is really like some kind of backwards twilight zone, where nausea and cramping and suffering are good signs, things that make you really happy to experience. But this peaceful, asymptomatic wellbeing is a total bummer. And then there are days 7-10 where you’re hoping to see blood every time you go to the bathroom (implantation!), but then by day 13 you feel a wash of relief when the toilet paper comes back white (no period!).
Near the end of our last 2WW I went to pee and had a moment of early-morning confusion when I wiped–what was it I wanted to see today? What day was it? Where is the calendar?
Anyway, this time around we’re doing nothing. No early testing, no BBT charting. Not even really talking about babies or the process or what we even plan on doing next. We have one vial of our donor left, and roughly enough infertility coverage left to pay for most of one more cycle. Then our coverage ends until 2015. So the plan is likely one more cycle and then another break, unfortunately.
I’ll be 33 in March, and the closer I get to that birthday, the louder the clock ticks. Every month is starting to feel meaningful, precious. A slowly fading tide. A draining bathtub. Other metaphors, etc. When we started this process in January I really did not expect to enter August still un-pregnant. Elizabeth is going on a trip with her friends later this month, and when she made the plans in January, I said, “But I could be eight months pregnant then!” Now the idea seems kind of hilarious–but that’s the attitude you have to have when you enter in to this whole TTC thing: expect everything, be ready for nothing.
Wishing everyone in the 2WW some peace!
After a 3-month break from TTC, with lots of acupuncture and herbs, we are back. I had my 5th iui today.
This was my first time on Clomid, and today/yesterday I’ve had some wicked O pains today down my left side, where my two big follicles were. I’m taking it as a good sign, trying not to read so much into everything this time.
After the iui, Elizabeth and I waited in the clinic room for the timer to go off. We talked about one of my favorite Buddhist similes: being born as a human is like a sea turtle swimming from the bottom of the ocean, and he reaches the surface at just the right spot that his head goes through a small golden hoop floating on the water. A vast ocean, a tiny hoop, a lucky and determined turtle all coming together at the right time and place: that’s how precious and rare a human birth is.
If this one sticks, we’ll paint a sea turtle on the nursery wall.
Then we went home and I dutifully obeyed that old wives’ tale to put your feet up in the air. Can’t hurt. Now it’s time for the pineapple.
And the wait begins again.