Panic! in the Uterus

Ugh. A few days of distance from Sunday night's events means that I can make jokes about myself.

I woke up at midnight, Sunday night, and went to make one of my usual evening pee excursions. Only when I looked down, I found an oval of red blood, about the length and width of the top two joints in my little finger. When I dabbed at myself with toilet paper I found watery bright-red blood. Ad I just kept thinking - two miscarriages, two Father's Days in a row. This is actually going to happen. I woke up my husband, then remembered, in a blind panic, that I had fallen asleep and forgotten my progesterone dose, which I took immediately (two hours after my usual time). I called the OB on call at my clinic, which as I think I mentioned before, is at Big State Hospital, so naturally, the person who answered the phone was probably around 23. To her credit, she started to tell me that there were several non-m/c-related reasons for bleeding, but then - in a moment that encapsulates the infertile experience - she got paged by labor and delivery and had to get off the phone. 

I think it's fair to say that I sat up from midnight until about 6 a.m., visiting blogs where angels fear to tread - you know, the ones where you hear about someone's ninth or tenth miscarriage, and it just feels like inevitable disaster is staring you right in the face. I read that "bleeding can be normal, unless it's bright red, that's usually trouble" and that "progesterone can mask problems and make you hold on to a pregnancy that should be over;" all statements whose truth I could not and still cannot testify to in any way, but which were like emotional lead weights on two hours of sleep.

Fortunately, I was able to page the RE on call in the morning and ask him to work me in early before the usual round of ultrasounds, which he kindly did. And everything was fine. A fetus remains in my womb, heart still beating...a bizarre little white apparition that kind of resembled Orko from the old He-Man cartoons, but I digress.

It all brought me right back to those old feelings: you're not normal, you can't actually do this, your luck will never hold out, don't get too comfortable. Don't expect anything from your body, because it will always fail you. 

Thus, I declare now in writing what I have always thought in my mind: if I get this baby out, both of us in one piece, I swear I will never forget what it's like to be part of the Subfertile Nation. Fight the power, bitches. 

You can't see me but I have a fist in the air. 

Things My Husband Never Said to Me Before I Became Pregnant (ish)

"Please don't make me identify the discharge spots in your underwear ever again."

Woman on the Verge

OH. MY. GOD. 

If I read one more article, or comment on a website, or sentence from a stupid baby book that says "Well, we're not saying that not having morning sickness means you're going to miscarry, but if you do have morning sickness, your chances of miscarrying are less, and ten percent of you all are going to miscarry, soooo..."

I am going to kill someone. Straight up. 

Crotch Rocket

Holy moly. The progesterone suppositories arrived today, and THEY LOOK LIKE BULLETS. This is creepy.

Honestly, I believe that if men were able to get pregnant, the drug companies would have already patented a progesterone patch that would stick on the hip for ten weeks. Or, for that matter, a progesterone gel cap that tasted like Thin Mints. (Oh, wait, we're talking about dudes. I meant to say ribs.)

Once More Unto the Vadge, Dear Friends, Once More

Second trans-vag ultrasound shows that black blob continues to be black and blobby, small kernel within continues to have an active heartbeat. Pictures taken by RE continue to be difficult to decipher. 

I have decided to name this embryo Napoleon. (I can't bring myself to say something like "bean.") Possibly because of its small size, possibly because I use a large biography of Napoleon to keep all the ultrasound pictures flat, possibly because I really like the song "Waterloo," possibly because I have taken pictures of myself next to Napoleon's taxidermied horse and doggie in Paris, or possibly because I enjoy tormenting family members with the idea of naming my child Napoleon. 

Today's true trauma: getting evicted by the RE. Despite clinging to the bed and saying "please don't make me go back to the regular OB clinic. I like it here, where everyone's nice and has a sense of humor. You can't just kick me out," they did exactly that. Not in a cruel way, mind you. They gave me recommendations for three doctors over in the other clinic, said to call if I needed them between now and then, and that they wanted to be kept in the loop. Still, back to the OB clinic. Where the waits are long and at least two of the providers have tested negative for personality. Which reminds me, I still haven't discussed the meat of last summer's Ectopic Adventure, including Rage towards the OB Clinic. To come! 

Other developments: it's my last night for progesterone injections, which is good, because searching for knot-free Upper Outer Ass Quadrant Real Estate is about to drive my husband over the edge. Next up: progesterone suppositories. Vaginal suppositories, thankfully - I made sure to check that they were not butt-positories, because no thanks - I'll stick with the needles. I have IBS, I'm familiar with synthetic goods going in and coming out of my butt, but I generally don't have to put them in there myself.  

My Schrodinger Box

Monday's ultrasound confirmed that, in the sealed-box-with-radioactive-isotope that is my uterus, the kitten, if you will, is currently alive. 

I am the possessor of one small black blob, complete with teeny, super-rapid heartbeat. 

Just one. That means of my 18 clanking oocytes, I ended up with one embryo that was capable and willing to latch on, and one blastocyst on the rocks. Wow, that's a lot of work. 

My always-supportive husband: "Man, why did (neighbor's name) get twins and we only got one?"

As always, I reply that someday I will stuff two large, non-round items up his butt and ask him to push them out. 

We'll apparently learn a lot more at next Monday's ultrasound. I have now brought the two borrowed pregnancy books into the house, but haven't read them yet. At some point, I think it's just going to be considered negligent to refuse to read them for fear of awakening the Bad Luck. 

Although, as an extremely wacky family doctor once told me, "Crack addicts and drunks have healthy babies all the time. I don't recommend it, but it happens." So, um - I guess I won't screw up too terribly bad in the next few days, given that the most addictive substance I've had since April was a deeeeelicious Wild Cherry Pepsi at the movies the other night. (I was afraid I'd doze off during the 7:oo p.m. show.) 

If only I could...

1. Tell the difference between gas pain and uterine cramps.

2. Get some Giant Pregnancy Ta-Tas (TM) to balance out my progesterone bloat.

3. Feel more confident. (But maybe soon!)

Offspring Awakening

The babies are everywhere. 

College friends are posting pictures of their toddler (or their toddler and their newborn) at the beach, high school friends are about to deliver, casual acquaintances are posting picture of their swollen bellies on Facebook. Even goofy kids from the neighborhood, who I'm not sure are old enough to drink, are with child. It's quite discouraging. 

I've thought about this - and it's not that I feel jealous of the babies as babies. I can look at pictures of your kid, or play with him or her, without suffering any psychic pain. It's their health, their ability, maybe their basic anatomy that I resent. The world is full of people who snap their fingers, spread their legs - and then it's "Yay, let's decorate the nursery!" for nine months. No gloom and worry, no wondering why, at six weeks, they don't feel more nauseated, or why their boobs are the same size they were three weeks ago, and WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN THIS CAN'T BE GOOD.   

I'm angry at myself for being less-than and unable to do something that seems to simple to everyone else. I'm angry that I still can't get the pregnancy books my friend gave me out of my car because I've banished everything baby-related out of my home until...when? A heartbeat? A kick? Viability? I'm angry that there are people out in the world who turn up their noses and say, "Well, people are infertile for a reason. Nature/God/etc didn't mean for you to be pregnant." (Never to your face, of course, but through passive-aggressive hints, or the full-on hateful aggression of the internet.) 

I suppose I'm just an angry person.  

I Call Shenanigans...

On my husband's claim that he knew I was pregnant before I did, because of the frequency and pungency of my farts. That's just not possible.