Wednesday’s are long days for me, though I’m not complaining. Moving to this quiet village from greater east coast stripmallia, I thought the hubs and I would be in for lots of long winter nights of trashy TV viewing while wearing both pajamas (preferably with feet!) and a cat (one per lap, please). So, yea, I basically thought our social life would be a repeat of what it was in stripmallia, but minus a few digits on the ol’ mercury meter. While the “holy shit it’s cold” has come (oh Lord the snow!), to my utter surprise the solitary nights have largely gone. Cornerstone of my rockin’, child-free, social butterfly lifestyle? Wednesday night trivia! So what if I’m barely able to hold my head up at the following mornings’ faculty meetings? This bitter infertile’s getting her geeky drink on!
Wednesday was also my “milestone” day for my most recent miscarriage. The day the weeks changed. The day I transitioned from 6w7d to 7 weeks, 7w6d to 8 weeks. In other words, the day that, were I a clueless fertile, you’d be getting all my, “My embryo is the size of a kumquat” posts on your Facebook wall. So, yea, I like to drink on Wednesday’s. You wanna make an issue of it?
On this most social of my days, I thought I’d start* to recount some of my personal fave awkward IF conversations and miscellaneous happenings from the past 3 years. Ready, set, awkward.
- I belong to my profession’s primary listserv. Multiple generations, various levels of computer proficiency, and a healthy dose of crotchety types, make it a laugh a minute on the best days. Yesterday’s controversy? In the mid-nineteenth century did the term “abortion” imply all that we associate with it today, or was it simply another term for a miscarriage? Totally, f-ing awesome, by the way, to have my e-mail notifier keep popping up new messages with the headings “Miscarriage? Abortion?” all day long. Bonus points for it being the same day I found out we won’t be able to try to become pregnant again until my ANA level is evaluated by a rheumatologist… in June.
- Countless chipper nurses: “Your time will come!”
- My lovely aunt: “You know, I blame that birth control! It’s just not natural!” (What, because my body is so clearly “in tune” with nature when left to its own devices?)
- Supportive boss: “You can have my step-sons!”
- Friend of a friend: “I’m infertile too! We haven’t been trying long, but I know I’ll have trouble.” (Followed by seeing her baby shower photos on Facebook 6 months later.)
- From the doc at the ER where I went to have my D&C last month: “You aren’t an emergency. It’s a Saturday. My team doesn’t work on Saturdays. Here’s two sterile collection jars for when you pass the products of conception.”
- From my former health insurer when I called to inquire about coverage for laparoscopic surgery to diagnose and treat suspected endometriosis: “Me: Why would this procedure not be covered? Her: Well, could it play any role in helping you become pregnant in the future? Me: In theory, yes, I suppose it could. Her: That’s why! This surgery is comparable to breast augmentation. Under your policy both are considered cosmetic procedures. It isn’t our responsibility to make it easier for you to make the ‘lifestyle choice’ to become pregnant.”
- And, for our final round of the day, I bring you, every last comment overheard this past New Year’s Eve spent, as per usual, in a rousing game of Canasta with my husband’s family (you can listen in to my crazy by following the italics!):
- “Did you hear Sally Smith’s having a fourth kid? Yea and she just left that new boyfriend of hers!” (Ok, it’s a big family gathering Ms. But IF, these convo’s come with the territory. Just enjoy your appetizers you mean-spirited little buzz kill…)
- “That Jones girl is pregnant. They got married and starting trying this summer and I guess she only has half a uterus or something so it took them a while but she’s finally pregnant!” (From summer to January 1 is a “long while”? Why, yes, I’ll take another tumbler of wine.)
- (After hearing of a cousin’s engagement) “I’m not sure whether I’ll be getting more grand babies or not. She’s 31 or 32 and, you know, once they get that old it’s less likely to happen!” (I better pick out my plot in the graveyard. Mmmm… champagne!)
- (From cousin who works in the ER) We had this sad case on Saturday. A woman was brought in that had gotten in a fight with her family and went and hung herself. I took her blood to confirm that she was more or less gone and to get info for organ donation, and when the results came in I heard the doc start cussing. He called me over and had me call down to the lab to have one more test run. Turns out she was 5 weeks pregnant! (Sad, angry, sad, angry…. Someone, pass me a bottle, NOW!)
- Mr. But IF’s grandmother: “I think I’m going to get another great grand baby in 2013.” Commence everyone’s favorite family gameshow — “Name. That. Fertile!” First guess? That’s right, the single, much younger, likely gay cousin! WRONG. Mr. But IF’s much younger engaged sister? (Oh, please God…) WRONG. (…exhale) The older cousin who already has three kids under five? Abso-frickin-lutely. Ding, ding, ding… we have a winner! Oh, and for those playing the at home game, never once did Mr. and Mrs. But IF come up as a remote possibility. (Where do they keep the hard stuff?)
(I feel I should add that I literally love my husband’s family and know no harm was meant. But, sometimes, infertile’s gotta hate…)
Ah, what special joy can next Wednesday bring? Think I’ve given you my good stuff already? Not even close… unfortunately.