I don’t even know what I’m hoping to hear tomorrow. That I’m pregnant? That I’m not? That I might just be somewhere in the middle of pregnant and not? All options are known to me, all possible outcomes already lived. Save the one that ends with a baby in my arms in several months’ time, that is.
This morning a Twitter friend asked, “How are you feeling?” That question struck fear straight to the heart. I’ve been trying mightily not to answer it even to myself. To be honest, I’m feeling pregnant. Having experienced early pregnancy and positive pregnancy tests three times before, I know my signs. I feel like I’m getting a cold, I’m having some cramping, I’m having vivid dreams, and well, my pee, it just smells funny. All are “signs” I’ve had with past pregnancies, and all are symptoms I’m trying with all my might not to notice. Getting one’s hopes up just makes the inevitable crash down all the worse.
Another cycle down, and I still don’t know how I feel about not being able to test on my own in the comfort of my own home. You see, due to my history of shitty betas and P4 levels during my pregnancies past, I’m on a steady diet of HCG booster injections every three days following ovulation (or, in this case, IUI). Aside from the fact that this means yet one more injection, it also means traditional home pregnancy tests are useless to me. They test for HCG. I’m injecting myself with HCG. As far as a pregnancy test is concerned I’ve been pregnant since the day before my IUI. Thanks for nothing, right? Ultimately, it means my D-day is my blood test day, and not a moment before. And, it also means that it might be more of a D-ish day, because even the blood test might be partially fooled by my shoot-em-up ways (though it wasn’t last month).
The way my mind is rambling over this blood test situation is actually pretty similar to how the rest of my thoughts are going. Somehow I’ve lost the big picture in this all. Maybe it’s self-preservation, or exhaustion, or just not giving a damn any more, but I can’t find it in myself to get worked up over the fact that tomorrow will tell me my fate. No, instead, I’m sweating the small stuff. I’ve lost the forest while staring intently at the bark of one tree. I’m nauseous at the thought of having to go back to the local hospital lab and interact with Ms. Chipper “I’ll be your surrogate!” Phlebotomist. I’m terrified to get that phone call at work. Again. I’m planning the beer I’ll have at Wednesday night trivia to signal to all my friends that, yep, we failed again.
If I even allow myself to think about the possibility of a positive, I catch the same worry-train, just one headed in a slightly different direction. I’m fretting over traveling to my work conference in New Orleans at 6-7 weeks pregnant. I’m exhausted already thinking of yet more trips to the local hospital lab, yet more early morning drives up to the RE for scans, yet more waiting for the inevitable to happen. And, most of all, I’m extremely frustrated that another miscarriage could totally screw up my timing. If tomorrow’s test is positive, and if the pregnancy lingers longer than my second, that most certainly means my pre-op appointment on the 6th and, as a result, my laparoscopy on the 20th will be cancelled. And, just as the white out is drying in the RE’s surgical appointment books I’ll probably miscarry. It’s what I do. But, by that point it’ll be too late. So, instead, we’ll begin treading water again and waiting for another surgery date to open up in a few months’ time. Because, there’s clearly nothing I like more than endless, fruitless waiting.
So, in summary, keep sharp things away from me when I’m in the presence of the phlebotomist (err… needles, damn), I miss peeing on my hand and crying over negatives in the luxury of my own home, and this (as of yet to be diagnosed) pregnancy better not fuck with my trivia night buzz, my work week in NOLA, or my lap on the 20th. Let’s face it, I guess I’m just a better me when I’m barren. Why end this laugh-a-minute, low stress life with a pregnancy?