Saturday, December 15, 2012

rest stop surprise: cycle day 19


At a rest stop on my way back from jail (yes, I heard that as soon as I wrote it and no, I’m not a transient grifter[1]) and lookee here. Surprise! That’s right, Aunt Flo’s in town. The crimson wave. Red tide. On the rag. (Yes, that last one is pretty heinous and yes, the six, four, two men who read this blog have now fled in abject terror).

I’m on Day 19 and I realized, that until this very moment, in a ramshackle Burger King bathroom – where I may or may not have audibly exclaimed “FUCK!”, much to the alarm of the mother of two in the stall next to me – I really hadn’t considered the prospect that I might find out I’m not pregnant by like, getting my period. Why? Well, because I assumed I would, like always, take 37 pregnancy tests and count my negatives before they hatch cry my eyes out on my own (much cleaner) bathroom floor. But my period? No ma’am. That never occurred to me (I am aware of my poor intuitive reasoning skills, thank you).

Also, math. Math plays an important role here. And while math isn’t exactly my strong suit (duh, that’s why I’m a lawyer), I feel like “counting” is a skill I should have mastered. Because, umm, wasn’t it way-too-effing-early for this? (more on that later).

So. Forlorn, alone, and in the middle of nowhere, I slunk back to my car where I proceeded to grief-eat chocolate covered pretzels until I felt sick while simultaneously singing along to post-modern indie rock and dutch electronica old bare naked ladies songs on the radio because these were obviously THE MOST PITIFUL things I could think of to do at that moment.

(Meanwhile, in what was, once again, totally rational thinking, I ransacked my hormone-addled-brain to find fault in my carefully laid (HA) plans; to uncover any possible thing I could have done wrong/differently/a better way during the days of baby-dancing. I mean, were those post-coital headstands worth nothing? And then, because I am a terrible person, I irrationally blamed the miserable-hope-giving-wench kindly nurse who exclaimed that I had a “great cycle!” and unreasonably raised my expectations. *shakes fist*).

Once I got home, I indulged in a crazed, histrionic frenzy moment of self pity with C before deciding that I should make some kind of SOS call to the doctor: “Hi, it’s Sarah. I got my period so… OBVIOUSLY I’M NOT PREGNANT <stifled sobs>. Call me!” (I never suggested it was the reasonable call of a sane person).

The nurse called back and, as if to compensate for her colleague’s previous optimism, quickly dashed my hopes of ever succeeding at anything by nervously mumbling MY, THAT IS EARLY and scheduling me for blood work first thing Monday morning. Then, almost as an afterthought, she mentioned that I may be in need of another round of birth control, to “give my body a break,” because IT’S NOT LIKE I’M TRYING TO GET PREGNANT OR ANYTHING. <palm to forehead>. 

And that, friends and anonymous internet strangers, is how you round out another serene week of infertility.



[1] (Although I’m sure some people might use those words to describe a lawyer. ZING. Ahem. Anyway. I go to jail for my secret-lawyer-job.)

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