A few days ago I wrote about being my own worst advocate and made big promises about standing up for myself, feminism, changing the world through interpretive dance, etc.
Well, as long as I’m being candid with the interwebs: I failed. Literally 48 hours later I was given the opportunity to be
a demanding bitch assertive, and I blinked.
Sure, I fought the nurse a little bit; I offered my own personal “alternate treatment
plan” that didn’t involve 10 horrid days of birth control prior to another
cycle of Clomid. But at the first sign of resistance, I surrendered.
Last week I met with the reproductive endocrinologist and he basically called my bluff. Straight up, he told me that he figured he’d get a call back after he ordered that I take 10 days of the deceptively named "Apri". After the nurse made the call he "suddenly remembered" that I had a strong reaction to birth control and anticipated an incensed Saturday phone call. But because I’m a total coward, he was left to enjoy his weekend undisturbed. You guys: by his own admission, he probably would have caved and let me skip the extra barrel of hormones if I had just effing stood up for myself. *Palm to forehead, invective laden, self-deprecating tirade. *
Anyway, this most recent visit with the reproductive endocrinologist was our first since the early miscarriage
and boy was I looking forward to rehashing those turbulent times. Naturally, I
shed some unexpectedly heavy tears we had a lot of questions – which I had furtively
typed out on my iphone during a particularly dull morning in court.
Before you move from the edge of your seat, here’s the bottom line: there was nothing I could have done to prevent this. An early miscarriage is the body’s way of ending a conception that wasn’t viable – usually due to some chromosomal abnormality (mine or C’s). At this point, the doctor and C launched into some discussion about DNA and translocation – during which I
appeared confused furrowed
my brow, and nodded most assuringly – before C and I decided that at least at
this point, we didn’t feel the need to get extensive DNA testing (because that
can wait until after a second miscarriage
– fortheloveofgodpleaseno.) After that I asked some questions about whether I
was eating too much soy or gluten (no – but I’m undecided about whether or not I found
his answer convincing), whether we should begin IUI this cycle (no, we’ll wait
until next time. I’m a pessimist, so
what?) and whether or not I could get my parking validated whether the
risk of miscarriage increases with Clomid (no, it’s just more likely to be
detected in the hyper-monitored world of assisted reproductive technology
It was a kind of heavy meeting for a Tuesday afternoon, but truthfully, C and I left feeling
that we didn’t have to return to work relieved. The last couple weeks have
been hard – probably some of the hardest in the more than 10 years that we’ve
been together – but (maudlin sentimentality approaching) we have come out the other side
kinder and more loving of one another and more than ready to face another round.
And, oh right, there’s more good news – which I disclose with a heaping side of irony –I am officially, 100%, not pregnant. My HCG is down to healthy and un-pregnant zero and, finally, finally, I am not acutely aware of my until-now-suspiciously-busy-pelvis.
Round three of Clomid, I will seat you now.
 If you’ve been reading this from the start - <waves to the three loyal, and unsuspecting, readers in New Zealand (?)> - then you know that I was previously on birth control. For ten very-un-pregnant years. So like, what gives? Honestly, I don’t know. Yes, I was on birth control for over a decade. But after being off of it for nine months, going back on it for these ten-day stints has been truly harrowing. In no particular order, each 10 day round has been a circus of unregulated emotion/surprise tears, sleeplessness, eyes-wide-open early morning anxiety, absolutely insatiable hunger and really vivid (and often kind of scary) dreams.
 The truth is, I wasn’t totally un-pregnant until (spoiler alert) recently. Had I taken Clomid before my “uterus had time to heal” (their words), before my pituitary gland had time to rest, things may have gone haywire. Probably not, but maybe. And had cycle 3 been a failure, I always would have wondered whether in my haste, in my deep dislike for birth control, I had sealed my own fate. So it’s better this way. Right? Right? (Okay, for the record, it’s not lost on me that had we skipped the birth control, this weekend – this snow day, snowpocalypse, cozy-indoor-stuck-at-home weekend, would have been prime baby making time. Just saying.)
 “Busy pelvis” is
a great name for a
punk band or a baby or a punk-rock baby something I never would have
understood before all of this <motions to the fallopian groove ether> but
it really is the only way I know to describe this odd sensation.