As seen on TV
here, my husband C and I tried for about nine months to get pregnant on our own
before ahem, seeking some assistance. During
those nine months, I learned some valuable lessons. Most importantly, if you
ain’t runnin’ wit it, run from it ovulating, you (probably) ain’t getting pregnant.
That’s right. I
lived what previously would have been basically my own personal fantasy: NINE
WHOLE MONTHS WITHOUT A PERIOD (do not
confuse this with nine months in which I was cooking a baby. Cause I wasn’t. See
supra. And infra. Okay fine, just see thisentireblogsofar.)
And yet, I
pressed on! Somehow able to suspend disbelief, to continue “trying” on some
nonsense schedule that made sense only until spoken out loud in the presence of
a sane, rational human (cue C’s entrance). Not only that, but I also TOOK
PREGNANCY TESTS. Like. A lot of them.
Oh, the naiveté
(chuckles menacingly). Seriously, what on god’s green earth was I thinking? Was
I completely and utterly bonkers (that was rhetorical)?
If you think I’m
kidding: In the midst of this nine month odyssey, for example[1],
I remember two Sunday nights in a row where I felt “nauseous.” And “especially
tired.” Why? Because I have a chronic illness that creates mayhem in my
stomach and bowels basically on
a regular basis [2] AND I was doing two trials back to back, naturally, I must
be pregnant! At which point I casually dropped a cool sixty bucks on pregnancy
tests (and, let's be honest, assorted other purchases because if I’ve said it once, I’ll
say it again, who buys JUST a pregnancy
test?) over the course of that
little “scare.”
But the truth
was, I was never getting pregnant on my own. Of course, I couldn’t just be told this and spared the
adventure of finding out. It’s no problem though. Because lying on a table in
half of a skirt suit while a woman you JUST MET fills your uterus with iodine
dye and then SHOWS YOU YOUR FALLOPIAN TUBES on a giant 3D screen (for some
reason, honey I shrunk the kids was
all that came to mind in that moment, specifically, the giant ant. I know, it
doesn’t make sense to me either) is both painful and emotionally scarring
AND I may have ruined a good suit a much
better way to find out.
