moving right along, cycle 5, day 2

This was going to be a post where I thanked all of you for your wisdom and insight and words of encouragement, admonitions to listen to myself and take a break and eat my vegetables. This was going to be a post about how after hitting an emotional wall on Friday, I crawled out of my infertility-cocoon[1]™ and spent the weekend with friends, unexpectedly and happily social, and that by Sunday night, I was rejuvenated. I was ready to face whatever was ahead. I was feeling replenished and relaxed and deep breath now, even optimistic. I was even mentally noting some non-specific symptoms – getting up to pee at least twice in the night, intermittent light headedness and, ohdeargod, holy adult-onset-acne batman! – that might be the earliest signs of Lord Voldemort, the Holocaust, the deficit that-which-shall-not-be-named.

That is all completely true; I am grateful to all of you for your spirit-boosting, I did have a great weekend and I did feel happy and refreshed. That’s what this post was going to be about. But the universe – knowing that such a post would be boring, trivial and full of absent minded reverie – intervened. 

Because, say it with me now friends and strangers: Oh no, my period!

Every cycle we[2] – you know, us, collectively, the infertility set <waves to the crowd> – prepare ourselves for this moment. We are glass half empty people, we construct barriers of self-protection on multiple fronts, we are pragmatic. We have read enough to know too much[3]. And so with each cycle we endeavor to keep our expectations low and we tell ourselves that this time, this time, we will take it in stride, we will move on to the next round, it will be okay. And then with each defeat, we are completely, almost irrevocably, destroyed. We become, at least momentarily, inconsolable. There is probably some crying, some grief eating, some not-wanting-to-get-out-of-bed-the-next-morning-ing. But then, at some point, for me it usually comes the next day, we pick ourselves up, somehow oblivious (almost) to the protracted defeat.

struck out, cycle 3, day 25

When I got home from work, I said to C, “if I’m not pregnant, I just want to know now – it’s the uncertainty that I can’t handle.” It turns out, I’m no better with disappointment. Just a couple hours later, the universe heeded my (dubious) call[1]: I got my period.

Because I am the smartest, I think I knew it was coming – the moodiness, the lower back pain that could not alone be attributed to my tendency to type while sitting in bed rather than at a desk, like a proper adult, the absence of searing gas pains… Or not. Seeing as approximately 45 seconds before it happened, I could be found Googling early signs of pregnancy and how early can I take a pregnancy test and how much is a ferry ride to the Channel Islands[2] – because let me tell you, infertility-amnesia (which is something I made up but is totally a thing) is wonderful. (Like I haven’t memorized just how early I can safely take a pregnancy test before a missed period? Pshaw.)

But I still think I knew. So much so that this morning I briefly daydreamed about throwing a surprise party for Aunt Flo. You know, ovary-shaped-piñata[3], cake, kazoos, the whole deal. C and I – and Luna, much to her consternation – would put on party hats and blow out candles and surprise her, beat her[4] at her own game (or something). By the time I realized I was on THE-CRAZY-TRAIN-TO-INSANE-VILLE, I was already buying crepe paper (blue, if you must know, because red would be too obvious).

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).