round three of Clomid, I will seat you now

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[1] 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.[2] *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.

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).