What is there to
say[1]?
Not much apparently. The 10 days of birth control agony have come to an
uneventful close and my early morning wake up calls, general bitchiness and
intermittent nausea/monstrous hunger have subsided. I got my period as expected (I really feel like I should get a present or some sort of decadent cookie[2]
for bleeding twice in 15 days but whatever).
So. Here we are. Round three. Third
time’s the time for a second
miscarriage and complete emotional meltdown charm! Fertility hat trick.
Fallopian triple threat – (singing, dancing and conceiving, ahem). Etc.
But if there
isn’t much to say, why do I always have so much to say do I feel like an infertility underachiever? I’m not
charting, I’m not taking my temperature, I’m not finding a cycle buddy (can we
go for bike rides? I’m so confused), I’m not going to an
acupuncturist/yoga-ist/spiritual-ist of any kind. I’m not even carefully
evaluating my *cringe* cervical mucus.
(And, honestly, if I’m not doing that, can I really be trusted with a child?).
That I haven’t
spent this week elbows deep in interweb infertility obsession is probably a
good sign for my next trial because umm, hello, full time employment you are
really getting in the way of my blog habit healthy. But because I’m a glutton for punishment, I can’t help but
question whether there isn’t more I should be doing. I guess as I approach the one year mark <head
spinning>, there’s a kind of creeping panic curiosity about what else
is out there and what else might help me both get – and for the love of god – stay pregnant. It’s not that I
necessarily have deep thoughts on the matter – and even if I did, there’s a
mountain of inertia that might make any movement on these thoughts prohibitive.
But, in the middle of a tense court hearing moments of daydream, some
not-so-deep thoughts are bouncing around in my thick head: should I be eating differently?
Should I be exercising differently? Should I be getting teeny tiny needles
stuck in my ears? Should I chill-the-fuck[3]-out-already-and-not-venture-down-this-slippery-slope-of-crazy?
Ahem. Thoughts from the group?
[1] I thought about ending the post right
here. But then I realized you’d have to go back to “working” or “caring for
your children” or “watching The Bachelor”
and because my intention is nothing if not to enable your procrastination, I
proceed.
[2] Not like C reads this – he’s too
overwhelmed by my superior humor – but if he did he might correct me. So let me
set the record straight: he did get
me a luxurious box of very fancy had-to-order-them-in-the-mail-from-new-york! sea salt caramels which are probably even “artisanal” and “made from the fresh
milk of organically-raised-free-range-phD-educated-remarkably-happy-cows.” But
that, my friends, was for Valentine’s Day.
[3] In the words of the inimitable Julie
over at A Little Pregnant, here’s
what I have to say about swearing: you
try having your uterus filled with glow-in-the-dark dye and then we’ll discuss
what kind of language seems appropriate. No, seriously, you should try it.
