(This should be a good one to delurk on, especially since it will be the last post during National Delurking Week.)
Last night I was thinking about the date of my last period. I’ve never been good about tracking it, and the only time I ever did was when we were going through treatments. In fact, somewhere in the dregs of the computer system where I use to work is an excel spreadsheet that had every CD1 marked for four years. It kind of pisses me off that I never was able to save it since I was told to vacate immediately the day I was let go. It not only had the cycle days marked but every appointment, every beta level, every check amount written. It was a tidy summarization of my reproductive failures and successes clear of emotion and tripe, unlike my blogs.
I know that I should expect my period before the weekend is over, but stupid me, even with as cynical as I have let myself become, I still wonder “Could I be…?” and let myself contemplate the idea of buying a couple of HPTs.
And then I run head-long into the Wall of Reality.
It took four years for a specialist to get and keep me pregnant. That was over two years ago. I’m knee deep into my 40’s. And yet the skeptic in me still holds onto the idea of maybe….just maybe…. Reminds me of the month I actually thought about using a pregnancy test even though Sparring Partner and I had been sex-free for over seven weeks (infertility treatments are not kind to the libido). I almost convinced myself that my period might have been break-through bleeding (that would have been some kind of crazy “break-through bleeding”) and I could have been two months pregnant!
Can you say, Dee-loosh-i-null??
I knew you could.
This morning I was feeling a bit crampy. I’m not going to be one of those Infertile Urban Legends. Sparring Partner would be pissed. I would be even more paranoid about miscarrying a baby than I was when I was pregnant with Aitch who started with a donor’s egg, and if you recall I was crazy with paranoia then, what with the once a week ultrasounds and Doppler-dancing and leaving work with no notice to go home and lie on my bed and sob uncontrollably waiting for the inevitable miscarriage that never came.
Talk about a Whack-Job. Why didn’t anyone tell me?
I know that most of you are pretty much in the same place I am, which is D.O.N.E., but do you sometimes still hope?