Geez it’s been months. And months. I just re-read my posts, and i’m not quite the optimistic girl I was in january. We’re still going. Is there anything worse than the verb: to try?
So a quick summary. We did a couple of months of surreptitious peeing on sticks. This didn’t necessarily work, as it tended to result in me being a dragon lady “You VILL have sex NOW husband”. Not exactly appealing or relaxing. It is very hard to get a balance, between letting it all happen and f#$ I’m 40 in October. Between “I’ll take care of this you go on your merry way” and “Hello could you HELP keep track of the dates here?”.
What has happened? Well after a few months of militant timing, I went and saw my endocrinologist, who is a bit like going to see your grandad. He’s a lovely man, been looking after me for half a decade with PCOS and insulin resistance, which I am happy to say is all very much under control. He’s also a bit of a fertility expert.
He did the big “Ah don’t worry” speech, stop peeing on sticks and stock taking your temperature. Relax. Enjoy the ride.
I listened…..for about a month. The thing in the back of my head is “if there’s a problem, they’re going to need some info from me”. So I’ve gone back to tracking it, though I have to admit I’m not stressing as much about it. Hub in boots is right on board, fronting up at the appropriate dates and really taking the heat out of the pressure I was feeling . He’s been great.
He’s also been great when I have slowly descended into panic. My 40th is in 5 weeks. As we got closer and closer, every month we are not successful just gets that little bit worse. Aggravated by the “so what do you want to do for your 40th?” questions. NOTHING! BE PREGNANT!
There were a couple of months there where I felt we just buggered up the timing. There were a couple of months where I felt too stressed, or unwell, and I have to say the separated shoulder joint after falling at boxing did NOTHING for our sex life, for quite a few weeks there.
A few months ago, I started acupuncture and chinese herbs. My chiro does the whole lot, she’s a lovely lady, and I’ve been seeing her since my early 20s, off and on. Apparently my kidney pulse was the culprit. What the???? Doesn’t matter, I take her advice, I take her herbs. I FEEL better, I feel more ready, I feel like my body has kicked everything up a notch. Last month, I was dead dead certain I was pregnant. Not phantom wishful thinking, but really seriously pregnant. My boobs ached for days and days and days. And then my period came. I was furious! So back to the endo we went, Hub in boots in tow this time.
This time, the grandfatherly endo did not have his sit back and relax face on. 5 months on from my last visit, it was all business. Referrals to a gyno. Yuk. never been to one, not comfortable with the whole experience. Tests for hub in boots.
Well the morning of the test, I decide to be helpful. Helpful? Really? What was I thinking? We were at the boring end of the month, and he had to abstain for 3 days, deliver at home, then drive like a maniac to the lab for testing with his happy little sample. I stayed around, getting ready for work, occasionally offering some help, and making things that huge bit worse for him. Eventually I realised I was being a pain in the ass. I left, and it was all over red rover in a matter of minutes. on ya hub in boots. Way to sprog in a cup.
He’s so good, so cooperative. his mimes of the process of driving to the lab in his convertible were hilarious. As was the reenactment handing it over to a worker dude at a counter in a flannelette shirt, who was most un fussed by the contents of the brown paper bag.
A few days later, off to the gyno. It was not a productive visit. Another nice, helpful medical professional, and some really really bad news. Hub in boots count. Low. I believe the expression was very VERY low. 7. Seven. 7. It should be above 20.
I can’t begin to tell you how I felt. Punched in the guts. Multiple times. The gyno was understanding. He got no history, no info, he just sat and watched while I balled my eyes out. And used up his tissues. And balled. And left his office, and sat in the corridor and balled. And sobbed in the lift. And sobbed walking up the street. And sobbed in the car. And then rang hub in boots.
I don’t think he’s closed his mouth since the news. It is always there, lingering, in the back of his head. He is in shock. Both of us had completely adjusted to the idea that with PCOS I was possibly going to have problems. I had processed that. I was ok with it. I could suck it up. But to flip that on its head, to make it Hub in boots? That knocked us for six. Or seven to be exact.
Now we hold our breath. We had some half hearted mid cycle stressed out of our minds attempts last weekend. This Friday is test 2. Which is worse. I don’t want test 2. I want to know where we stand, and take action. I want to stop holding my breath and figure out what’s next. I do NOT want to wait. But wait we do. Until the middle of next week. The little bit of hope the first test was wrong is like razor blades in my stomach. The hope is worse than the knowing. Hub in boots is convinced he muffed the test, getting close, stopping, going again. He’s convinced it is not accurate.
When I got home I balled and balled. Then it was drink or run. And I figured, I can’t control how fertile I am. I cannot control the age of my eggs. I cannot control his swimmers, and how many there are. But I can lose weight, and keep myself healthy. So I donned my sunnies, ignored all “how did it go” phone calls, and I ran. I am not much of a runner. I’ve been doing the couch to 5k. Its an iphone app that sets up interval training to build you up to run further. So I hit the bay run and I ran and ran and ran.
When I finished, I could not come home. The “where are you” smss came and went, I ignored phone calls, and I sat on a grassy hill overlooking the bay listening to music, stretching and crying. I put on a good face when I finally got in.
Hub in boots spent a lot of the night on the computer googling. Googling health is always such a stupid idea. There’s no distinction between credible info and some maladjusted geek in his bedroom. I am not sure if he found any answers. I went to bed and I cried some more. I went to work and cried quite a lot. I went to boxing and cried. After another two runs I seem to have run out of tears. I tried to keep my crying on the quiet, I tried to give him space. I took him out to a german place on Friday night and loaded him up with pints to blow off a bit of steam. This seemed to reset him. That and footy all weekend.
So now, we wait. I want this to be over, I want to know where we stand, and I am not sure I have the mental or physical energy for what may lay before us. If we go down it, it will be a long, expensive road. Hub in boots is waiting at the cross roads and ignoring the traffic lights. He doesn’t want IVF. I don’t either. But that or nothing, no family? The devil or the deep blue sea.
My gut has that horrible little bit of hope in it. And overlaying that is a quiet, sinking, disappointment, a sad little desparation. A realisation that next year, instead of a growing belly and baby clothes, may be all about vinyl covered cold benches and chemical tornadoes, and a quiet panic behind our eyes. My greatest fear is that this may drive a silent wedge between us, a wall, a blame. I do not want to sign up for a relationship natural disaster. If it’s him and no kids, or no him and kids, I want him. I will always want him. I just have to make sure he knows that.