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So I went to work, and it wasn’t that bad, though I did find out that my extraordinarily sympathetic boss is moving back to Korea where she can be a housewife & concentrate on getting pregnant/staying pregnant. I will miss her. And envy her.

But that wasn’t the most fun.

The most fun was realizing that I really was fine. Well, at least as long as I was sitting at home in bed with my feet propped up. Working – even as a librarian – means being up and down, sitting, standing, reaching for books, storming over to holler at obnoxious kids, sitting, standing. That didn’t work out so good for me. Oh god.

So after an afternoon of cramping, I started bleeding a lot – gushing, actually – while trying to find some guy a copy of Oedipus Tyrannus. I got too lightheaded to see anything and basically crawled downstairs so I could get to the restroom without ruining more clothes &/or bringing a shelf of books down on top of me as I collapsed. Made my excuses to the assistant manager, whose response was “go, please go!” and got on the subway & home without much more of an incident. Though I think the clothes just might be ruined after all.

My complacency certainly is.

So I have tomorrow off, and I suppose if I have to, I can call in on Saturday though that will leave my co-workers dangerously short-staffed. Of course, me dashing off in the middle of the day, or passing out and being hauled out of there in an ambulance would also leave them short-staffed, if that’s my main concern. I guess I simply don’t know how to judge “ready to go back.” I mean, I honestly felt fine this morning, and I really really really thought the bleeding was tapering off and would soon be gone entirely. I even went to work wearing just a panty-liner instead of the great big honkin’ sleep-through-the-night-even-when-you’re-bleeding-like-a-pig-at-slaughter pads.

Hah. Serves me right.

So much for all my pride about my suddenly cooperative body. You’d think I’d learn by now not to crow over any-damn-thing. Not two pink lines on a HPT. Not a heartbeat. Not a goddamn 1-day-that-wasn’t-so-bad miscarriage. And the boy is out of town with a daughter again. Where I encouraged him to go, since, hey, I’m fine now. Ugh.

So ok, Fates. I have officially gotten it. Message received. Thanks for the reminder. Yep, I know. No, no plans for anything at all tomorrow. In fact, I’m thinking lying in bed all day with my feet up is gonna be da bomb, ok? Nothing going on here, you can just go pester some other cockeyed fool. Please, in fact. It’s been a long few weeks.

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… again, because what else are you going to do? It was ok. There’s enough crap going on at any given time at work that I can vent and rage and no one needs to know that I couldn’t care less about the scheduling or the new database system issues. Transference is a wonderful coping tool, I’m discovering.

But yesterday was a well-timed day off. Unfortunately, the reason I had yesterday off is because I have to go in to work tomorrow. So probably no writing this weekend. Boy gets home tonight, and I’m very much looking forward to it, though it was probably a good thing he wasn’t here yesterday. I think it did me good to be alone for the most part, & not have to justify or deny my weepy spells.

Still no signs of miscarriage – which will be, I’m assuming, finding my unmentionables full of blood. Accompanied by much pain and a dose of fear/rage/anguish/renewed grief.

I am, however, rather enjoying the end of my progesterone symptoms. The lack of bloating for the first time in 2 months has been a pleasant surprise. I’d gotten used to feeling fat and uncomfortable, and so it’s nice to have room in my jeans again. The bruising on my ass is subsiding, as are the internal lumps. I was vindicated in my feeling that boy’s been veering a bit off-target in giving me those progesterone shots when the nurse went to give Rh-negative-me a shot of Rhogam (to keep me from getting sensitized when this miscarriage finally happens). She exclaimed over my bruises and told me that they’d have hurt less if he had actually been doing them in the right place. I still have the chest of an XXX moviestar, which is sort of fun now that it’s not accompanied by the tummy of a muppet. Breasts still feel tender, but they have since I started stimming, & I’m getting used to treating my front-side like it’s breakable. Oddly enough, I’ve been feeling what would – if I didn’t know better – be best described as “a hint of morning sickness” for the last two days.

Ah fuck.

Entertained long, involved fantasies today of going in for my HCG test next Tuesday and having my doctor decide to do another US on a whim, whereupon he finds a perfectly healthy baby. “It’s a miracle!” the nurse would say. I’d have to explain to everyone who’s been grieving with me that the doctor was astonished. “I’ve never seen that happen before! Those tricksy tipped uteruses!” he’d say. “They warned me about women like you when I went to US school!” Even close friends might think that I’d been making up or exaggerating the whole “waiting to miscarry” thing to get attention. I wouldn’t care. Not even a little. Baby’s middle name would probably have to be Milagra, and she’d hate me for that – as well as for the corny story of how she almost didn’t come to be – for the rest of her life. I’d go buy a lottery ticket the day of the miracle sonogram, and I’d win, because hey, somebody’s gotta beat the odds and I’d done it in a big way already. And, not important, but so much fun, the doctor wouldn’t even have to put me back on PIO for the next two weeks, because – hey! – the pregnancy is obviously viable without it!

It was a really nice daydream, actually.

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Nothing new here, save that when my boss (who’s also going through IVF) saw me looking green at the hotdog-odor wafting from the Friends of the Library benefit going on downstairs, she immediately said, “Maybe you’re, you know, pregnant” So I told her the news, and she was delighted for me. And started thinking of ways to make my job easier, less-stressful, more high-risk pregnancy-friendly.

Damn, am I ever lucky.

I’m having a rather strong sense of my own luckiness right about now, actually. I won’t be comfy until I’ve passed the 12-week mark. I know my statistics, and I know my track-record. But I’m feeling happy, and this is another damned hurdle, even if I trip over the next one, I’ve passed this one. I can get pregnant. Even with less-than-superstar embryos. So I’m trying to feel mellow and happy and ready for this to be the beginning of a happy ending. Or maybe, the beginning of a happy beginning, would be a more accurate way to phrase that. I’m special-ordering baby-name books, though, and setting up a baby registry on Amazon. Doing normal-pregnant-person stuff, if there is such a thing.

My only feelings of un-luck are centering around the boyfriend/fiance’s reactions to all this. Granted, he’s been through this before with his first wife, and he’s a boy, and his emotions are not the ones driving this need to procreate. He’s doing this for me, a fact of which I am properly appreciative. He’s even doing it with remarkable good grace, given the shock to his everyday life/existing family life that this is going to entail. But while I’m in whiny mode, I have to admit that it’s a bit harder than I’d expected, being the only one who’s truly and viscerally excited beyond words. I wish I could share that with my husband instead of my mother (who actually squealed when I told her. It was the cutest thing.) And, speaking of “husband,” I’m not looking forward to getting married either, which he wants to do once we know this baby is a keeper. Long story, so just suffice it to say that I wasn’t a great wife, the first time around, and I don’t have any burning desire to subject myself (or my family) to the horrifying spectacle of a second wedding. The fact that his three daughters openly regard me as an intruder, even just as the live-in girlfriend, doesn’t help either. Second-wife-with-baby is going to be harder for them to deal with, even I can understand that. But it makes it harder to balance my feelings of mellow joy-to-the-world, knowing I have to keep this a secret indefinitely.

We’re going to the Galapagos next week, and I’m even nervous about flying with my meds. What if they find out because they’re standing too close to me in customs and I have to explain to a doltish agent what all the medical paraphernalia is for?

I know. Here this was going to be a post about how lucky I am and I whine because my trip to the fucking goddamn Galapagos might be a little stressful. What a bitch I can be. I’m going to see marine iguanas and get to spend time on a boat, which I have missed with a passion usually reserved for one’s homeplace, (which, being from the desert, is inexplicable). And I’m going to a place I’ve always wanted to see, and I’m getting to do it with people I love, and people I like, and if I start to develop morning sickness, I can blame it on seasickness instead, which has a certain sneaky appeal to it. So fuck it – I’m giddy with joy and scarcely able to concentrate on anything other than the looming “I’m pregnant!” meme that pops up in my brain at oddly inappropriate moments.

The most bothersome symptom I’ve been having – namely the inability to sleep through the night without getting up to pee – seems to have abated for the time being. Maybe just because I’m not trying to hoard piss in order to test in the morning. Still bloated and feeling a bit too full at all times, but, hey, it’s making it easier not to give in to “I’m eating for two” fantasies at the ice-cream bar.

Speaking of… it’s time for a Star Trek DVD. Some handwork (baby-related, of course), and maybe a smidgeon of ice cream. I’m eating for me and an embryo the size of a poppy seed, after all. A very very hungry poppy seed.

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 …at which point I should learn if this IVF thing is going to work this month or not.  

Yikes. 

First really noticeable side effects kicked in last night.  Sleeplessness.  Heart beating fast, so I couldn’t relax and fall back asleep.  Assisted, I’m sure, by the really crappy dreams playing in my brain when I did sleep.  And then, when I’d finally (after, like, four hours staring at the clock) started dozing again, the guys fixing the curb out front (Thanks, Mr. Notary!) started in on their day’s work.  And since the sidewalk is about two feet away from my basement bedroom, that sort of put a stop to my plan to sleep late this morning.  

Oh yeah, & the bloat/constipation I was warned about?  That’s a noticeable side effect, too.  

Nasty taste in my mouth – from the prednisone, I think – every morning now.   And my pee smells funny.  Damn, hormones are weird things.   And, it’s weird not having my usual monthly-cycle going on.  By now I should be seeing the first signs of ovulation.  But nothing.  Or if it’s there, it’s masked by all the shit being pumped through my body. 

However on a more positive note, the Repronex “bruising” only seems to be lasting for a day or so, which makes it possible to alternate sides so as not to unduly aggravate any sore bits.  Which, at this point, all my tummy bits are sort of sore.  

And my aunt – the one who fancies herself psychic – has stated with certainty that I will have a daughter and she will be “a fey child”.  She probably means a winsome blond thing, but since I’m in the middle of writing a story connecting autism and faerie, it was not a reassuring comment, though meant well, I’m sure.

Long day at work today, and I guess I’ll get evaluated today, since this is the last day my boss and I work together before her vacation.  I’m assuming it will go well, but who can say?  I think she’d’ve said something if I wasn’t performing up to snuff.

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