Getting introspective, as is my wont at the end of an old year. Well that, and drinking heavily, because, hey, why the hell not? It’s downright fucking amazing how introspective a gal can get after a few pints of Guinness.
Seriously, though. I don’t think it has much to do with the time of the year, and I’m not drinking anywhere near as much as my brain would prefer, because there is the possibility that my doctor will let me start my next (final?) IVF cycle on this cycle. Which, if I can still trust my body’s signals, is going to begin any day now. I mean, he wants to see me on Day 2, which is right on track for baseline measurements. And he knows – and approves – of my eagerness to get this babymakin’ show on the road, so if he can give me the go-ahead, he will.
But of course, I’m also nervous that it won’t happen. That my hCG levels will hover indefinitely at a useless level like 8 and will refuse to budge any further. I’m nervous that maybe even if I can start up again this month, that I shouldn’t. Jeezus, what if this happens again? I guess I know the answer to that: if it happens again, I go in for surgery and they remove the embryo-magnet formerly known as my right fallopian tube. But still – what if?
Yeah, if I’m honest, my introspection is really taking the what-if form of self-torture to new depths. What if I do? What if I don’t? What if we just skip the next little while and go straight to a donor egg cycle? What if even that doesn’t work, maybe we should just skip straight to adoption preliminaries, I mean, really, given my track record, why do I think any of this will work? Hell, I’m not even thinking that adoption is going to be simple for us.
Maybe it’s not “introspection” so much as it is “wallowing in fear and agonized nervousness.” And with no concrete target to focus on, it’s more of a “greasy fingerprints-of-anguish contaminating every clean dish in the kitchen” sort of deal.
Yeah, that’s feeling a little more honest.
And then part of me – still dealing with the honest part, mind you – is wondering why the hell I’m not even grieving over this miscarriage anymore. I mean, shit, it’s not even complete yet. This time last miscarriage I could barely get out of bed, and here I’m blithely planning my next IVF cycle and wondering if I’ll look funnier as a pregnant lady than I do as a non-pregnant lady. Is it true that you can get used to anything, and that I’m well on my way to being someone who’s used to losing pregnancies? Ah, fuck.
Yesterday we enjoyed another episode of wondering if the dog was going to die. She has developed the bad habit of, er, eating the crotch out of any underwear left in her general vicinity. Which I try really hard not to do in order to keep the dog’s innards healthy, (but also so as not to disgust the tidy boy who wonders, sometimes, if I was raised by wolves. Messy wolves. Messy wolves who can’t remember where the laundry room is.)
And I’d like to refute him with something sparkling like, “I do so know where the laundry room is” but the fact is that the day after I found a crotch-free (and not in a fun, sexy way, more in a gnawed and raggedy way) scrap of cloth in the middle of the floor, another pair must have gotten shoved under the bed when I undressed because it sure got overlooked on my daily trek to the aforementioned laundry room. Which means she ate two pair of panties in less than 24 hours. Which meant that I spent yesterday with an anxious ear pressed to her distressed and gurgly abdomen wondering if her intestines were blocking up and twisting and necrotizing even as I documented the sound effects.
Which made me question my fitness to be a mother. I mean, if I can forget to remove underwear from the dog’s immediate environs, what am I going to forget to keep out of Sprog’s way? Live electrical cables? Bite-sized turtles straight from Chinatown? E-coli contaminated petri dishes?
One more thing to bargain over with the invisible cloud being. “If you let me have a real live baby, I promise to not ever even bring one of those turtles home, let alone leave it somewhere a small person could inhale it.” Ditto the electrical cables. I don’t even know where a person would pick up a petri dish of E-coli, but I promise to be really really careful about that one, too.
I think I’m going to go check under my bed one more time. Maybe leave myself a trail to the laundry room made out of socks or something. Mama-wolf would be so proud.
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