Posts Tagged ‘pg symptoms’


Give or take a week or so.

Got disgusted yesterday with my due-date-less state and spent way too much time on my lunch break researching average hCG levels at 14dpo, and then extrapolating my numbers backwards for an estimated ovulation date of March 13.10 or 11. (Thanks, Kate!)


Which would make me 5w2d today.  And my due date would be right around December 2.

Which sounds better than the less-than-impressive, “Um, I dunno” answer to the ‘how far along are you?’ question.

My doctor left it up to me when I’d go in for my OB exam next week.  I’m actually inclined to leave it as long as possible in the hopes of seeing things more clearly on the ultrasound, but we also want to get out of town for Easter weekend.  So I think I’ll go in on Wednesday.  Which should be 6w2d.  Which means (according to the other bits of obsessive googling I did yesterday) that a fetal sac, yolk sac, fetal pole & possibly even a heartbeat might be visible.

I still don’t feel pregnant, though, and it’s driving me nuts.   I want symptoms, damnit.  I want something to obsess over, and analyze.  I want nausea and boobs that hurt when my husband looks at them from across the room!  I want fluctuating emotions!  I want pickle cravings that cannot be denied!  I want to vomit when I brush my teeth!

Instead, I’m hungry.  Physically, belly-rumblingly hungry.  And bloated.  And crampy.  Proto-sprog is doing an awfully good job of imitating premenstrual syndrome right now, and let me just say it out loud – I’m not naming proto-sprog Florence, so she might as well cut it out and give me some good symptoms instead of these crappy ambiguous ones.

PIO injections have been hurting, and I’m not sure why.  I wonder if I got a bad batch of needles or something?  Hoping that I don’t have to stay on the meds for the entire first trimester though I will, of course, happily do whatever the good doc says at this point.  I had the first of what I expect will be many ‘I’m losing the pregnancy/baby’ dreams last night.  Actually, I had the first five or so, because every time I’d wake up, I’d start fresh with a new variation.  Miscarriage, physically misplacing a baby, sick baby, etc.  It was a fun, fun night.

And damn, I wish I could get my hCG checked every other day like last time.  This whole ‘assume everything’s fine unless you have reason to think otherwise’ does not sit well with paranoid little me.  Since I’m crediting the infertility meditation tapes I’ve been using with the fact that my body was able to relax enough to accomplish this, maybe I should go look for pregnancy meditation tapes now.

At least it’s not April Fools’ day anymore.

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Wishful gagging

Not, you understand, that I wish to gag. I don’t. I hate yeching more than I hate almost anything in the world.

But I am certainly wishing that all of the physical gagging I’ve been doing for the last 24 hours means something’s stirring in there, and not simply that I have an overactive gag reflex (and/or imagination). But given that the smell currently setting me off is a dog treat made from the dried, er, penis of a bull, it could simply stink to high heaven, no added hormonal enhancement needed for maximum non-enjoyment. God knows the dog is having the time of her life. This was a reward for not wreaking devastation between the time the boy left for the afternoon and I arrived home from work. Nellie is a good dog. She gets nasty treats as a reward, but she won’t be licking my face anytime soon.

And even if I am reacting to some neato hormonal cocktail making me more sensitive to odors, it doesn’t seem to causing any sort of food aversions. More’s the pity. Dinner consisted of some of those excellent olives stuffed with garlic, squash soup, really ripe cheddar cheese, and a hunk of olive bread. And ice cream. I didn’t even make it as far as the take-out menus before giving into my olive-craving, and you’d think that brine-soaked, allium-stuffed olives would set off a gag if anything would, but no – I can’t get enough of ’em.

On the other hand, (or on my chest, rather), my boobs are doing the amazing-swollenness/tenderness thing that they did my first pregnancy and not my second. I’m inclined to count that as a pretty damned good sign. A painful sign, but a good one nevertheless. Until you hear otherwise (say, 9am tomorrow) I’m feeling optimistic about the whole thing.

Only 6 days til I can test.


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with relief.  Which makes a nice change from wallowing in grief.  Though it is pretty damned strange to be feeling more pregnant than ever, while knowing that I’m not, and actively waiting to begin bleeding again.  Seriously whimpered this morning swinging the girls out of bed.  


Oddly, (or maybe not, given my year), the news of the chemical pregnancy itself isn’t causing me too much grief.  Yeah, I’d’ve much rather cycle #2 had worked properly.  I wish I was 5 weeks pregnant today.   But it didn’t and I’m really not.  I don’t feel any connection to those few cells that haven’t yet figured out how to turn themselves loose.  Not the way I did with proto-sprog #1.  Seeing a heartbeat made it real to me, I suppose, in a way that felt like it was going to destroy me when that potentiality was taken away.  As I told my doctor, dealing with a chemical pregnancy is easy.  It simply didn’t work, and I can live with that.  It’s a ‘negative’ just as much as if nothing had ever implanted, rather than a miscarriage of a positive.  The difference makes a difference to me.  

Well, the difference, plus the lure of late-night-baked pumpkin pie for breakfast.  (I’m nibbling on a piece right now, while I wait for Nellie to wake up).  Weird racing-heart stuff last night, which I think is the result of the prednisone – have I mentioned how much I dislike taking this drug?  And it was lovely not dealing with Lovenox or PIO.  Not to mention the pessaries.  

So yeah, I’m still feeling good about where I’m at.  I am terrifically grateful to my doctor.  I’m feeling – dare I say it – lucky.  Maybe not lucky to be in this position, but lucky to have ended up with my husband, dealing with our problem at this clinic, even lucky to have ended up in NYC.  If you’re gonna be infertile, you’re in good company in this city.  REs on every corner, and a fertility pharmacy on every other block.  

Going to try a day of not complaining.  See how that works out for me.

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And the day-count marches on and on.  Only a week until I can begin obsessively testing. 


Let’s see:

  • Early am period-type cramps, centered exactly where my uterus is?  Check. (Though nowhere near as noticeable as I’m hoping they become.)
  • Peeing like mad all night and crossing my legs all day? Check.
  • Sore boobs? Check.  (But I’m still putting that down to the PIO. The Boy commented on my sexy new cleavage yesterday, but again, I remember them getting sore to even look at, last time, and we’re nowhere near those proportions yet.)

Other than obsessively detailing signs, I’m just trying to live normally, and – of course – waiting. Waiting more patiently than I would have thought possible, actually. I feel a bit like I’m back on my DHEA high, and have, since learning that our embryos’ quality was so good. I’m still feeling very serene. Hardly crazy at all.

Honestly though, it’s not because I’m feeling so very confident that this will work. I just feel at peace just knowing that if it doesn’t work, it’ll not be for lack of response to the drugs. The drugs did what they were supposed to do, and I think I can attempt to be fatalistic about the rest of it. We know I don’t have any problems with implantation, so if one of those little guys can’t manage to stick, then I guess I can live with that, since we did everything right.

Which is not to say that I’m not going to reserve the right to lose my mind if this doesn’t work. It’s just that right this very second, I’m feeling calm – a nice change.

(And, of course, part of me can’t help but remember how placid and calm I was all through this summer’s pregnancy. I was like a great big doe-eyed cow, just grazing and smiling beatifically on everyone around me. So maybe this feeling of calm is a sign, too!)

Going to go graze for some chocolate now.


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I have a very faint positive on the HPT test I took this morning.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god.

Standard disclaimer here: I went out and bought expensive pregnancy tests because I’ve been leery about how fast the HCG shot appeared to leave my system using the internet-cheapies I’ve been obsessively peeing on. So I went out looking for a very sensitive test, and, having said that, there’s still a chance it’s reading leftover HCG from the trigger shot nearly 2 weeks ago.

But there’s a chance that it’s not. A decent chance, even, I’ll go so far as to say. It’s faint, (as it should be at 10dp2dt), but it’s really there. I was sure it wasn’t. I was staring at that bastard test and willing it to turn positive – to the point that when it did, I didn’t believe what I was seeing. But I was. Seeing it. A faint positive.

I have a faintly positive HPT test in my possession.

Oh my god, I’m feeling hopeful.

For just about the first time since transfer, to be honest. Hearing that they were willing to transfer all four of my surviving embryos seemed to mean to me that they felt there wasn’t a chance in hell that any/all of them were keepers. Seemed like a waste of time even assuming the position. Not to mention a waste of my tender flesh every night when I had my obligatory stab and wince procedure. Boobs have been sore – yeah, like someone’s gnawing on them – check. Crampiness for the last week or so, at least once a day, but no bleeding – check. But really nothing else of note. My skin looks good. Better than usual, despite the stress & weird hormones. I’ve been on a relatively even-keel, emotion-wise, weirdly enough.

Oh my god. There’s a chance this could work.

And yes, I know, no chicken-counting before hatching. I know, I know. There’s still plenty of time for this to be a false-positive. Or a blighted ovum. Or a first trimester miscarriage. Or any number of bad, scary things that might not be avoidable. But there’s a chance this could work.

At the moment, I’m considering myself p.r.e.g.n.a.n.t. until proven otherwise.

Oh my god.

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