Friday, my temperature was still elevated, and I had been nauseated all day. Saturday morning I woke up with the temperature a little lower than Friday, but still elevated. I was still nauseated, and really, really thought I was pregnant. But by late morning, spotting had started, and I knew I wasn’t pregnant, again. Yesterday the real bleeding started. It was heartbreaking. It’s hard to explain, really, what it’s like to not be pregnant, month after month. I wish I knew why. I spent the better part of the weekend sobbing in the corner, yelling at my spouse over nothing, and painting my bedroom.
Maybe it’s the prolactin, I don’t know. I didn’t get it checked last month, although now I wish I had. Not that it would matter. One thing that has been hard to accept is that no amount of information will get me pregnant. Whether or not 28% of pregnancy charts show nausea at 11 days past ovulation, whether or not my prolactin levels are high or normal or slightly elevated, none of that information, alone, will get me pregnant. None of it even matters. Whenever I test, whatever symptoms I have, no matter what the correlation is with other people who are pregnant, none of it matters. Because I’m not. So this weekend I thought, I either want to take March off, or I want to do something more aggressive. What I don’t want to do is the same damn thing I have been doing for the last seven months.
My wife really does not want to take a break, although she is willing to if it’s what I want. So this morning I bit the bullet and called the doctor’s office for a consultation with my doctor. I thought that if she could explain to me why she thought Clomid would help, and what the side effects (short and long term) really are, maybe I could get myself comfortable with taking it. Except for how it turns out that my doctor is on vacation all week. So I can’t ask her these things.
I decided to go the Manhattan office of our doctor’s practice to at least get the prolactin levels checked, and maybe get the prescription for Clomid from a different doctor. If we have to make this decision on our own, I thought I would rather have the Rx in hand. Long story short is that I got the run-around about if/how I could even get a prescription for the Clomid from some other doctor, and ended up loudly ugly-crying on a street corner on the upper east side while on the phone with my wife. It seems that our chances of starting the Clomid this cycle are slim to none, so now we are down to the options of another natural cycle, or a month off. While sobbing into the phone, my wife offered me the month off. She held it out there for me, and I grabbed it. Less than an hour later, I question that decision. What if she’s right, and the right ovary is better? Maybe I will do a natural cycle after all. I have no idea what the right choice is.
What I do know is that I hate this. I hate this so much. Getting pregnant is not fun, like I thought it would be. It is hard, and stressful. It involves making uninformed decisions, and missing work, and having your blood taken for the fiftieth time, and talking about deeply personal things with loud-mouthed receptionists and crying in your office, in your bedroom, on street corners. And extremely bitter disappointment.
Last night, our kids came home from their vacation with their father. BC was telling some long, complicated story about what to do if you are being attacked by a German Shepherd, and I just thought, this could be it. These three could be the only kids I will have. And they are already so big.