Two week wait.

There’s something I forgot to mention in my post about birth intentions.  It’s less of an intention and more of a decision, anyways: I won’t be induced.

As you know by now, my induction with Bingo at 41 weeks and some days was less than ideal.  It limited my options, restricted my movement, included a series of interventions and complications, involved almost two full days of ouch, and still resulted in a c-section.

I hope that Powerball comes out of my vagina, if only because I’d rather not be recovering from surgery parenting both a toddler and a newborn.  My efforts to make that happen include crossing my fingers and toes, eating all of the pineapple from the fruit tray at a staff meeting, and even making another acupuncture appointment (it turns out I still have some insurance money to spare…)  But if s/he doesn’t take the hint and vacate my uterus soon, my efforts will not include Cervidil or an IV of Pitocin.

Instead, if Powerball doesn’t want to be born, we’ll skip the middle step and jump right to a planned c-section.  So planned, in fact, that we scheduled it at our last visit with the OB: October 13th, at 4:00pm.

Sea isn’t keen on the date.  It’s an older cousin’s birthday, for one.  And it will mean that some of Powerball’s birthdays fall on Friday the 13th.  But it’s the time that fit best into the OB’s schedule.  That’s how it goes, I’m realizing: some birthdays are about the end of a 40 week count, a hormonal shift, luck, fate, a full moon, whatever, and other birthdays are about what fit most neatly into a stranger’s calendar.

It occurred to me this morning, as I switched my own calendar from September to October (just in case I don’t make it back into the office next week), that Powerball’s scheduled due date means I am– without a doubt– in my last two weeks of this pregnancy.  Very likely my last two weeks of pregnancy ever.

It’s a strange kind of two week wait, with plenty in common with the one from 38 weeks ago.  There’s anticipation, anxiety, a desire to know exactly how things will play out.  There’s the over-analyzing of ever twinge and cramp, and the compulsive toilet paper checking.  There’s also an urgency that’s all its own.  I clean my desk, procrastinate on packing the hospital bag, try to make sure the cat food bowl is full, make plans that I may or may not keep, click “interested” but not “attending” on every Facebook event, count the days until my favourite midwife (Diet Coke) is back on call, insist that friends and family keep their phones on, and wait.  Just wait.


Yays and nays.

This morning I shuffled myself back into Clinic One for a pregnancy test.  Today, when they call with the results of my bloodwork, the two week wait will officially end.

While we (okay, I), wait, I hope you’ll indulge me in some hopeless navel gazing: the yays and nays of why I might (not) be pregnant.

The Pregnancy Test:

I’ve only twice before needed to go in for a pregnancy test.  One of those tests was negative, the other was Bingo. 50/50.  Crap: that tells us nothing.

14 DPO:

And no signs of bleeding, hence the need for the pregnancy test. Prior (unmedicated) luteal phases have ended 12 days after ovulation.  I’m not on progesterone suppositories this time, so if blood is coming it should be coming.  But I Googled (yes, I Googled), and apparently Femara can increase the length of the luteal phase by raising progesterone levels.  Also, this is my first tracked cycle post-Bingo, and she may well have messed my cycle up.  Still we know nothing.


On Sunday I grumpily declared to Sea and a handful of friends that this cycle had failed.  I was cramping, it felt like my period was coming, despair set in.  Three days later the cramping has continued on and off.  Period warm-up stretches or pregnancy? Only my uterus knows.


I’m really, really tired.  A toddler also woke me up at 5:20 this morning.  Singing.  I’d be worried if I wasn’t tired, frankly.


I’ve had moments where I feel like I’m on a ship, but that could also be psychosomatic.  Or the result of getting up at 5:20.  Or the fact that I ate Twizzlers for breakfast.

Modern Family:

The other night, an episode of Modern Family nearly made me cry.  When I was pregnant with Bingo, I could barely go on Facebook because posts about missing pets would leave me teary.  Maybe I’m being overemotional.  Maybe that’s a symptom of pregnancy.  Or maybe the episode of Modern Family was just really sad.

And with that, gentle readers, I rest my case. So, while we wait for the phone to ring, yay or nay?



For those of you TTC (or trying to avoid it)…

A more inclusive cycle tracking tool is now available!

From the little I can see, it still seems to assume the type of sex folks are having.  Regardless, if I still had a cycle to track, I would appreciate a tool that doesn’t involve various pastels and unfortunate euphemisms.  And I would really love to set an app, any app, to “sex mode”.

No longer an IUI outlaw.

I went back to Clinic One this morning to pay my dues, head hung in shame.  I waited by the front desk as Heterosexist Receptionist answered a phone call and then complained to a surly sonographer, “She was confused!  And then her husband phoned me and called me a liar!”.

She finally turned to me, and I confessed my crime.  As it turned out however, it wasn’t a crime at all.  Instead, I had been charged for the IUI when I had bought the trigger shot days before.  Not having any sense of the cost of a trigger shot, I hadn’t known that they had just tacked the IUI on to that charge instead.  Besides, Heterosexist Receptionist told me in a slightly sinister tone, even if I had stolen an IUI they knew I would be back.  Both relieved and embarrassed, I bought my progesterone and hurried out the door.

So The Mystery of The Stolen IUI ends well.  My name has been cleared of all fertility thieving charges and my conscience is clear.

The case of the stolen sperm.

The title is a lie.  The sperm itself wasn’t stolen, just the IUI.  It’s been quite a day.

Sea is recovering from the flu, and this morning her hacking cough woke us up before the alarm did.  As she coughed and I stared at the clock, we decided that attempting further sleep would be an exercise in futility and we might as well get up and go for an IUI instead.

We left our house smug, congratulating ourselves and each other for the early morning that, we assumed, would translate into arriving at Clinic One before the morning rush.  Then, cutting through a park to get to the bus stop, we saw the man lying on the cement path– glasses broken and blood around his head.  A woman stood over him, on the phone with the emergency dispatcher, but she was the only other person there.  Of course we stopped to help.  As I sat on the ground next to his head, rubbing the shoulder nearest me and encouraging him to stay still, Sea ran to the ambulance bay conveniently located about twenty feet away from where he had fallen.  She came back minutes later, now on the phone with an emergency dispatcher herself.  “But I can see the ambulances!”, she said, exasperated.  “I’m at the park immediately behind Station #123…  What do you mean what’s the nearest intersection?”  Sea continued to go through the same questions that the dispatcher had just gone through with the other woman.  I kept talking to the man on the ground, encouraging him not to move, still rubbing his shoulder.  Finally, fifteen minutes after Sea’s call, an ambulance drove up to the edge of the park and two men in bright yellow jackets appeared.  They simultaneously helped the man up and flirted with the woman who had been there when we arrived: “Are you okay sir?  Oh, uh, that’s a nice coat, ma’am.”  The woman smiled briefly at the compliment before kicking snow over the blood on the path and hurrying away, explaining that she was late for the first day of a new job.  We followed behind her to the bus stop, not explaining what we were now late for.

We arrived at Clinic One almost at the end of cycle monitoring hours, stopping at the andrology lab first to request the thawing of our first vial of Lefty.  As the nurse teaching me how to inject myself had said during our visit, “They won’t thaw the sperm until they’ve seen the whites of your eyes.”.  As I signed the waiver, I pointed to a machine steaming in the background: “Is that the machine that thaws the sperm?”  Sperm Thawer laughed and replied no, it was just a humidifier.  Oh, okay then.

Having missed the early morning lull at Clinic One, Sea and I walked into a crowded waiting room.  We sat watching other people being called for blood draws and ultrasounds, aware of how far down I was on both lists.  The blood drawing miracle worker was on shift: I anxiously watched every time she came out to call another name, hoping that she would call mine.  She didn’t, and the back of my hand suffered yet another puncture wound.

I was soothed from the injustice of my bloody bad luck (Ha, get it?  Bloody!) by my ultrasound.  Granted, the wait was long enough to prompt Sea to ask, “It still hasn’t happened?!”, but while I stood by the closed door of the ultrasound room I ran into a couple who I had met years ago in a gayby making info session of sorts.  I couldn’t remember their names, but in the context of a fertility clinic still felt comfortable enough to compare sperm counts and procedures with them.  They’ve been trying for about as long as we have, and together we marvelled over the fact that you could put 20 million sperm right up next to a just-ovulated egg and still not get pregnant.  I was finally called in by the same sonographer who had performed Saturday’s ultrasound.  The room was, clearly, the room where they do pregnancy ultrasounds.  A screen was placed at eye level with the exam table, and I watched as my uterus and ovaries appeared, ghostly in black and white, on the screen.

After the ultrasound it was a long wait.  Sea and I began to name the fish in the aquarium.  We used my phone to read every website we could think of, twice.  I began texting The Doctor.  I had pulled out my knitting project and Sea was attempting to stifle a coughing fit when Dr. Text finally called us in for the IUI.  He seemed pleased with the timing of the IUI which, compared to his usual confusion with my chart, was a nice change.  As Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” played over the radio, Dr. Text reviewed Lefty’s sperm count with us.  18.9 million: a fine count that still managed to dash my dreams of Lefty being a much more virile donor than Mickey had been.  Dr. Text performed the IUI as all three of us chatted about how our parents had shared, or not shared, our conception stories with us.  Sea and I may or may not have high-fived at some point during this process.

Dr. Text left after the procedure and, a few minutes later, so did we.  We didn’t just leave the room, we left the clinic.  Without paying for the IUI, or picking up the additional progesterone suppositories Dr. Text had ordered.  To be fair, our sperm-fueled equivalent of a dine and dash was entirely accidental.  We were several blocks away from Clinic One when I turned to Sea and said, “Um, we forgot to pay.”  We debated going back, but we were far enough away that an awkward return to the clinic we had just accidentally fled was too unappealing to contemplate. So we just kept walking.  Tomorrow morning I’ll go back to Clinic One to pay and get more progesterone, but right now you are reading the blog of an IUI thieving fugitive.  May that one day be the search term that lands somebody here.

The pregnancy test is on Sunday, March 2nd.  I can only hope that Clinic One hasn’t issued a warrant for my arrest and put up my mugshot next to their liquor licence and collection of baby photos by then.  Stay tuned.

Total Ultrasound Count: 28


Sea and I have decided that a child created using Mickey, our first choice donor, would have been a serial killer.  The child would likely have brought us nothing but grief, making us rue the day we chose the donor we did, before he killed us in our sleep.  He would have been used as an example of the dangers of same-sex parenting by conservatives around the world, with old men shaking their heads and exclaiming, “Just look what can happen!”  So you can thank us now, because IUI #3 didn’t work.

Dr. Text had told us that I could come in for the pregnancy test on Sunday or Monday, and we had previously decided that I would go in on Monday before work.  This morning I woke up early, feeling ill.  I had horrible cramps, and was certain that my body would be bleeding if the progesterone suppositories weren’t preventing it.  If this cycle wasn’t going to work, I wanted it to be done.  I discussed it with a still-groggy Sea, and we decided I would go in to Clinic One.  I would get my blood drawn and, while I was there, I would track down a doctor or nurse and ask why my body might be revolting.

I was at Clinic One less than an hour later, mercifully having my blood drawn by the one technician who can reliably find a vein in my arm.  Soon after the blood draw, my name was called by a young nurse who I didn’t recognise.  She pulled me into an insemination room, and stood in the doorway looking through my file, “Do you feel foolish?”  “Sorry?”, I responded, confused.  “Do you feel fluish?  Fever, chills?”  Oh, fluish.  No, I didn’t feel fluish– just uncomfortable and ill.  She proceeded to tell me that, as a nurse, she couldn’t give any advice.  She told me to take my progesterone as usual, and wait for the results of the pregnancy test.

The nurse called early this afternoon, awkward in what I’m sure is a routine call.  I had managed to avoid these calls in the first two cycles, bleeding before a pregnancy test told me I was going to, but this time I was on progesterone and wasn’t going to bleed until I stopped.  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your beta was zero.”

Zero.  Not even a little bit pregnant.  Just absolutely and equivocally not pregnant.  Just like I was an $1000+ treatment and two weeks of progesterone suppositories ago.  Just like I was four months and several thousand dollars ago.  Except now our first choice donor has left the program, we’re out of sperm, and really beginning from the start.  Again.

And the cramps that I woke up with have progressed into a stomach flu.

In other news, I read a lot of blogs and a number of people were in the same two week wait I was.  Every single one of those two week waits has resulted in a positive pregancy test, other than ours.  Many of you have been trying a lot longer than Sea and I have, and I’m glad that your results this week are better than ours.  Still, I feel a little left behind.

But we didn’t want to have a serial killer for a child, so this is lucky, I guess.

The definition of TMI.

I’m sure that it’s because I was wearing my good underwear.

Half-asleep, I pulled off the American Apparel briefs (gray with blue edging) to step into the shower.  And there was blood.  Not “who murdered my uterus in the night” blood, but definitely “dammit, do we have stain remover” blood.  I stood staring, pajama pants still around my ankles.  Five days past ovulation, this was the last thing I was expecting to see.

When I had finally gathered myself enough to pull my pants back up and find a pad, I decided to call Clinic One.  It occurred to me, as I navigated my way through automated phone menu after automated phone menu, that I had never actually attempted to call the clinic: they had always called me.  About five sub-menus later, a smooth automated female voice told me to dial five to reach Dr. Text’s assistant, numbers one through four having been assigned to the clinic’s others doctors.  I dialed five and the phone rang, and rang, and rang.  I left a voicemail, using words that I’m fairly sure I’ve never used in a message before: words like progesterone suppositories, days past ovulation and (imagine Heterosexist Receptionist’s stage whisper here) vagina. 

Having decided that I probably wasn’t bleeding out, Sea and I continued along with our day.  We took a cat to the vet, bought some groceries, went to the library.  In the library, as I stood in the stacks contemplating covers, I heard my phone ring from my pocket.  The library was crowded, but not even a Saturday crowd could disrupt the customary library hush.  The sound of the voice on the phone saying, “Hi, we’re calling from Dr. Text’s office” was impossibly loud, and I scrambled out through the library’s front door to talk about my vagina in peace.

The nurse sounded totally unfazed, and told me that unless I was using more than one pad an hour I shouldn’t worry.  I thought, though didn’t say, that if I was bleeding through more than a pad an hour I probably wouldn’t calmly navigate the subdirectories of Clinic One’s phone systems, and would instead get myself to the nearest emergency room.  Regardless, she reassured me that the minimal bleeding wasn’t cause for concern: the suppositories could be causing irritation or, theoretically, the blood could be implantation bleeding.  I’m only five days past ovulation, so this latter theory seems unlikely, but I’m pleased to know that I’m probably not dying.

The bleeding has mostly stopped now, anyways.  Frankly, I’m hoping that it doesn’t come back for another nine months or so.

Two dozen ultrasounds and 20 million sperm.

For reasons unknown, whenever our home phone rings we are about as far away from it as you can be in our fairly small house.  Not only that, we are usually both otherwise occupied.  My hands will be in a sink of dirty dishes, suds slopping up my forearms, while Sea will be cooking an elaborate meal.  And then the phone will ring.  So it only made sense that we were in the middle of a home renovation project when the phone rang on Sunday afternoon.   I ran across the house, bare feet covered with drywall dust, simultaneously trying to wipe the paint off my hands onto a cleanish corner of my shirt and answer the phone before voicemail intercepted.  My urgent “Hello?!” as I grabbed for the phone at the last minute was met by Nurse Brittany’s cheerful greeting, followed by, “Congratulations!  Your blood test results show a surge!  Your IUI will be tomorrow.”  Continue reading