Ahem. So I have this theory that optimism doesn't help me much. I figure that if I spend too much time being optimistic, I'll just be disappointed all the time. So I call myself a realist. Expect the worst, hope for the best, plan for nothing. This is a cute theory, and would work just fine if, you know, I could actually heed my own advice. And do I? Oh sure, until about 15 minutes ago when I thought to myself, "Hey, if this cycle actually does work, when do you suppose my due date would be?" I've never allowed myself to have such a ridiculous thought, so I wasn't even sure how to find this out, but a quick consult with Dr. Google yielded a 1.3 billion due date calculators. I chose the WebMD version, but I expect they all work on the same general principles, so I didn't feel the need to check multiple sources. Anyway, for those of you keeping track, my due date WOULD be April 19, 2007 if this all worked out, which of course it won't. This will throw a serious wrench in our Passover Planning if it works out, but it will be a welcome, entirely happy wrench, so that wasn't a complaint.
Anyway. So on Thursday I was given the go-ahead to trigger Friday night with a Sunday IUI. I'd never met the doctor who was there covering the office, but he was nice enough, I suppose. Since it was a Sunday, the Trophy Husband was actually there with me. Our normal arrangement is that he goes in for his appointment (which mortifies him completely, by the way) and then heads to work, and then I show up for my appointment, and if we're lucky we see each other at home that night. My mother stayed with the monster (our two year old foster son) while we frittered away the hours at Shady Hell.
Anyway, the doctor came in and introduced himself. He went over the SA (semen analysis) and proclaimed my husband to be more than competent (40 million little swimmers is definitely overachieving). Well, he's gotta be good for something, right? Dishes are nice, but copious little swimmers are definitely a bonus - not that they've been doing me any good, the bastards. Anyway, I'm certain that Dr. M is a perfectly competent RE. And I get that he was an OB/GYN for many years before his RE training. And I get that he must have been a good OB/GYN because he was the head of the OB/GYN department somewhere important. But sheesh that man cannot handle a speculum. Ouch! "Oh hey there, you'll feel a little bit of pressure from the speculum." When I nearly jumped off the table (this has never happened to me before), my dear husband said, "A little pressure, eh?" "Yep," replied the doctor. (though in his defense, he wasn't completely clueless to my discomfort and he did ask if I was okay, but what the hell was I supposed to say? "No, you asshole, get your hands away from there and get me a kinder, gentler doctor?" Right.)
Moving right along... the rest, as they say, was uneventful. Anticlimactic, if you will, though I detest using that word, because my husband is Pun King and I'm tired of puns. So I need a better word. I know no one is reading this post, but if you stumble upon this at a later date and you've got a better word than anticlimactic, then by all means, tell me! Unfortunately, I don't think there is a more appropriate word. I mean, you've got a lot riding on this moment. This 11 second transfer of sperm to uterus in hopes of the little guys finding a nice condo to settle into. And that's it. 11 seconds. Maybe less, probably less, in fact. No great moment of "oh that's it!" No real discomfort unless your bastard RE doesn't know how to operate a speculum. No real knowledge that the catheter is even in and all of a sudden, "Okay, all done!" and you're speculum free and told to lie down on the table for 5 minutes before getting up because you know, you wouldn't want the little guys to fall out, not that they could. Give them a chance to scope out their new home. After the five minutes was up, I got dressed and turned to my husband and said, "So, you wanna make out?" He looked positively scandalized as he said, "Of course, but not here!" Well, I made him kiss me anyway, because I figured we ought to have a little bit of smooching in the room where Jr. is conceived, right?
Come to think of it, those 5 minutes on my back make a little sense, since you know, Normal People (whoever they are) get pregnant while lying down. May as well be the same for me, right? In the absence of anything more interesting to do after that monumental 11 seconds (plus five minutes), we went to Krispy Kreme, where the Hot Donuts sign was lit, and we celebrated with some puffy, fried, sugary deliciousness. Like I really needed donuts, right? Sheesh!
We headed home and I promptly fell asleep on the couch while my husband took the monster and my mother out to lunch. I slept, basically, all day, and woke up in a whole lot of pain. I had such horrifying cramps I could SWEAR I was about to start my period. This has never happened before on IUI day and this is the fourth such IUI day. Plus, everything else hurt and I couldn't stop sneezing, because the cats are rapidly growing past the point of being controlled by my allergy medication. Someday, I'm going to have to give in and either start allergy shots again, or get rid of the cats, neither of which is a particularly appealing option. Fortunately, I feel better today, except for the sneezing, and well, still with the cramping.
Now starts the fun of Prometrium supplementation. Whee. If I call you up randomly crying, you know why. I'm not sure why the prometrium is so evil, but it is. Just like the provera and the follistim, I throw up. A lot. And my breasts have sharp, stabbing, hot-poker pains in them regularly. And I get crabby. (SHUT UP! Fine, I get more crabby) And weepy. Oh, so freaking weepy. The first time that happened, I was at work minding my own business feeling just fine thankyouverymuch, and a perky friend of mine called and said, "Hi how are you??" and I burst into tears. What the fucking fuck? I thought. This is not me. I may be bitchy. I may be emotionally labile. I may be prone to screaming fits for no good reason. But one thing I am not is weepy. Until now, apparently.
So let the fun begin!