Big Girl Pants
Two tests down (for those new to this blog, you may want to catch up by reading previous posts…thanks). So far, so good. I have one more test next week which is important. “Tressel” (see prior posts) wants to make sure the oven is rock solid after the miscarriage before we try to conceive again. After all, he is basically paying for this (please see “The Opposite” post), so I will say how high when this generous doctor says jump. If everything looks great, and I get the all clear, the shots (gulp) begin.
I remember when the progesterone a/k/a ginormous shots began last time, I had that date marked on my calendar. It was like a date with doom. At least now I know to ice for 20+ minutes before my husband gets to harpoon me. Still hurts, but nothing like taking it straight. In the words of my husband, “that is one big effin’ needle.” We have a routine for the shots though. I ice for 20+ minutes at 5:00 a.m. every day (yes, even on weekends…I consider it lack of sleep training for an infant) as I take care of the pets. I go to the edge of the counter and rest my head on an upper cabinet. I actually count the lines in the oak and say to myself every time silently, “If P could go through what he went through, I can do this.” [Side note: P is the nine (9) year old son of one of my bosses]. He was diagnosed with neuroblastoma stage 4 cancer at the age of 3. He died this year on his 9th birthday and, from the limited time I saw him, he was always so smiley and happy. However, for six (6) years, he went to doctors, hospitals and research trials all over the United States...and all with big dimples shining. A nine (9) year old is my inspiration on this journey of being poked and prodded.
My husband gets the needle (which I cannot look at) and it is Groundhog Day every day. He says, “Ready? [stab]. No blood [pulling back on needle]. Okay [progesterone going in]. Sorry [needle coming out].” Both of us race to reach the gauze on the counter and the ice returns for a few more minutes. Sounds delightful, yes? Doesn’t everyone want to start their day that way? :)
One friend always says to me, “Junior better really appreciate what you all have been through once he gets here.” My thoughts on the shots have been: What do single people do that want to have a child? Never mind single parenting. That is difficult enough, but who gives them the shots every day if they are needed? My husband always said if he was not available to give me the shot, he is sure our elderly male neighbor would be happy to oblige. The thought of good ole Mr. L seeing my naked backside at the crack of dawn….no way. Seriously. What do single people do?
Again, I am not complaining, but rather trying to put a humorous spin on it. Maybe if I make it light or a bit witty, people will be less likely to clam up or cringe when anyone talks about infertility. I know I am not alone in the journey. Many other soldiers are out there doing exactly what we are doing. (I mean, do you really think Kelly Preston had a “surprise” baby at 50 years old? Maybe she did, but statistics are strongly against a natural surprise at that age. This theory will have further credence when 47 year old Countess LuAnn suddenly announces she is expecting.) This time, I expect to be on the ginormous shots even longer since it is insurance against miscarrying. I was on them for months last time. This time, I expect it to be even longer since I miscarried after the shots stopped. No big deal. I will suck it up. This is nothing compared to labor or what Patrick went through, so I better put on my big girl pants and dimply smile. I also just remembered our kitchen will again look like a medical lab for months, which is fine for my hoarder husband but bothers me. No hiding what we are doing from our dog sitter or anyone else that comes in our house for that matter. Definitely no one over for dinner. “Welcome! Come right in. Shove those needles, bottles, gauze, ice packs, pills and bio-hazard waste containers out of the way and dig in!”
Right now, my current day battle for the first time in about 5 months is PMS. (Hey, I said I would be fairly open about this journey.) I think I ate everything that was not nailed down yesterday. If there is suddenly a worldwide shortage on sugar and salt, I can guarantee it is due to my intake yesterday. I certainly did not miss the “monthly beast” as I call it. My PMS is a bit different. I get very hungry, extremely klutzy (like when I fell down the stairs at a Cameron Mitchell restaurant in Ohio into the main dining room – which still makes me giggle although I was horrified at the time) and I irritate myself (as in, I want to chop all my hair off if my hair brushes my face one too many times). When I was pregnant (still so happy I even got to say I was pregnant one time – now excited to have a chance to say that again), food repulsed me. My husband would get very frustrated that I was not eating enough and/or that when I did want something, it changed minute to minute. One time, I ordered a baked potato. I salted it, and when I looked up, my husband’s mouth was hanging open. “I have never seen you salt anything in your life. Ever.” (I claim this was due to my low blood pressure and my body was craving salt).
As I entered my second trimester, I was all about sweets and that is not normally like me. Jessica Simpson had something when she said she craved pop tarts. I did too, minus the butter. I am on weight watchers and have been for years. My ob-gyn even said it was fine to be on it when pregnant. So, NO butter on the pop tarts (One pop tart is 6 points anyway). I read that if you crave sweets, it is a girl. I can certainly understand where girls are “sugar and spice and everything nice” originated. I felt it was a girl anyway (it was) and I have no idea why. I think I just knew my late mom was going to get very detailed payback for anything I ever put her through and give me a Capricorn girl (my due date was near my birthday). I actually feared twin girls (my mom really loved to drive her points home). Okay, to be really honest, I feared triplet girls all because of what a psychic told me at a party thirteen (13) years ago:
I met my soul mate but was not dating him yet.
I would get engaged in 2010.
I would marry (enter my husband’s initials).
I would live in white house with a picket fence.
I would have three babies.
This “reading” was November of 1999. I met my husband, who actually has those initials, in May of 1999 but our first date was not until December 1999 (did I mention that he moves like the wind?). We got engaged in condo #2010 in 2003 (Imagine my horror in 1999 when she said I would get engaged in 2010. I remember thinking that is eleven years from now! Does this soul mate have a telephone number? I need to speed things up!). We actually DO live in a white house with a picket fence. The only part she missed was about the three babies. After all we have been through, until I got pregnant, I took that to mean dog, dog, cat. When I was expecting, I was a bit terrified it would unexpectedly be triplet girls. Don’t believe me about the psychic? It is true. With this psychic, you just sit and say nothing. It was a party favor. She knew nothing about me – not even my name. Makes me kind of wish I could recall her name now because my Toyota would be speeding in her direction. But alas, we are left with the unknown for now. One day at a time. It is a marathon (er…or two) for us, not a sprint. Right now, I just need to put on my big girl pants, survive my pms, go to my one last test and get ready for those shots.
Thanks for reading, sharing and commenting. To my fellow soldiers fighting this secret battle, one day at a time. Anything more than that can be overwhelming.
Until next time, as always, “socks” (for the newbies, that is xoxo according to my spell check). ;)
Photo by Daniel Frank on Unsplash
Originally published: Monday, August 20, 2012
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