It is a gloriously sunny morning here in P-town as we kick off 4dp5dt.
My lower belly feels that weird sort of heavy it tends to feel around this time, I slept like a rock most of the night (thanks to the Benadryl protocol, two of those before bed seem to pleasantly offset the insomnia of Prednisone), until the Progesto-dreams kicked in and I dreamt I walked out of our bedroom to find the inside of our house three feet deep in water, my dog hugging my leg, and suddenly standing at the door of the house I grew up in trying to get a hold of my mother on a giant cordless phone.
Hey well at least the drugs are keeping my mind busy…
Seriously though, we are now in the “hump day” known as 4dp5dt since Saturday is the blood test, and knowing we are halfway through the wait is…not comforting. I’m impatient as fuck. I am pretty confident I’ll be ripping the HPT out before the day ends. Okay, I actually did one last night just for practice (because it’s not like I couldn’t own stock in FRER tests after all this time…).
I’m actually feeling fine. So fine that I went across the street to the cafe, grabbed a croissant, came home and made a really brilliant big breakfast just for myself – bacon, eggs, grilled mango, and the croissant warmed up with a spoonful of homemade lemon curd, and a cuppa lemon-ginger tea. I usually don’t do fancy brekkie on my solo mornings working from home, but fuck it. It just is not an oatmeal morning.
A few interesting notes:
- My husband and I have somehow decided to refer to my uterus as The Baby Box. He kisses my belly and shouts out “dis is where da baby goes!” Not a clue where that came from. And even funnier considering what I’m about to write about in this blog in a sec…
- I have been inadvertently referring to the embryos inside of me as “the girls”. Not sure what that’s all about, but kind of interesting as I’ve never referred to what’s in there as anything in the past. After my miscarriage last year, while we didn’t have any testing (since it was done at home with drugs rather than a D&C), I had this sudden knowing in my heart that it was a boy. Go figure.
- The weather forecast has been for clouds, rain and thunderstorms all week and nearly every day since the transfer we’ve gotten patchy if not full sunshine. Friday it’s supposed to hit 69!! Yeah, I know, it’s just weather, but I’ll take the metaphor as things are looking good for us…
So for giggles, I thought I’d go on a brief, mildly bitchy rant and for the last time, share some of the all too often used terms related to infertility, IVF, and women’s bodies in general that completely creep me out. It’s an interesting sociological phenomenon to see grown women using terms that sound like they belong on the playground, I gotta say. Not like I’ve not said
- Sticky baby dust – There are twenty kinds of nasty to this term. Dust that sticks? Gross. Anything remotely comparing IVF to magic and fairies? Eww. It’s about as helpful as when people send their “thoughts and prayers” after a terrorist attack. Do not send me anything sticky or dusty. Want to throw up? Click here for all the images that come up when you google that term.
- Embabies – First of all, they’re not babies. They’re embryos. A mass of cells that may or may not become a baby if it successfully implants in the uterus. (Reminds me of recently where one asshole – who, mind you, had gone through successful IVF to have twins – actually had the nerve to tell me that he “understood how hard my miscarriage must have been as his wife was ‘devastated’ to have to give up their leftover embryo.” Fuckwad.)
- Totsicles – You did NOT just fucking compare a frozen embryo to a dessert.
- Snowflakes – Nope, a baby is also not a weather event.
- PUPO – No, a transfer does not make you pregnant, successful implantation does that. That and saying this acronym out loud sounds like Poop.
- DH – What the fuck would I refer to my partner as “Dear Husband”. Creepy.
- Aunt Flo – Um, are we in 10th grade? It’s called a period.
- Baby Dance – Just plain creepy. And hey, considering we’re doing donor egg IVF, our “dancing” hasn’t involved making babies in a couple years. Again, use adult words, it’s called SEX.
- Lady Bits – Seriously? Are we that embarrassed about our body parts that we can’t just use real words like vagina?
- Hoo Ha – I actually saw this on a large sign outside of a place in my neighborhood that offers waxing. (And as an aside, taking good care of my “hoo ha” means showering regularly, not stripping off the hair to make me look like I’m nine years old down there.)
- Fanny Bullets – This was a new one that I saw the other day as a reference to progesterone suppositories. And of course with its double meaning depending on what side of the ocean you live on, it’s even weirder. The last thing I want to do is compare medication to something that a gun kills you with. Just me, I s’pose.
Anyhow, now that I’ve got the snark out of my system (for the time being), it’s time to return to the art of visualization. From the ethereal like the Nikki McClure art (top left) to the funny to the zen to the big day, I’m focused on seeing the mother in myself. I’m thinking about the possibilities of our new life as parents, the evolution that Dan and I have gone through over these years in becoming a family of two to growing to a family of three (or more). I’m no longer scared of the possibility of twins like I was at the start of this all. I’m excited, I’m happy, I’m – dare I say – optimistic.
So with that, a mantra by Liz Gilbert, who I crushed on with her books Eat, Pray, Love and Committed and recently found out left the man she fell in love with in those books and now has fallen in love all over again, this time with a woman. Life is definitely not a predictable path…