I am feeling so pent up and agitated. Like I’m waiting for Armageddon. If I had an inclination towards boxing (and owned a punch bag) that is the only activity I reckon I could partake in right now.
I have missed a period… but not in the good way. For the past week, I’ve not had anything “stir” down below, but I exerted a lot of self-control not to test until I was really “overdue”. I waited patiently until yesterday (day 35) and got that horrible, unfeeling “not pregnant” on the Clearblue pee-stick (is it possible this could be relayed more sensitively, please??). And that was it. Cue frustration – WHERE IS MY PERIOD?!!!
I’ve been amazingly upbeat over these past 2 weeks – I guess as I felt that the IVF was in the pipeline, but I still had my Clomid continuing in the meantime. And I have to say, I enjoy my happy self. But I also felt hope. As I went past my cue for a period, there was a little part of me inside that was saying, “Maybe this is it – you’ve remortgaged the house and are on the road to IVF, and you’ve finally done it without all that”. Isn’t hope a funny thing? I guess it’s a survival mechanism – if it was all doom and gloom, you’d give up the good fight and go and hide in a cave.
I phoned the Fertility Clinic this afternoon for some advice, as technically, we still have another cycle of Clomid to go. In the absence of pregnancy, we can only assume that, for some unknown reason, I’ve not ovulated this time around so if I was to take my 6th lot of Clomid, it would involve me having to go through the rigmarole of an induced bleed again. I don’t know why that upsets me so much – I guess it feels like a backward step. So the advice has been not to bother with the Clomid now, at all.
We have our IVF appointment (for the consents, and information) this Thursday. The nurse I spoke to has also insinuated that it would be at least 6-8 weeks before the IVF can begin (even though it’s being funded privately), which again, has completely knocked me for six, because I want everything YESTERDAY, like some kind of toddler. I’m sure the part of my brain that deals with patience failed to develop somewhere along the way.
I’ve now reverted back to my ugly, envious persona, which I don’t enjoy and doesn’t do me any favours. I started my new job in ED last week, and ran into an old colleague who used to work with me elsewhere in Obs and Gynae. She recently had a child, who is nearly one, and she was actually one of the main culprits on Facebook, constantly posting things about, first her pregnancy, and then her little one, ALL THE TIME. A few sentences into our reunion conversation, she said, “do you want to see my cutie? Let me show you” – cue, mobile phone. I actually wanted to say, “No, I don’t want to see a picture of your child, who I’ve never met, and means nothing to me”. Obviously, I’m not some harridan, and I nodded and smiled politely. Similarly, my friend, B, who I text last week to ask about whether she’d had her baby, sent a message back saying she was overdue now, and getting fed up, and that her back hurt. You know what, love, I would gladly have all the backache in the world, feel as hot and sweaty as a penguin in the Caribbean, and have feet like swollen pigs’ trotters, if it meant I could bring a mini-me into the world.
Where’s that bottle of wine?