Monthly Archives: January 2008

Thar she blows

Dawn on Day Twelve. My inner Liberace has given over with the pastel paint-charts and very wisely gotten the hell out of Dodge. Temperature down. Cramps well up. We have achieved claret. Luteal phase of eleven days. Not officially crappy, but not the recommended fourteen days either.

Clomid is supposed to help with that, isn’t it?

And the second week goes like this

  • Day eight. May has a humungous essay to hand in the next Tuesday. May retires to bed with a vast pile of journal articles and her precious lap-top, and loses herself in a maze of procrastination and faffling about with initial formatting of the essay headings.
  • Day nine. May retires to bed again. In a flat this size, the bed is the best place to spread notebooks and biros and stray knitting about, and what with the sore neck and shoulder, the best place to flollop in an allegedly productive manner. May feels this essay is starting to kick her arse.
  • Day ten. May has to get up today, and go to work and then go to lectures, and the essay is totally not even beginning to be anywhere near the end of the beginning, let alone the end of the end, or even the end of the middle bit. But it has a bibliography. While visiting the bathroom, May notices traces of blood on the toilet paper. May says a very rude word indeed. May even spends a delusional ten minutes interrogating her husband as to whether he was, you know, not so careful, maybe, last night, when, ohhhh… never mind. For the rest of the day, May’s undercarriage amuses itself by presenting varieties of paint samples from Hint of Unsulphured Apricot through Rosy Dawn on a Snow-bank. May stays up until four in the morning, feeling increasingly tired and weird and valiantly ignoring any and all sensations of cramp, to work on the sodding essay, which has totally kicked her arse.
  • Day eleven. May gets up after three hours sleep, feeling increasingly crampy, and ends up missing her morning lectures in a desperate life-and-death wrestle to snatch the essay back from the Slough of Despond, and succeeds by the skin, not of her teeth, but of the smallest plaque bacterium on her teeth. Before she brushes them all off, of course. And she attends her afternoon lectures, with all her clothes on and a washed face. Victory! Meanwhile, the undercarriage presents a few samples of Suggestion of Blush Rose and Whisper of Sugarmouse for her contemplation. May spends evening sat crampily at home, gazing vaguely at the television, cramping, but undercarriage has no further offerings to make and another day of luteal phase is declared to have been completed, if not entirely successfully.
  • Day twelve? Who the hell knows. Day period is due based on previous evidence. Day period is due based on Carryings On in the Nethers. Whether period can be arsed to show up is neither here nor there. Also, after three whole months without, will it be very gory, do you suppose?

Ah well.

Bisy Backson

Still waiting. I have a huge essay to hand in on Tuesday, so as little as I am enjoying it (and it is very little indeed), I am thoroughly distracted from any and all reflections on my sore nipples, the remaining 47 Pee-sticks of Doom, whether or not I felt sick this morning and the extraordinarily irratating stiff neck and shoulder I have developed by heaving heavy boxes about all Friday. I have more heavy boxes to heave about tomorrow, and I can see the essay turning into a frantic all-nighter on Monday night. Pee-sticks? Ah hah hah hah.

The two week wait

Is it day six, day thirteen, or day twenty-four, of the two week wait? The chart can’t decide – if I take out this weird high temperature I had after sleeping very late, it says thirteen. If I take out this other weird high sleeping late temperature, it says 24, also, pee on a stick! If I take out both, it agrees day six. Or is it no day at all, because the Evil Reign of Queen Satsuma has reached new heights of bizarre and she has worked out how to mimic low estrogen/ high progesterone? Because, if you touch my nipples right now I will kill you with the sheer power of ultra-sonic shrieks of outraged agony.

And then I will have a headache.

And get horribly emotional over a charmingly soppy advert for formula. With cuddly Dads in. Cuddly Dads are the last straw, for me, even worse than smug pregnant women patting their bumps and cheerfully announcing it was an ‘oops’ baby. I am instantly plunged into the heart of Self-Pity Central. (I think the day (please God) that I see H with his child in his arms I will dissolve, forever and fatally, into a bawling salty puddle of happiness and that will be the end of that).

I think this is day six. I haven’t had any below-coverline temperature dips in six days. My cervix, who normally spends all her time on road-tours of the upper torso, sending back daily EWCM postcards, is sulking, drily, right down low, and has been for the past six days. Before the Six Days, she was up somewhere near the oesophagus, and presenting enough EW for me to have made a meringue. Despite the lurching temperatures.

H is refusing to get excited about this. I think the Hopeful Paramedic has given him post traumatic stress disorder.

I am fairly excited. Not in a ‘baby!’ way, as I think we rather mistimed the whole horizontal folk-dancing thing, and the poor egg will be presented with either the last few knackered, feebly struggling remnants of SWAT Team 1, or will have collapsed into doomed apathy herself by the time SWAT Team 2 have got all the way up there. I just think my body might have done, something, normal. Hurrah! But we’ll only know if it really really has on, say, next Wednesday, keeping in mind my somewhat short and pathetic luteal phase.

So guess what we’re going to see on Wednesday? Oh yes.

Sweeney Todd.

Heh heh heh


So now the fertility chart has stroked its chin, musing, for a couple of days, and given me back my red lines, planted very solidly in ovulation on Friday. Three days ago, that is, not 20-odd.

Now this makes (very little, but still, a little is more sensible than none) sense to me, as I had pain in what I suppose is the ovary area, I was Amorously Inclined, I was doing Fertile Signs and haven’t done them since, that sort of thing.

But Hope and I have a seriously bad relationship just now, and I have an essay to finish for tomorrow (and when I say ‘finish’, I could just about mean ‘start’), so I am off to drink enough coffee to drown a small horse and type madly until three in the morning.

So bloody there.

Stop. Just, stop.

And today my fertility chart gave up on me and announced it was removing my cross-hairs for insubordination. Three negative pregnancy tests. Did not ovulate. Does not compute. Enough with the freaky high temperatures, there is no progesterone, go back to jail, do not pass go, do not collect £200.

Except, my temperature was even higher this morning.

Hope is a 24-carat gold bitch

She bit me in the ambulance on Wednesday.

The paramedic wanted to know if I might be pregnant, what with the falling down bang for no reason. I said ‘No!’, because, well, you lot know why. Not a chance. Not going there. Then, of course, she wanted to know when my last period was, and I said ‘Three months ago,’ and she looked at my wedding ring, and looked at me, and said ‘If you’ve had sex at all in the last three months, you could very well be pregnant. Have you taken a test?’ and I hadn’t, because I had buried the 50 Pee-sticks of Mocking Doom under a pile of flannels and tampons and half-used hand-cream tubes, so I couldn’t hear their squeaky laughter.

So I had to explain why I magically knew I wasn’t pregnant despite being at it like a demented rabbit for the three LOOOOOONNNGG months since my last period.The PCOS. The lying whining hissy little cow that is my one remaining ovary. The ACU. Clomid. That sort of thing. While still shivering away in a semi-recumbant position in the back of an ambulance and fighting strong desire to burst into tears.

The paramedic, bless her, was sympathetic (‘two and a half years. That must be very frustrating,’ she said gently) and, oh, damn it, excited for me. What with all the tests she could do coming back normal, she thought, maybe, the fainting was hormonal, in a good way, and she was crossing her fingers and everything. And I applied my best stone-cladding reinforcement to my heart and tried to ignore her as politely as possible.

By this time H had turned up – a Concerned Onlooker had called him for me and the astonishing power of worry had him sprinting from home to the station at the speed of sound and then all the trains all the way to Big Station in City Centre were there and waiting so he could leap from one to the other and appear magically outside the ambulance bright pink and breathing like a frantic race-horse before we could drive off to hospital. So he had a go at fending off the Hopeful Paramedic’s Hopeful Vibes too.

At the A&E I sat about in a pile of blankets (I was so cold. What the hey?) and had everything tested, blood, blood pressure, pee, ECG, for hours, by the end of which I felt perfectly normal again. And the pregnancy test was negative. So there. I kicked Hope away from sniffing about my ankles. H took me home.

Yesterday, I went back to work, and felt a bit sick and a little light-headed on and off. When I got home, Hope met me at the door waving a pee-stick she had unearthed. I obediently peed on it. The fucking thing produced an evaporation line that kept me very busy staring and hoping and staring and despairing and in the end snapping it in half and binning it.

Today, work sent me home, as I was apparently looking pale and ill (me, I merely felt a bit headachy). I drank some juice on the way home and instantly felt sick. Hope dug me out another pee-stick, pointing out the expiration date on the box and how I needed to use it up soon anyway… so I peed on it too. At this point, I’ll clearly pee on anything that is longer than it is wide.

Negative. Not even an evap line to spin me along with. Hope has slunk off somewhere, cackling.

My fertility chart still thinks I ovulated on the 31st of December, 2007. Which would make this 18 (18!) dpo. I feel sick, I feel dizzy, my nipples are sensitive and I want to kill people for barging in front of me in queues.

On the other hand, I keep doing ‘fertile’ things, ewcm, high cervix, that sort of thing, on and off, in a random sort of way, and my temps are very low, even if they are on average higher than they were before the 31st.

Either, I ovulated, am barely pregnant, and all is well, if annoying (I give this hypothesis nul points for being fairy-tale nonsense, and minus eighty-seven bazillion points for being painful to think about). Or, I ovulated, pathetically, my progesterone is fucked, and I am having a chemical pregnancy (hah. Nul points), or, most exceedingly likely, I did not ovulate and my body got bored of hanging about doing nothing at all (Twelve points).

No explanations

(Written comfortably sat in my own bed, with H (poor chap, he hasn’t had a nice morning at all) in the next room, within reach of the kettle).

Things that are perfectly normal about me:

  • My blood-pressure (well, it was alternately high and normal, but I have iatrogenic blood-pressure issues at the best of times. In other words, doctors make me panicky).
  • My blood sugar – well, low end of normal. Normal end of low.
  • My blood oxygen.
  • My heart rate.
  • My ECG.

Tests that came back cheerfully, utterly negative:

  • Anaemia
  • Urine infection
  • Pregnancy.

Things that are not normal about me:

  • Falling down in a dead faint in the middle of a coffee shop on my way to work this morning, and being bundled into an ambulance as a shivering, incoherent jelly by concerned onlookers (to whom I am extremely grateful).

Sad. Cross. Sad. Rinse. Repeat.

Item: The placement at Prestigious is mostly boring (with occasional fun bits) and hard work. Also, museum staff are certifiable. Mostly in a good way, but still. So I am tired and frazzled.

Item: Have not ovulated. Keep pretending to ovulate, and then having to admit I was lying. This is exhausting.

Item: H’s grandmother was diagnosed with bowel cancer over the Christmas holidays, and has just had 40% of said bowel removed. Luckily the tumour is small, and having removed all the intestine that shared the same blood-vessels, they hope they’ve got the lot and she won’t need chemo. Fingers extremely crossed. This too was exhausting, and gave me bad dreams.

Item: The ACU have gone and cavalierly moved my January appointment to February. ARGH.

Item: I spent time over the New Year being a good auntie. I even put Minx to bed one night, helped her wash and get into her jammies, carried her down-stairs to say goodnight, and read her a bed-time story and kissed her little pixie face and promised to come back in ten minutes and give her another kiss if she was still awake. Bizarre mixture of tender love and delight in her sweet, funny, mischievous ways, and raw skinned feeling of longing. Spending too much time with Minx, especially when she’s being trusting and affectionate, always leaves me ‘hungover’ later, depressed and anxious and trying not to envy my sister, and also trying not to envy Minx her favoured status as Mum’s first grandchild, living with her for the first few months of her life and next-door thereafter. My own putative Infant Prodigy, should it ever exist, will never have that kind of closeness with its grandmother, simply because H and I are not so bloody stupid and irresponsible and in need of rescuing as my sister and her ex were. Like the whole spending-my-20s-using-contraception-VERY-CAREFULLY thing, I feel being a Good Girl has not so much kicked me in the teeth as smashed them down my throat.

Item: Next step, clomid.

Item: I am so depressed. Shit, but I am so depressed. Nearly everything is going my way, work, study, married life, social life, and yet I feel alone and lost. And angry with myself for being so pathetic.

On a succession of very long nights.

  1. On Monday I am starting a two-week placement at Prestigious Museum, as part of the librarianing MA. This is INTIMIDATING. But then, I am a shy and nervous startled fawn, and anything new freaks me the heck out. I am intellectually aware that two weeks at Prestigious is a cool as can possibly be. I wish someone would explain this to my gut.
  2. Either I ovulated on New Years Eve. Or I didn’t. If I did, my temps are so low I think there is nearly no progesterone in my bloodstream at all (bad). If I didn’t, well, arse, really, as this cycle is 72 days long and enough already just about covers it. And anyway, I have no faith in my body’s signals. It’s a confirmed liar, this body. At this rate, I’ll believe I have definitely ovulated at some point in the past just about when I go into labour.
  3. H has a cold. H snores and thrashes about when he has a cold. I want to go to sleep.
  4. H and I had a row last night. Of course we saved it until we were in bed and just preparing to go to sleep in each other’s arms. Whatever started the row was as nothing to the follow-on row about the way we row (me, intense, angry, demanding explanations and discussion and resolutions, tending to rant; H, panicked, refusing to discuss anything at all in case he says the wrong thing and annoys me (behaviour guaranteed to annoy me, so very counterproductive), tending to deny all responsibility for anything at all ever, starting with the stupid thing he just did and ending with global warming). Yes, we sorted it out – we never, or, at least, I never go to sleep in an unresolved and pissed off state and H just has to lump it – and kissed and made up and so on, but at 4 am. I want to go to sleep.
  5. I really should cut H a bit more slack, especially when he’s coldy.
  6. H should really cut me a bit more slack, especially when I’ve made an effort to deal kindly and constructively with an issue in the face of an overwhelming desire to bean him with a lamp-stand and sleep in the spare room for, like, oh, ever.
  7. Marriage, eh? All that and H made me breakfast this morning. I do love the man.
  8. And back to fretting about innards and work placements and why I have no smart but comfortable outfits to impress Prestigious Museum with.


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