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).