Meanwhile, in two-week-wait-land, I have been feeling sicky and acidic and bosomy and tired and blood-hound-nosed. As I do every goddamn month since Satsuma worked out how to ovulate on her own.
And I have been peeing on sticks. Which went variously:
- Still nope.
- Lady, I said no already.
So today I did not pee on anything, because my temperature had dropped and I felt crampy, and this evening I feel even crampier, and, yeah, well. Not this month.
One of the drugs I take, to try and keep Cute Ute from making me puke myself into a hernia, is mefenamic acid, and for it to help much, I need to start taking it before the cramps start. But it is a category C drug, that is, disagreeable to embryos, so I daren’t start taking it until I’m sure I’m not pregnant. So today, like many other cycles, I played brinkmanship with myself all morning, and then, finally, at lunch, caved and took a tablet. I mean, for God’s sake, I was spotting and cramping and my tits had deflated and everything.
Still, it’s a bit of a moment, the one where you finally declare the cycle a bust and prioritise your own life over that of any possible offspring. I’m always haunted by the fear the pee-sticks will lie to me and I’ll fuck up one day and poison a blastocyst just as it was getting nicely tucked in to the lining.
Not this time, though. I feel crampy as shit. Crampy and shit. And that’s the end of the fourth cycle since I was last pregnant.