It's been a week since the transfer. The bruises on my belly have begun to disappear. Once vibrant shades of blue and purple have faded to pale yellow and greens. My hope has slowly begun to fade as well. With each home pregnancy test I become a little less "Positive". By this time last round, I had a faint second line on my at home pregnancy tests. I had relief from the relentless waiting game. I had an ace in my pocket. I went in to my beta test last time confident that I would get a "congrats, you're pregnant" call.
This time, I'm a complete mess. I'm having all the pregnancy symptoms. But I am on hormones that trick my body in to believing it's pregnant and those symptoms are to be expected. The random fits of crying have come on strong and are in full force today. Another sign I could be pregnant, or perhaps just crazy. I'm hoping for the former. But slowly becoming convinced of the latter.
I couldn't sleep last night. I laid awake watching the clock as the minutes passed, knowing that today would be the day I'd finally know. I dozed off around 2am and woke up when it was still dark out. The clock read 5:23am. I was sick to my stomach and headed for the bathroom. I sat myself down, peed in a cup and on myself, per usual. You would think I would have mastered the cup peeing by now, but I'm pretty terrible at it. Dipped the stick and waited the 3 minutes. Negative.
I sat there searching for any faint shadow of a second line.
Negative. I sat there another 20 minutes or so crying until I realized my bum had fused to the toilet seat and created a red indentation from all that sitting. To the men who spend an hour in the bathroom with their laptop and a magazine, I applaud you. I don't think I could do it. I quickly gave myself my progesterone gel insert, pulled up my big girl panties, washed the pee of my hands and wiped my tears.
I tried to exit casually. As if I hadn't been sobbing on the toilet for the last 20 minutes covered in urine. My son was still asleep and my husband was there waiting to hug me. He too has been on edge, dying to know if this worked. If all our sacrifice's have been worth it. He's changed every diaper, every outfit, poured every bath. He's accompanied me on every outing with Lloyd since I can't lift him in or out of the car seat. He's held me every time I cried, made ridiculous jokes to help me laugh through all this insane uncertainty. He's done it all. After our hug, and very little attention to my hygiene and complete neglect of the 2 day old mascara running down my face, I went to have my blood drawn. I arrived at 7:15am. They don't open till 7:30am. I was 3rd in line at Quest Diagnostics. I'm glad to report 2 of the 3 of us looked homeless. Nice to know I wasn't alone.
I stood there, waiting outside their lab, looking through the large glass wall willing them to "open, open, open." And for those of you too young to remember that Mervyns commercial - I'm sorry. But the thought of me being crazy and old is too much to take at the moment. So let's, for my sake, pretend we all understand my early 1990's pop culture reference.
I should have gotten the call letting me know the results late this afternoon. Assuming the courier made it to Encino with my sample before noon and that lab got the results to my nurse before the end of the day.
I went home and tried to relax, which was impossible. So instead, I emailed my nurse in the early afternoon to confirm they got my sample and I would receive my results same day. What I got in return was an "out of office" reply. Ohhhhhhhhhh hell no. She's out through the 7th and I wasn't given a heads up or put in contact with another nurse. Nothing. I called the office and spoke to the receptionist. She assured me the other nurses would be handling my case.
I waited a few more hours and called again at 4pm. That same sweet receptionist answered. She said the labs had just arrived and the nurses would begin making the calls. She took my name and again assured me I would be receiving a call.
We hormonal ladies need lots of reassurance. Especially on beta day. I understand it was a long weekend and they need to call all the women from Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday thanks to the holiday. I get it. I was still trying to act laid back. She told me not to worry. Me... worry?
By 5:30pm I was worried. I had become that paranoid person who checks her phone every 2 minutes. I caved and called again. It's hard to call the same place 4 times in one day, only to repeat the same question over and over, each time with more intensity but still trying to act casual. I felt like a passenger on the lower deck of the Titanic calling up to makes sure they saved me a seat on the life boat. With each call I was further and further under water.
This time my call was forwarded to the answering service. The woman on the other end said she was told the nurses would be staying late making the calls and "Not to worry. They would be calling till at least 6:30pm or 7pm."
Not to worry? I was way beyond worried lady. The time of worrying had past. I was in full blown panic mode at this point. We are talking heart palpitations. I NEEDED TO KNOW.
I again watched the time inch by. Minute by minute. I called again at 8pm. Same answering service. She told me she had no way of getting in touch with the nurses but couldn't imagine anyone was still in the office. I lost it. I began bawling on the phone rambling on about promises made. She apologized awkwardly and we hung up.
My son ran up to me asking where my boo boo was so he could kiss it. By this point the tears had turned to ugly crying. The kind where you are basically hyperventilating. When my son asked what hurt, I tried explaining "Mama's heart hurts Baby". He saw the bandage on my arm from the (apparently pointless) blood test and began showering that arm with kisses. He asked me if I needed a boo boo buddy. Which in turn made me ugly cry even harder. A mixture of anger for how I was treated by the staff today and love for my beautiful son this same staff helped me make 3 years ago.
And that's where we are. Nowhere. I'm either pregnant or I'm not. And I'm guessing people know the answer to that. Just not me. According to my home pregnancy tests I'm not pregnant. But I'm holding out a glimmer of hope, because I have to. I need to think there is still a chance we get that happy ending.
And the optimist in me would also like to believe that my fertility clinic is going to cover my psychiatric bills for the foreseeable future. Because they have officially driven me insane.
Until tomorrow... When you bet your ass I will be calling and this time demanding to speak to a nurse cause screw being laid back.... Sweet dreams. And let's all try to think "positive" thoughts. My ship hasn't sunk yet.