Welp. It's 8dpiui. The wait is getting really hard. And I'm starting to feel a little hopeless. The good news is that I went for morning monitoring yesterday and my progesterone was 36.1. 36.1! That is the highest it's ever been. Even the cycle I got pregnant, it was "just" 24.2, and that had been my best progesterone level to date. But the progesterone level doesn't tell you anything about whether you're pregnant, just whether you ovulated. So I ovulated, and in theory the IUI was timed correctly.
I felt good about that number for about half a day and then I started to feel poopy. Here's the thing. I'm not having any pregnancy symptoms. Well, I guess maybe there's been some twinges here and there, but I can't really tell if it's possible pregnancy twinges or just gas. Yes, that's right, I'm 35 years old and can't tell the difference between a uterine cramp and gas pain. When I was pregnant back in May, my boobs started to hurt around 9dpiui, and only got worse from there. I keep poking my boobs, but other than the natural pain that comes with poking one's boobs aggressively, they are not hurting at all. Not even a smidge. I guess it's possible they might start hurting later, or maybe they won't hurt at all, but I could still be pregnant. After all, Dr. Google tells me that not every woman gets sore boobs. But I just have a feeling that if my boobs don't start hurting, I'm probably not pregnant.
And when I go down the "I'm not pregnant" path, well, it can start to get a little Debbie Downer in here. And that is where the Master of Distraction pops up. The MoD is the voice in my head that the minute I start to feel down about this process and its probable failure, pops up and yells "Megan! Megan, look over here! Looookkkk herrrrreeee!!! Look at this book! Look at this cooking magazine! Look at this episode of Orphan Black! Why don't we bake something? How about we do some laundry! Come on come on come on! Don't look over there!!! Don't look at that sad, scared pile of crap in the corner! Look here!!!!" The MoD is my own little cheerleader, waving her pom-poms (not a euphemism) around, trying to keep me from thinking about the bad stuff.
Mostly it's been working. Remember my list from last week of stuff I was going to do to get through the two week wait? The first thing I checked off was buying a new pair of jeans. What's with the skinny jean obsession? I'm not saying they can't be a part of a well-rounded wardrobe, but most of the stores I went to only had skinny jeans. I don't look so hot in skinny jeans because I have a pretty big ass/thighs for a small girl. So I definitely need a boot cut. Jeeves and I went to visit his mom out in Westchester last weekend and he took me to the mall. God, I miss malls so much. Anyway. Something like five stores I went to only had skinny jeans. And then a couple of them that did have boot cut jeans, well, they didn't really fit. So finally I broke down, went into Lucky Brand, and said to the very gay salesperson, "Where are your non-skinny jeans?" He took me all the way into the back of the store, looked me up and down, and said, "I think you'll like the curvy fit." Ha ha. Yes. They should just call them I-Have-An-Ass jeans. Anyway, he was very helpful and pulled down a bunch of jeans, and I now own a pair of comfortable and stylish jeans that do not have a hole in the inner thigh area. Yet.
I have also read one and three quarters books. And I've made a chicken stock from a leftover roast chicken carcass. And I took Dad to chemo, which was kind of ridiculous in that everything re: my dad's medical care this week has been totally frakked up, but it all got straightened out. I think Dad and I could use a break from each other - we've seen each other three times in the last 10 days, I called him ornery and he called me a brat. We were only half joking. So barring any catastrophes, I won't have to take the bus out to New Jersey next week, which means I can just sit in my apartment, not drink caffeine or alcohol, and have hot flashes if I have to start taking clomid again. It's the little things.
Later tonight I will make that grape freezer jam and dinner. I have tried my best to book up every waking fucking minute of this week to keep from thinking about the sad stuff. At night after I turn off the light, for a few minutes while the MoD is fluffing her pom-poms (still not a euphemism) or powdering her nose or something, I have a few minutes that go something like this:
let me have this let this work
I am ashamed to admit that. Ashamed to admit that sometimes that stupid little troll of a voice crushes my hope. And then I feel scared. I am scared that with three good follicles and good timing and good progesterone, this is the best month for it to happen and it won't happen. And if it doesn't happen when I have basically just had a picture perfect cycle, then maybe it will never happen.
And then the MoD pops back in and says, "Oh my God, Megan, I thought of just the thing! Let's rank our favorite dystopic heroines in order of badassness!" For the record, June Iparis at number 1.