So I started chlomid again today for IUI attempt # 3. I was crushed Wednesday when my period started, signaling that attempt #2 had failed. Thank god I’m in an office with a door, although I don’t think that the walls are soundproofed well enough to disguise the fact that I was in here sobbing, judging by the concerned looks I later got.
I just couldn’t help it; I had no grip on my emotions. I don’t know if it’s the hormones fucking with me or just the utter disappointment and helplessness I felt. When IUI #1 failed, I wasn’t too concerned, it was like the practice run (albeit a very expensive practice!). It was our first one, the whole thing seemed like such a clusterfuck all the way along, I felt terrible after, so no big surprise it didn’t work out. But this time, I felt like we had done everything right; Miguel has been exercising and watching his diet and booze intake, his counts are relatively good, for him, I had three follicles ready to go, I had been doing the acupuncture. And still big fat nothing. I just don’t know what more we can do here. And with each failed attempt, it gets harder and harder not to freak out. Miguel took it better than I thought. His internal clock is what I think riles me up the most about all this. He’s kind of freaking out that he turned 36 in August and doesn’t want to be an old dad; he thought I’d be pregnant by August. At the rate we’re going, he’ll probably be 37 by the time the baby gets here, if it gets here. Which, I know big difference between 36 and 10 months and 37, but I get his point. You’ve got to draw a line somewhere or we’ll be 40 and still trying. In the back of my mind, I’m worried he’ll want to draw the line before I do.
But he surprised me and said that he’s game for at least two more tries with IUI. We haven’t talked yet about whether that means IVF next…one day at a time, and sperm willing, we won’t ever have to get to that point. Other than that, I’m busy at work trying to polish off things before I take most of next week off to go to Virginia to see salsera. And Dionne Warwick. WOOT! I have a ton of stuff I want to write about other than the seemingly all-consuming baby mess, but I just haven’t had the screwing around time this week.
Oh, and I haven’t had time to update the sidebar either; maybe next week. But I finished the Pants series, and I have to say, it WAS “Pants” as the Brits would say-i.e., it kinda sucked. I found all the characters annoyingly navel gazing in a way that struck a false chord with me in terms of perceived realistic teenage behavior. On top of that, one of the major themes set in the 1st book was that each girl contributed some kind of marking to the pants symbolizing her summer-like Tibby embroidered a heart for Bailey-something that is referred to several times in book 2. But at the end of book 2, no mention whatsoever of pants modification, and none for the rest of the series…plus pants worn by four people for four years and never washed? GROSS.
ETA: Sorry the fonts are fucked up, no time to mess with them today.