The waiting game

How premature, how silly of me to dream up this blog before it was needed. Every month is agonizingly long when you're trying to get pregnant. At least for the past two cycles, I have not used pregnancy tests too soon. Saved a bit of money and heartache there. For a while, as with the months leading up to my last pregnancy (see: Heart-throb Harrison), I thought it would be wise to invest in pregnancy test stocks. I'd make a killing if other women were like me, hoping for a positive result, knowing full well they should wait until a few days after their next cycle was supposed to begin, even when they've been charting and there has been no indication of ovulation.

I had a little fantasy I foolishly allowed myself to believe this month. I thought if I could just hold out until Father's Day to take my test, I could give Dave a great surprise, or at least a special sort of announcement involving Harry, instead of a repeat of last time: Picture Jill crouched down next to Dave as he was trying to sleep in; she holds a stick showing two lines in the magical window, not just one, and she has a big goofy smile on her face. Dave eventually senses my presence and squints at the pee stick before saying, "is that what I think it is? Are you pregnant?" OK, maybe it wasn't a planned announcement involving a themed meal consisting of baby carrots, baby bok choy and baby back ribs (see: Full House, Rebecca tells Jesse she's pregnant), but it wasn't so bad.

I had a bit of a shock at the doctor's office last week when I went in to get my blood drawn to see whether or not I'd ovulated (result: yes). Their computers were down, so the receptionist at the front had to fill out a different form. She asked me what the blood draw was testing, and I said my progesterone level. She put down her pen, looked up and said, "Oh honey, are you having a hard time getting pregnant?" If upon reading this, your jaw has not hit the floor, let me point out how inappropriate this is. Not only was it frankly none of her business (read: unprofessional), but it was at the check-in desk with other people around, and she did not attempt to lower her voice. I said, "I'd rather not say," and she said, "oh honey, it's ok. My granddaughter is going through the same thing right now..." and continues to tell me about how everything will proceed. I say, "actually this is the second time I've gone through this, so I know," and she interrupts, saying, "sometimes it takes two or more cycles before it works...my granddaughter, blah..." I reached over the counter and slapped her. OK, I didn't. I actually just smiled politely, willing the conversation to be over. In all honesty, I don't care if the whole office knows that I'm reproductively challenged (which I'm really not, or at least I hope not), but it wasn't her job to say those things but only to write down "progesterone level" on the blood work form. She really did only mean to be nice, and she was of an older generation. But really? Don't they train medical office personnel to treat patients with a little more confidentiality and professionalism than that? I was pretty mad.

Well, there can be no doubt I didn't have to wait until Father's Day to find out it was not meant to be this time. Sadly, I cannot blame my round belly on a growing baby (another fantasy), but rather a lack of exercise and too much fast food and cookies while I've been on the road in the past 3 weeks. The waiting game continues. It's really not a fun game at all.