Still pregnant, but with a lazy-ass embryo that is taking its sweet fucking time to grow


Honestly? HONESTLY?! As y’all know, I was hoping today would be the day when I’d get a straightforward, crystal-clear answer after my third beta draw — either a very low number that said, “It’s over, this isn’t happening, purchase and consume that bottle of wine immediately and rejoice in not having to shove “effervescent vaginal tablets” (aka Endometrin) up your vajizza three times a day,” or a high number that would put me totally at ease and say, “I was just messing with ya, silly! Here I am, doubling perfectly at 48 hours, so start buying maternity pants and thinking about boy names you don’t hate… can Clover be a boy name?” Instead, I got pretty much the same doubling time as before, going from 445 on Friday to 1,672 on Tuesday (I’m actually so incompetent at math, I have no idea what that doubling time is, but it should have been 1,780).

Once again, the nurse was all, “Girl, you are so good! Relax!” and reiterated my instructions for the ultrasound on March 4th, which involves having a tech finding out whether or not it has a heartbeat — but NOT TELLING US, and instead making us wait an hour or so until our doctor can fit us into his schedule to reveal the results. Like, seriously, we’re paying how much for this and you’re making us wait for an hour to find out whether this thing is even alive?! Now I will know how those girls feel at that cocktail party before the rose ceremony on The Bachelor — ie. “Get this shit OVER WITH”.

Aaaanyway, I suppose this is what infertility is all about, right? It clearly doesn’t turn into schmetterlings and regenbogens (butterflies and rainbows, my two favourite German words) as soon as you see two lines on an HPT. It simply means that you go from coping with one variety of incessant worrying and assuming the worst to another variety of incessant worrying and assuming the worst. And I have a sense that this will continue even when there’s a live baby in my arms. Sigh.