Enemy, thy name is Progesterone. To loosely quote Shakespeare in Hamlet when he said “frailty, thy name is woman”. What a jerk! I wonder how ole’ Will would have handled pumping straight progesterone into his body twice a day for 10 days. Even iambic pentameter wouldn’t make my last few days pretty. That wonderful perspective I had on Saturday on all the many beautiful phases of motherhood? Gone. In one hormonal flash! Just like that. Yesterday, I woke up more anxious than I have been in probably a year. I stormed around my house, doing my chores with such a bad attitude. Quite simply, for that moment, I wanted a different life. I wanted a different story. I wanted to be one of those women who is so seemingly fertile that her husband looks at her and her womb fills. I wanted to be two weeks away from a due date. I wanted to be independently wealthy and hire a maid, a chef, and personal massage therapist. And most surprisingly, I really didn’t want to go in and take a pregnancy test in two days.
I was Sarah, Abraham’s wife, desperate to give her husband an heir and laughing at her own body. I was Hannah crying before the Altar of God praying for a child. I was the Israelites wandering in the desert, free but still grumbling. I had gotten into such a slump, I could no longer see how much I had but only what I still wanted. Instead of marveling at how God provided daily, I looked at His provision and disgustingly asked “what is it?” and “where is it?” I was a clinically diagnosed anxious woman who cannot take Xanax because it will possibly make me have a mutant baby. Holy cow, you wanna see a fertility doctors eyes get really big, plead for your Xanax! I begrudgingly took the medicines I’m supposed to and rebelliously drank an extra diet soda WITH caffeine as my small statement against my current situation. I am not proud of any of it. I was Eve looking around the garden at amazing abundance and being told it was all mine but wanting that one thing I cannot have. Forget blessed is she, I felt cursed.
Thank God for mercies new every morning. And husbands who can add perspective. And Scripture. And the song “Ever Be” that has been on repeat for me for two months. And hand-painted signs from your friends that declare with authority “It is well with my soul”. And Pei Wei. And all the things that I couldn’t see with my negative blinders on.
In the midst of my third panic attack in the last three months due largely to infertility, I was finally able to rest and breath again. I was gently reminded of how much I am loved, how much I am supported, and how I am not alone. I was held by my husband and gave myself a break from social media for a while. I got lost in a book and a nap and then got to do what I love and sit across from someone and share their burdens rather than be so focused on my own.
I was also to step back and realize that anything I would normally experience as a 5 or 6 on the stress scale feels like a 12 because of that demon progesterone. It’s adding lighter fluid to an already incendiary situation. I am a naturally dramatic (neurotic?) person so the generalized anxiety I already struggle with threatens to strangle me with this lovely pill I am taking twice a day. It’s also limiting trips to anywhere public because within 3 minutes, I feel like I am standing on the equator on the hottest day of the year in Southern humidity. Roughly, I am running about 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. I am sleeping with two fans on and Chad is getting sniffles because I am “freezing him out”. Oreo, our shedding Malamute and I are quite comfortable though.
And tomorrow, I will open the doors of our fertility clinic of the fifth or sixth time with the dozens of other people who sit on the steps waiting for the doors to unlock at 7 am. I will sit in a waiting room with women who all want what I want and who are probably anxious as well. I will be a part of the trying to conceive community in hopes of graduating to the expecting community.
The trying to conceive (TTC) community has a whole lot of abbreviations for things! Currently, I am in the TWW after the IUI (two week wait after intrauterine insemination). I am hoping for a BFP (big fat positive) on the pregnancy test as opposed to the dreaded BFN (big fat negative). We have monitored my HCG levels and will once again test them tomorrow in hopes that they are close to 100 and signify pregnancy. Several people are excited, dozens of people are praying, and I have done either the brave thing or the insanely stupid thing of blabbing about this to THE ENTIRE WORLD via a blog. I’m certain this is being broadcast on the international space station as well and Russian astronauts are laughing at me. (See, neurotic!)
I feel almost paralyzed by fear. I am terrified to hope for a positive and feel like I have to prepare for every possible outcome but these blasted hormones and this blasted decades long desire to be a mother are making preparation for any possible outcome hard to come by. Either way, there will be tears. Either way, God will meet my needs. I am confident of both of those things. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the support, encouragement, and “me too’s” we have received after sharing this part of our lives. No thanks are enough, truly! Thank you for praying for the Beach baby as we are. I’m certain that all of you will want to know the results of what we find out tomorrow and I just ask for your patience and continued prayers. I’m pretty bad at secrets so I’m sure that you will know sooner rather than later what the results say but I also think either diagnosis will need some time to process.
Sorry for my whining. Sorry for my crap attitude. And as always, thanks for being in this with me.