Supposed to be

“That’ll be $250, Mrs. Howell”

“You’re total is $350, Mrs. Howell”

“That’ll be another $250, Mrs. Howell”.... before our NP can stick a wand up your vagina to tell you that the medicine didn’t work & you’ll need to spend another $350 to stab yourself with every night. Then repeat. 

😑

So, we’ve officially started “trying” again.

We’re doing an IUI cycle with a new Dr. We started with femara, which did nothing (again.) Graduated to more injections, and all I’ve gotten out of it are hormonal headaches, bloating, fatigue & a healthy dose of self loathing. No decent follicles to be seen. FSA is down to $0 & we’re slowly(/quickly) draining our HSA. 

I have never felt less feminine & less attractive. Injecting myself with hormones isn’t a sexy thing, you guys (although I’m pretty good at it.) I keep crying to Andrew about my lazy, good for nothing ovaries. (But seriously, they have ONE job.)

 Making babies was supposed to be a FUN thing. It was supposed to be a “surprise!” Thing that I found out about after I threw up one too many times so I peed on a stick. It was supposed to be a “something smells funny” or a “Im late!” Kind of situation. 

It wasn’t supposed to be measuring follicles, injecting hormones, having a probe stick up my vagina, make my husband provide a “sample” for a stranger to inject into me situation. 

This isn’t how any of this was supposed to happen.

I’m not excited about it. I’m dreading it. I’m (very) anxious about it. I have very few positive feelings about this process anymore. Every once in awhile I’ll get a burst of hopefulness. Long enough to work on my fake baby registry & daydream about baby names for a bit.

It’s tough. This wasn’t how I ever pictured this part of my life. I wanted the “surprise!” Pregnancy test, and surprising Andrew. I wanted to be happy and to announce early & have gender reveals & baby showers like everybody else.

I’m years and worlds away from where I thought I would be.

 I wont ever be a young,cute, pregnant, mom who is just starting out. I have a difficult time picturing myself in that role anymore. (I used to dream about that role 10 years ago. I used to picture myself sitting in a chair at my baby shower, surrounded by friends and family, opening up adorable baby clothes.) I don’t think I’ll ever get that luxury. I can’t picture myself in that role anymore.

Some of my peers have high schoolers. I don’t even have an egg. 

I’m 90% sure I will just get fat, tired & gassy. No cuteness involved. I’ll be scared & cry a lot. There will be no bump pictures from me. I’ll probably get stuck on bed rest, or have pre-eclampsia, or pre-term labor. And probably gestational diabetes. 

Oh, and? We don’t plan on finding out the gender. I fought Andrew for that. I want at least one surprise in this entire process.

IF it ever happens. This is all hypothetical. It’s a fat, ugly IF. 

Our 9 year anniversary is in 10 days (or something like that.) Hopefully, we’ll be done with the meds and ultrasounds for this cycle by then. Hopefully I can throw up my hands for 2 weeks and forget about it, because I did what I could & it’ll be out of my hands. 

I’m going to go watch season 2 of Stranger Things. I’m trying not to stress too much. (I’m even signed up for yoga. 😳)

I wasn’t going to write about this. I didn’t really want to. But I feel like I owe it to myself, other people dealing with it, and to the people that have been along for the ride so far. Plus, it’s kind of cathartic to get it out. 

Thanks for staying with me this far, I do appreciate it.