Not The Mama/The Electric Kool-Aid Baby Test

Sometimes, when we are not brave, we have to borrow a little courage. I usually try to borrow it from my friends, but sometimes I borrow it from complete strangers. In this case, I'm borrowing from the cojones of The Sassy Curmudgeon, whose blog I have stalked read voraciously for the past few months.

She hit a chord when she posted about truth in blogging, which engaged me in an internal debate about how much I wanted to share (I'm mostly anonymous except for the people who know me personally, and since I actually don't resemble a cupcake you wouldn't know me on the street; I started this blog to write, and I am not writing because it's all too much to put OUT THERE; what if someone figures out who I am? Well, let's face it, I probably wouldn't say it at a dinner party, but if you and I had been having coffee for a couple of hours I would have totally told you because everything falls out of my mouth; I hate whiny blogs, but I did make a vow to tell the Truth recently . . . .)

And today she told the truth about not being a mama. And I'm not a mama either. And I feel as though I can be brave because this woman who writes a blog I like and admire could tell the truth. Because what I didn't perhaps get to in the last post was that the truth is messy and unpleasant.

I haven't seen my good friend Aunt Flo in over 85 days. And no, I'm not pregnant. I will tell you that the pregnancy machine that makes home tests et al is an evil machine which likes to continually tell you that the test is probably wrong, and you may be pregnant. But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself here -- you see, I've been a little bit pregnant from June until last Friday, and I've been freaking out for most of that. My sister and I decided that this was a giant worldwide conspiracy involving EPT, and my doctor’s office.

Evolution of the Conspiracy:
January-ish – Pull the goalie. Try to monitor cycles to figure out when to do what.
June 26 – go visit my in-laws
June 30 – four weeks since last cycle. Home from in-law visit, go to bar to unwind from trip. Drink myself into oblivion, aided by husband’s BRILLIANT idea that I should give myself a margarita for every day I spent at the in-laws, as a reward.
July 1 – Hangover.
July 2 – Realize that my cycle should be coming in the next week. Immediately become moody.
July 3 (or thereabouts) – go tie another one on to get to my “one margarita per day spent with in-laws” requirement, because while it was only six days I am a freaking lightweight.
July 4 – Hangover. All I want to eat is chocolate-covered pretzels. So I make them and devour them in front of the TV. Husband tries not to be disgusted by my behavior.
July 10, or thereabouts – Extreme fatigue. My days go a little something like this: Get up, dress in workout wear, plan to run and then clean and apply for jobs. Sit on couch to watch Regis and Kelly. Take a nap. Watch CSI. Nap some more. Move to bedroom. Nap again. Now it’s 4:00 and I take a shower and put on pajamas. This continues until late July.
July 16 – Get a little worried. Buy a stick, pee on it, and celebrate its negativity with a half a bottle of wine.
July 20 – I can no longer button my pants. This is weird, because they are only tight around my middle. Buy fat pants, which are waaay loose in the leg and butt but I can button without feeling like I’m being sawed in half. Also, now have to pee every twenty minutes and am having periods of dizziness. Begin googling “pregnancy” and “negative home pregnancy test.”
July 23 – Get a little worried. Buy a stick, pee on it, and celebrate its negativity with a half a bottle of wine.
July 25 – Repeat
July 25 – Freak out. Call doctor. Schedule blood test. Also negative. Celebrate with wine.
July 29 – Travel to VA to help with sister’s move. She suspects something’s up and tries to out me by asking me to go get margaritas. I go ahead and tell her what’s going on, and she tells me about the time that all the home pregnancy tests she took were negative too. In related news, my niece is now five. I freak the fuck out.
August 7 – I buy another stick and pee on it. Negative. But I no longer trust the damn things. Am still battling afternoon fatigue. No pants fit. Look markedly pregnant in form-fitting clothing, and am scrambling to find things that help me hide it, because while it’s cool when you are pregnant to tell people who figure it out, it’s uncool to have to explain the whole thing to people, who then get confused and treat you like that crazy woman with an hysterical pregnancy from Glee.
August 13 – Return home, call nurse practitioner. Beat myself up for the margaritas, wine, and painkillers.
August 16 – Fat pants no longer fit. Am of two minds – if I’m pregnant, FABULOUS! Time for new clothes! If I’m not, I am a disgusting fat pig.
August 18 – See nurse practitioner. She asks for date of LMP and then we have the following conversation:

NP: So you’re thinking pregnancy?
Me: No. I’ve had several negative home tests, and a negative blood, so I doubt it.
However, my sister also had several negative home tests although the blood came back positive, and my niece is now five.
NP: Well, let’s get you another blood test today, and I’m going to wheel in the ultrasound machine to look at your baby!
Me: Great!
NP: This could also be a thyroid problem or PCOS, but I doubt it because this is the first occurrence of symptoms. I’m thinking pregnancy. Now, I’m not an ultrasound tech, so if we don’t see a fetus it doesn’t mean there’s not one. I want you to continue as pregnant until we have an answer for you.

Okay, I’ve just stopped drinking the Kool-Aid. And now my NP is drinking it, and apparently I still should be, based on her enthusiasm. So I go with it. I’m a little bit pregnant.

As you’ve probably guessed, after twenty minutes of having a probe pressed uncomfortably on my abdomen while I stared at the ceiling tiles and tried not to pee, nothing was seen. NP continues to be upbeat and positive about “my pregnancy.” I go purchase a Bella band so I can wear my pants and begin nesting.

August 19: Blood test that day was negative. Am disgusting fat pig who is retaining water.
August 20: Begin googling “PCOS” (ACK! Will become fat and hairy!) and “low HCG levels, pregnancy symptoms” (these results can be really horrible – ectopic pregnancy, miscarriage, etc.) and “thyroid problems.” Cry in shower. Feel like less of a woman. Apologize to dead or mythical baby.
August 23: Trans-vaginal ultrasound. It is as much fun as it sounds. My husband looked like he was really trying to sink into the floor. I knew as soon as my uterus flashed on the screen that I really wasn’t pregnant. Have blood taken to check for thyroid problems. Receive call from NP to tell me that I am not pregnant, I have no thyroid problems, and both ovaries have cysts. (ACK! Will become fat and hairy!) NP prescribes hormones to jump-start things, and refers me to an infertility specialist. Now I am a fat hairy woman who cannot have babies.
August 24: Start hormones. Hate them already. Am headachy and moody, but am less swollen – successfully buttoned and zipped fat pants and wore them for most of the day without cursing the day they were created.

Which brings us to today. I’m awaiting a call from my infertility specialist, and wondering how much of this I want to do. I mean, I want to be a mom, but I don’t know how much in the way of interventions I feel comfortable with. And where do I draw the line?

So yet again I've told you the Truth. It was, as I acknowledged in my last post, exceptionally brutal. All bad jokes are my attempt to deflect, and should not be taken as proof of a bad sense of humor.

And for the Baby, when it comes -- know that this experience let me know how much I want you. Till then.