Wishful thinking

Guess what?

No, not that. Guess again.

This isn’t quite a happy ‘Gosh darnit, wouldn’tcha know that I was knocked up all along’ post. But I am still somewhat pleased with myself, and considerably less embarrassed than I would be if I was indeed in a family way after all the whining about my knockers.

Today marks thirteen whole blood-and-cramps-and-products-which-belong-in-delicate-pink-wrappers free days since I ovulated. A new record. Believe me, I’ve been counting them off in disbelief.

Again, I would like to refer to my chart.

I currently bask it all it’s biphasic-with-intact-luteal-phase glory several times a day. Really. I keep a tab in my browser open at all times so I can flick over to it and smile contentedly. Proudly.

Isn’t it just so pretty? I haven’t had such lovely luteal temperatures since PBWCLEW. Or 13 days (and counting) between ovulation and menstruation, for that matter.

Unfortunately, it’s all fake, fake, fake. Those 3 little ‘H’s stand for HCG.

My hypothalamus and pituitary (I do believe I have previously alluded to their violent aversion to working correctly) don’t know what hit ‘em. Actually, that isn’t quite correct, they do.

At least they can still pick out HCG in a hormonal line up.

Those slack glands of mine think I’m pregnant, and are consequently doing their job for once. Lazy bastards. I’m sure they’ll shortly wise up to the ruse in their best ‘Durrr, hang on……’dis can’t be right’ fashion, but in the meantime I’ve still probably got another day or two of Tampax-free existence up my sleeve.

Which means I can give my husband that TTC-free (i.e. fun) shag he’s been hankering after.

Who said romance was dead?

 

Exhibit A (above). Written after my trigger shot. Left for my husband where he’s most likely to find it. In the pantry.

For the curious, the *second* most likely spot would be the fridge.

Watch out

Excuse me, coming through. Mind the elbows.

Fertile woman on a mission.

Sorry about your toes, I’m sure they’ll heal just fine.

Now where’s that husband of mine?

Ahem, If you’ll just excuse me for a minute, I have a date with a penis. Hopefully an erect one capable of the sympathetically mediated reflex known as ejaculation.

On the plus side, at least I don’t have to buy it dinner first, so disappointment is free.

Seriously, though, I have permission to trigger any time from tonight, but I can’t quite bring myself to. My chart doesn’t look quite ready, even if the scan *did* show pretty follicles.

I reckon as long as I’m not too far from my own personal shooting gallery (BYO Pregnyl, I don’t share. *That* stuff caused me no end of angst to acquire.) that I’m going to leave it till the last possible second to trigger. That way if I bugger up the shot and only some of it makes it’s way ex-blubber, it won’t be such a big deal.

The easiest way to identify a woman having an old fashioned showdown (guns drawn, high noon)with her own body is to look for excessive trips to the bathroom to pee on an OPK.

It’s either that or an outbreak of dysentry.

I feel ever so slightly dirty…

I’m sure that you are already aware that Blogger has this feature whereby one can surf between blogs. If you’re not, it’s situated neatly at the top left. I assume the idea behind it is so that even the more unread blogs (like this one) get the odd read when chance flips up their number. Presumably occasionally the reader even finds a blog after their own tastes.

The reason I bore you with such trivia is that yesterday somebody managed to blogger-surf from a blog entitled ‘anal sex’ to this particular blog.

Frankly, I think the good people at Blogger can do better with their blog-surfing gadget. Everyone knows that you can’t get pregnant like that.

I think. Hopefully.

Tee Hee.

Today is a momentous day.

No, it isn’t my birthday, nor that of anybody close to me.

I have yet to win the lottery, and I sure as hell haven’t finished school.

And no, I’m not pregnant.

Today, dear reader, I got my first site hit with the search term ‘sex’.

Snort. Snicker.

I bet this site wasn’t *quite* what they were looking for, somehow.

Forgive me, but I have to do this for the good of humanity…..

sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex!

God, I’m mean.

Thank f*ck for that…

Exhibit A: My urine on an OPK this morning:

Yes, I know the test line is not quite equal to, or darker than the test line…. but I’m desperate, it counts.

Now if you’ll excuse me while I have some spontaneous-well-timed sex.

I’ll try anything a thousand times…

I’ve had just about enough of sex for to last the rest of my life right now.

It’s no longer even funny.

It stopped being arousing about four days ago.

I’m going to be walking bow-legged at this rate. Permanently.

Since the situation is getting desperate, I’m going for the (historically repeatedly proven) best method for ensuring ovulation and conception tonight.

Alcohol.

Think lots of eggy thoughts, please

Shhhh…..I’m trying to ovulate.

I wish it was that easy.

That’s another two weeks of daily sex (you know, just in case). Even my (ever horny) man is getting kinda over the whole horizontal folk dance, and I’m fairly sure that it takes a lot to turn men off….

It’ll be two years of failed attempts at conception in October.

I think that’s an anniversary that will absolutely require alcohol to celebrate.

You mean you do it for fun?

God, it’s times like this that I’m very relieved that nobody I know in person has access to this URL.

I’m going to talk about what frantically bonking-like-the-proverbial-rabbits trying to make a baby does to your sex life.

For some time now, sex has been about how-many-days-pre-ovulation I might be, and just how many horizontal folk dances within this given time frame is enough? Really. Given that I ovulate somewhat erratically, even medicated, this often leads to two week long nookie marathons.

Weeks of get-it-up, get-it-in and get-it-out as quickly as possible, so we can sleep. Followed by some nonchalant, ‘Everyone does this after sex’ propping of the buttocks up on a pillow afterwards. Hell. I’ve even considered standing on my head.

It’s exhausting, and unsurprisingly enough, very unromantic and un-fun.

Rather unlike the early rooting-like-rabbits sex that goes on early in a relationship, where NOT getting pregnant is the prime goal.

The point to all of this rather embarrassing admission?

I actually, for the first time in a very long while, kind of fancied a bit of action last night. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, giggle etc etc.

I’d forgotten that it can be fun.

Commitment, total

I’m surprised to admit it, but today I was actually busting for our first post poor-baby-which-couldn’t-live-either-way (PBWCLEW) infertility appointment.

Strangely enough….This is even though I’m still devastated about the loss and I ache to have to start trying again.

And even though the appointment will stir me all up again and will come with fresh (painful) information about what went wrong.

…..although the genetic counsellor, as previously mentioned, pointed out that there’s not too much we can do about it. Hopefully this means not too many nasty surprises in form of further testing for us, or Bad News about some Freaky Genetic Syndrome our particular combination makes.

Did I mention I’m even prepared to have sex twice a day again for as long as it takes to work?

Total commitment!

On: Bored, Bored, BORED

My apologies for the rather monotonous theme of this transmission at this point. If you don’t want to bite your nails to the quick with ‘Is she, or isn’t she?’ stress (HA! Hahahaha. ), I suggest you fast forward a week.

…..Still wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-iting. Actually, I’m pretty darn BORED with waiting.

I have one single, solitary, sad, lonely pregnancy test in my cupboard.

….and I refuse to use it.

Because as tough as I can be, I don’t want to get my hopes up and have them dashed brutally. AND have to wait ……

(sod knows how long)

………..for the rivers of blood loss to erupt, exorcist-like, from my nether regions. Which will inevitably probably be somewhere public and whilst wearing white. Knowing I’m (almost certainly) NOT knocked up. Despite all that darn sex. Surely I deserve a break???

Upon reflection…..Maybe wearing white in public is not such a bad idea to try…..

On: sex and infertility

Reflecting back on the name of this blog, well at least I’ve got a semi snappy title to cheer me up. If the movies with Mr Cruise are anything to go by, success is now an inevitability, complete with dynamic soundtrack.

The RE think that there is a chance of spontaneous pregnancy. I guess that means more Clomid for moi and lots of sex for my sweet boy.

Can you believe he has been medically advised to have *frequent* ejaculations to avoid ‘stasis’ contributing to his bad morph. I’d swear it was a con, but he didn’t get any time alone with the doctor to cook that one up. AND he gets to take multivitamins, which feels like hocus -pocus to be honest, but if daily shagging and zinc’ll help we’ll do it, by golly.

…….and just because I ain’t the cheerful fairy I’m going to have to mutter under my breath the next part…..THEN, literally shagged out and vitamin-ed to the gills to within an inch of our collective lives we’ll move on to bigger things. Goody.

Technorati Tags: Clomid IVF MFI sex

Mission Impossible???

Ok, so here I am. Still infertile. Apparently starting a weblog isn’t the surefire solution it’s cracked up to be.