So, I am a poster on a message board for women taking Clomid and Metformin and I say a lot on that board that I don’t say here (let’s get real – does my father need to know about the latest on my progesterone levels? does anyone, really?)
(That said, I should have the results of Wednesday’s appointment sometime tomorrow. I’m hoping for a big # but expecting mediocrity. Anything over either 15 or 20 is good news).
But there’s a lot to say that I can’t say there, either. Mostly because I can’t curse on BabyCenter. (I mean, they call sex “babydancing”, barf). So here’s the latest: last Wednesday I had a blood sample taken to be tested for progesterone. The good news is that my dr. feels that I did not suffer from any of Clomid’s more nefarious side effects (particularly, cysts). That is good news.
I guess I just feel frustrated. And I know I think too much about it all. I stuck my head in my bedside table today to confirm that I actually have 10 pregnancy tests, just waiting for me. Fuckadoodle. Who in their right mind has 10 of them? Why can’t I just be the normal girl who runs to Walgreens and buys one a month? (I used 6 the first time. Six.) Why can’t I just be the normal girl who says, Ehh, it’ll happen when it happens? Why can’t I just be the normal girl who says “Fuck! Really??” before turning back to the little white stick to confirm, humm, yess, that is indeed two lines (or two dots, or a smiley face, or ‘baby…baby…pirate?’ like on the Simpsons)?