I Value Fuckery

Ferocious Friday, my little pop tarts.

This morning after 2 hours in traffic, I arrive at the laboratory for blood work.  I sit in one of the 50 empty chairs.

After I sit, rather than choose one of the now 49 available chairs, a surly woman with an inexplicably uncovered cup of pee comes and sits directly next to me. 

I look at her buggily.  She is unmoved. I very seriously contemplate licking her neck very gently as we are clearly involved in a very serious relationship now, or just slowly and breathily whispering in her ear "I'm soo... glad.. we're getting... this...intimate..this...fast..."

We sit together for an awkward two minutes as I attempt to tweet about this in a way that she can't see. We're practically dry humping. I am halfway to pregnant.

She then, gesturing with the pee cup so that I can intimately hear the gentle sloshing, asks me if I had to get a number.  Before I could decide how to answer, a nurse calls her in.  Her name is Mrs. Poonanny.

I can't even discuss it.

Translation: we are now day 3 into IVF #2, the super sci fi edition.  I have made two requests with the universe, one for this to work (obvi) so I'm not out of options, and two, to keep me giggling as long as humanly possible.  Now it's just a matter of egg farming (coocoocachoo) and eating all the things everywhere until I am a jiggly pile of food made flesh.

(Yesterday the BFF and I went on a distraction mission to Target. 4 hours of artful photos ensued.)

(Don't even ask me about what happened with bacon this week. Everyone knows bacon goes good with making eggs.)

As it is nearly impossible to keep everyone's ute straight, a brief synopsis to spare you from guessing and/or looking up:

Bub (the husband - not the above banana) and I have been trying since 2009.  I got PCOS.  I don't ovulate without Clomid. We got problems. 99 problems and a baby aint one.

We get to IVF last year.  I respond well.  Inexplicably, even with ICSI only one out of twelve fertilized (would normally be 70-80%). One gets transferred.  Mother effing chemical pregnancy.

Bub's sperm looked awesome - so did my eggs.  Dr. Kickass had his sperm tested for DNA fragmentation - he was fine.  Dr. Kickass got him enrolled in a study to see if he was missing a protein that tells my eggs his sperm is there in the first place -ding ding ding!  So this time, we're trying to get me to make some more eggs (coocoocachoo, I say!!) and then bypass Bub's deficiency by adding the protein to our dishes.  Weeee!

So same shit, basically, as the usual IVF - injecting me with craziness, egg retrieval, etc. - they're just trying a secret spice this time when everybody finally gets together to cook in the pot.  We're adding nutmeg, if you will.

(My spread).

I am medicated.  I have been injected with nuns pee and the like (true story - look it up). The irony of virginal nuns pee burning like a raging case of the ole syphillis going in is not lost on me.

I am zippy.  Inexplicably, 'has she had the blue Heisenberg shit?' zippy.  Nurse Kickass says this should wear off soon and I should start to feel like bloated walrus carcass any minute now.

There is no reason for this zippiness. Let's review - I have had a flu shot, hormones, and though I have quit my sleeping medication I have also quit caffeine.  And right now I could push a fucking car.

Apart from that, I have exactly two responses left to my actual husband: either I want to kill him or fuck him. I can't imagine what other purposes he serves as he is either infuriatingly sexy or just infuriating.  So clearly, the hormones are indeed kicking in.  (And speaking of fucking - today is my last day to do that safely.  I am none too thrilled with this news as I am practically a 14 year old boy and I currently have the pimples to prove it).

The BFF (banana-for-fuckssake) is coming over and we are going to walk to Starbucks to get me some bullshit decaf coffee.

(For the record, folks, now that I'm on the good girls list I can officially say decaf, non-smoking, non-anything is bull shit and you know it.  And so help me if you wave a bunch of kale in my face and tell me it solves everything I will wrestle you into a pork-costume and whisper moistly on your neck).

Mostly I'm kind of euphoric, though.

So please, Universe, pretty please, keep me as positive and giggly and enjoying my fuckery/shenanigans as much as humanly possible while I can.

Please, please fellow infertile.. I don't expect you to feel 100% thrilled or hopeful for me, I appreciate whatever you can muster.. But to nominate myself for a little bit of your positivity: this is my last shot.  I am not the girl that gets pregnant on round one of Clomid, I am not the couple that believes they are in the throws of despair after a few months.  I'm the girl that gets on the train, stays on for years, drives well past screwed, passes the time with jokes.  I am the rare occasion, the horror story, that people could genuinely pull out and say "well if she got pregnant, then there's hope".  Let me be hope.

Please, please, Universe, Gawd, Energy, Universal Force, Frida Kahlo and Bill Murray's testes.. It's my time. 

I've had enough.  I've done a pretty good job at staying silly and tapdancing, and 4 years later I'm still Ms. Bojangles over here.  

It's not my time because I deserve it more or less than anyone else.. it's just my time.  That's all. It just is. Time for a new lesson.

And if you nominate me to Mommy, I will reign benevolently and humorously.  I will be sensitive to others, love my kid beyond anyone's wildest expectations and do the absolute best I can - and possibly most importantly, be full of gratitude for every shitty and/or wonderful motherhood experience.

Please universe, don't punish me for a rare show of optimism.

Please, please, please, please.