So my tracking app tells me I have seven days until I can take a pregnancy test. Seven days until I have a chance of finding out if I’m pregnant – of finding out if this cycle was the one or if we’ll have to try again. A quick google search results in several resources that say the absolute earliest you could possibly find out is about 10 days after ovulation (aka Friday), but to not trust a negative result until a week after a missed period (aka 21 days after ovulation, aaka freaking March).
I’m telling you all of this because the countdown is becoming intrusive and I’m hoping to purge my brain, so to speak.
I told Luffy this morning that I can’t wait to take the test. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I’m so ready for this to be our cycle. For the fertility drugs and the peeing on sticks every morning and the temperature tracking to finally, finally, yield a result. So I’m eagerly counting down the days until I can know. And yet. I’m also dreading it in a way. Right now, I can cling to the hope that this is it, this is the one. Once I take the test, I’ll know for sure and there will be no hope. I’ll either be ecstatic or despondent, but there will be no hope, at least not for this cycle.
We went to Napa a couple of weekends ago (I think I mentioned the champagne – at least once or twice). Our friend was turning thirty. His wife is six months pregnant. We had heard, through the grapevine, that they had been trying for a while. Or, at least, the information was that she’d been off birth control for close to three years. Finally! A friend I could talk to. Granted, she’s not really a friend of mine and I don’t like her all that much, but still! Someone I could talk to, in person, and share experiences. I was eager to hear any and all stories she had, to commiserate infertility and celebrate her pregnancy. Luffy and I were talking to her when we first arrived and Luffy asked her how long it took them to get pregnant. One month, she said, they got pregnant on their first try. She shrugged off our wonderment, saying she had been tracking her cycle for years and they knew exactly when to have sex.
But, I wanted to tell her, that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been tracking my cycle for a while too and all of that means absolutely nothing if there’s nothing to track. I felt like she wasn’t grateful enough. I mean, their first try! If we had gotten pregnant on our first try, we would have a six-month-old. I imagined what his dimples or her chubby cheeks or his dark hair would look like and I wanted to shout at her – DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE?!?!?!
Of course I didn’t. I understood that my frustration with her was misplaced. I’m frustrated with me, with my body and its failed attempts. In 16 months, I’ve ovulated five times, only three confirmed (the first two I’m assuming happened because I did get a period on my own but I wasn’t taking ovulation tests at the time). Three times we’ve diligently tracked my cycle and had sex exactly when we’re supposed to. Hopefully, third time’s the charm. We’ll know soon enough.