The nurse called to report that I had not ovulated as of yesterday morning. Point to the clinic. It’s almost like they know what they’re doing. I will never use my monitor while on Clomid again, I SWEAR. She also reported that she’d made an error in scheduling the IUI, which should indeed have been set for Friday. Point to me. It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.
Meanwhile, after several months of sleeping like the baby I’ll never have, stress-induced insomnia has returned. It’s not just the Clomid, since it started the moment I knew I’d be doing IUI this cycle. The thing that keeps me from falling asleep at night and awakens me at five in the morning is this: PBF will soon metamorphose into BFB, or Best Friend with Baby. I lie there in the dark and think, In a couple of weeks a moment will come when she goes into labor. Then I’ll get an e-mail saying Jane X Y was born at time q and weighs n pounds. Mother and baby are doing well. Then my heart will explode and I will die.
I have to reveal something. Although I think of myself as someone who has never been pregnant, in fact I have had a chemical pregnancy. I was out of town and separated from my pregnancy tests so by the time I tested (Sunday, July 26th) the line was so faint I knew nothing was going to come of it. It didn’t really phase me, as that was back in the glory days when I thought my upcoming first appointment with the RE might actually fix something. So I never really felt sad about it…until now. ‘Cause the thing is, though I didn’t know it at the time, it had been about six weeks since PBF’s daughter was conceived. For the briefest of moments, maybe only HOURS, we were pregnant together. As her delivery looms closer I’ve started thinking about how different things would have been if that semi-pregnancy had stuck. Oh Dear God, things would have been so different.
When I think about the losses some of you have experienced, I feel pitiful for even getting worked up about this. I don’t have a due date to grieve over, I didn’t have a miscarriage to endure. I’m not mourning the loss of a child so much as the loss of an alternate reality. And I’ve been doing that for a long time, so where is this fresh sorrow coming from? And how can I make it stop?