Call me Revelations.

My normal luteal phase is 13 days. It’s pretty faithful, though occasionally I only get 12 days.

Yesterday was day 14.

I was pretty useless at work all day, as you might imagine. I spent a couple of hours poking around the internet, looking at baby names and baby slings and pregnancy discussion boards. I spent another hour humming and looking out the window. I made a mental list of who to tell, in what order. I reminded myself not to get my hopes up, as they would almost certainly be dashed.

And dashed they were, this morning, as the waters of my body turned to blood and poured out in positively biblical fashion. Mr. Malaprop cried a little. I didn’t. Sometimes I feel like I’m past crying.

Tomorrow I go in for the first part of the screening for the clinical trial. I want the IVF to work. I want it a lot. If it doesn’t, I’ll try a few more IUIs. Then, as I told Mr. Malaprop, I will be done with this. And I will want to talk about adoption.

Edited to add: Boy am I feeling sorry for myself right now. This is a pity party the likes of which have not been seen in, oh, I guess about a month. My superego is watching from a safe distance, shaking its head in disgust.


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