Trigger Warning: This post contains themes of pregnancy loss and infertility.
This post was originally published August 17, 2018, on Lottie & Me.
Four months happily married.
One misguided attempt at cycle charting.
One massive meltdown resulting in $115 for one must-have puppy.
Three positive pregnancy tests thrust into two callused hands. Two shocked faces.
Five weeks impatiently waiting for one ultrasound.
Two canvas cubbies and one canvas hamper, painted with peacocks and lions and giraffes.
One economy size order of preggy pops. Two pale pink sea bands. Two belly bands (one black, one white). Three sets of expandable leggings. Four or five or six sundresses. One promised crib.
One emergency room visit with one healthy ultrasound. One day off work.
A second emergency room visit with one healthy ultrasound. One week off work.
One last emergency room visit. One clot the size of my fist that wasn’t a clot. One unknowing flush.
One night in a hospital. Three times promised medication I never got.
Ten days lying on my left side to save a baby I’d already lost.
One empty ultrasound.
Three months of hemorrhaging. Six weeks without sleeping. 4 months of therapy.
One pregnant cat. Three healthy kittens.
Two months trying. One positive test.
Four weeks. 1000 baby names. Three Star Wars Little Golden Books. One promised crib.
One emergency room visit. One healthy ultrasound.
265 miles to deliver two kittens. One roadside rest-stop. One flush.
$1300 to find 23 “normal” chromosomes making up one baby boy.
Three blood tests, possibly not quite normal.
$1100 for eleven tubes of blood, all completely normal.
$400 with one fertility specialist. Everything normal.
One year of negative pregnancy tests, at $23.99 a box, at two to three boxes a month.
One consult allowing one more month. Five days freaking out about chlomid because QUADRUPALETS. WHAT DO YOU DO WITH QUADRUPALETS?
One massive meltdown over one mistaken pizza.
One ovulatory cycle from hell. And then…
Five pregnant women in my waiting room. Five VERY pregnant women.
One deep breath.
Two weeks not so patiently waiting.
Three too-early tests.
Two pink lines.