I thought the two week wait was in the bag when we made it to seven, then ten days. But the last few days have been the absolute longest and hardest. I would’ve put money on not being pregnant a week ago, but not a few days ago. Part of that was getting a new thermometer – I tried the old one well after I’d waken up and been out and about, and it still registered the same temp, so I thought we might as well try a new one. I kept the new and old therms and took my temp for a few mornings and – lo and behold – the old one kept giving me the same number, but the new one gave me something else that made more sense.
So at least my temp hasn’t actually gone completely batshit throughout all this. That’s comforting.
Yesterday and the day before were really hard. I was done guessing. I just wanted to know. I resisted the urge to test early, even though I was having dreams about peeing on a stick. Testing early carried a higher chance of a false negative, and I knew if there was any chance I would test again anyway.
Then I started spotting DPO 12, but not the sort I normally get. I do spot a few days before my period, but I managed to convince myself that this had to be implantation spotting. When it continued on DPO13 and became much more like my usual, I was sad. Still, somehow, I held out hope.
But this morning: nope. I peed on a stick and made tea while I waited, to give the stick more than enough time, but it was a BFN. As if to really rub it in, my period started for real not too long after.
Wow, talk about TMI. Is that why all infertility talk is couched in acronyms? I just can’t stand the term Aunt Flo, so I’m not going to use it. Sorry (not sorry).
In the end, I am much more disappointed than I expected. Even knowing that it’s for the best, what with our December plans, even knowing it was a first try, even knowing the initial process could have been done a lot smoother and in a more ideal situation. We have years and years yet to try, the benefit of starting young, and even for fertile hetero couples actively TTCing, it can take up to six months and frequently does. And this way we can still visit family for the holidays. But…
I think we all secretly harbor a hope that we’ll be the exception. That our tubes are special, our bodies especially fertile, and that we could conceive during a hurricane, upside down in a pool. Having that hope shattered is humbling, especially if you tried to be rational about the whole thing and still couldn’t shake that hope. It is also depressing, because so much as you tried to get it through your thick skull that this could end up taking a very long time, it’s only then that it finally slides past knowing to knowing.
This morning I will let myself mourn. I’ll drink my tea and listen to the birds and let go of what could have been. Try to accept what is, even if that means forcibly shoving away every “but wait maybe-!” thought.
Tonight, however, we will celebrate. With wine. And cheese. This is the start of a new cycle, after all, and a new opportunity. Mostly to drive ourselves crazy.