It’s Cycle Day 1. Again.
[Actually, I got too busy to finish this post, so it’s Ovulation Day now. But I’ll pretend it’s still Day 1 because in the last 3 years, it has been Perpetually Cycle Day 1, something like the movie Groundhog Day.]
This (9/13) is the first Cycle Day 1 since my miscarriage on August 12th. As usual, my emotions are all jumbled.
Of course I’m terribly disappointed that I’m not pregnant. Every time that first speck of blood shows up, I want to cry. Sometimes I do cry and other times I just stare at it for a really long time. Everyone says “you won’t get pregnant right after a miscarriage.” As if that could possibly make me feel better when I wake up 4 mornings in a row to a BFN. I still had my hopes up because I did ovulate and we did have sex at the right time.
My nickname for Kyle is The Man With The Golden Sperm (which must be sung to the Bond movie song, of course) because the IVF lab measured his sperm as having 100% motility. (The nurse could hardly contain herself when she told us this. The norm is somewhere around 40-50%. Thanks for rubbing it in, nurse.) Suffice it to say, his little guys go straight to their target. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. While I am glad that his superhero sperm make up for my “special needs” eggs, it does make me feel even worse about myself whenever a pregnancy doesn’t happen because I know it’s my fault. My body betrays me and I fail Kyle.
The other day Kyle brought up his worry that maybe my eggs and his sperm are fundamentally incompatible. What a horrible, depressing, frightening thought. And there’s nothing I can do to prove otherwise.
On the positive side of this whole Cycle Day 1 thing, I’m relieved that the countdown to ovulation can start again. Luckily my cycle usually resets itself pretty quickly. How sad is it that I know what my body usually does after a miscarriage? The ovulation predictor kit told me I had an LH surge just 15 days after the miscarriage started last month, only a day later than usual. Good job, ovary! Next time, send that egg out with a sexy dress, a few cocktails and directions to Hotel Uterus.
Yes, I’ll have two more weeks to enjoy eating deli meat and stinky cheese, drinking margaritas, taking allergy meds and pain relievers, and generally not worrying about whether or not I might be pregnant. But those things are pitiful consolation prizes. Stinky cheese can go f*** itself.
With the start of a fresh new cycle comes another wave of anxiety and self-induced pressure to GET PREGNANT THIS TIME. In 10 days I’ll start in with the $60 ovulation predictor kits– what a freaking rip-off! Pregnancy tests are ridiculous, too. You cannot tell me that it costs more than 50 cents to make a pee stick, yet they’re sold in boxes of two for $16?
Another precious egg wasted, washed out with the blood. Sadness. Hopefulness. Ending. Beginning. Panic. Relief. Frustration. Lather, rinse, repeat.