Forty-Eight Hours

So, first thing's first: the Fickle Fertilibitch moved my O-day back to CD19, which means I was 9dpo both Friday and Saturday, and re-dotted my coverline, for whatever reason. This means a few things: that my recommended test date isn't until Wednesday, rather than tomorrow, and, most importantly, that my estimated due date, if I were, magically, to be pregnant right now, is no longer 20 year to the day after my bat mitzvah. And that, my friends, is a travesty.

I also peed on a stick last night. At 10dpo, it was probably too early, but only one line appeared. I shouldn't have done it so soon, but curiosity got the best of me. I need to not do that if I can help myself.

But I guess the good news is that I have not yet begun to bleed. And so, this being CD30, I know that this is not a 29-day cycle. But the Prometrium keeps me from having much of an idea as to when I might have a period if I'm going to, and so the wait continues.

We went to the theatre on Friday night, and saw a show in which there was an unplanned young-people's pregnancy early on. As the couple snuggled on the couch, having decided to be excited about the adventure headed their way, tears began to fall down my cheeks. This was not intended to be a sad moment. And yet, I was so damn envious of them, of that dreamy, cuddled-up time together, that I couldn't hold it in. N and I had just under 48 hours of this bliss, from the Monday night, June 21, after I came back from choir rehearsal, when we got our BFP, until late Wednesday afternoon, June 23, when I started spotting in the port-a-potty at the FIFA Fanfest, where we were watching the World Cup. The spotting wasn't itself a death sentence for the pregnancy, or at least we didn't know that it was when it started, and my betas doubled a couple times the following week, but that Wednesday was when the worry began. I'm so sad for the brevity of our unadulterated delight--my eyes brim with tears to think about it now.

I'm reminded of the spring of 2007, when Paddington, our first dog, age two-and-a-half, devoured a bag of chocolate chips without our knowledge. He was a little guy--only about 15 lbs--and this was 12 oz of semisweet chocolate. As soon as we realized what had happened, we rushed him to the emergency vet. We went to sleep that night having been told that he was on the upswing, that it seemed everything was going to be all right. And then my cellphone rang in the middle of the night, and the vet techs told us that Paddington had taken a turn for the worse. For those few hours, we had been able to sleep, secure in his improvement, and then it all came crashing down. The next day, his organs successively stopped functioning, and we had to put our little boy to sleep. Loss is tragic in any form, but thinking you're out of the woods, whether due to rising betas or a vet's reassurance, and then discovering that your optimism was misguided...that's really rough.