I’m Fine. Really.

I know I promised to be back yesterday to blog about how I’m not pregnant, but I was busy. And no, I wasn’t busy sitting on the couch crying, surrounded by empty hard cider bottles. I was cleaning, doing laundry, and catching up on various household chores I couldn’t get to when the aliens were eating my brain and making me nap all the time.

Unfortunately I had let things go for so long that all I accomplished was cleaning the kitchen and bathroom and doing laundry. Which means I still have to dust and vacuum and sweep today. And fit in two hours of A Haunting. And some other shit I promised to do for Jesus, all while trying to remember that I am not allowed to eat meat today.

Can I just take a moment to say here that I might be the only person who doesn’t like hardwood floors? It just means I have to clean the damn floor twice, in two different ways. And since we rent, our many throw rugs aren’t a decorating statement so much as they are an effort to protect our deposit from Jellydog’s nails.

Anywho. Of course I’m disappointed that I’m not pregnant. But not terribly disappointed. Because I honestly expected not to be anyway.

First of all, even if my ladyparts were all in proper working order, it can take 35 year old women a year to conceive. On average. Meaning it could take us that long, for no particular reason at all. Second of all, it was our first month of trying. My luck is just not that good. Third of all, my ladyparts are not, in fact, in proper working order.

Truthfully, I don’t even regret FF getting me all worked up with their pregnancy monitor either. We’re supposed to be thinking positively here, and it was fun to pay attention to all the things that were going on with my body.

I have my own theory about what happened, with no way to prove it, it’s just what I think and feel. The only “research” I have to base it on is what was happening with my own body compared to some articles, blogs, and personal stories I’ve read.

There’s lots of talk about how even when both male and female parts are working perfectly, sex is perfectly timed, everyone follows all the rules perfectly, pregnancy still doesn’t happen that month.

The stuff I’m reading suggests that it’s not so much the fertilization that’s the tricky part. In fact, unless the issue is with the woman’s eggs or the man’s little swimmers, fertilization probably happens more often than it doesn’t happen. It’s that trip through the Fallopian tubes and finding a place to set up shop in the uterus where things tend to fall apart.

When Aunt Flo showed up and ruined all my plans I went back and looked more closely at my chart. I didn’t imagine the things I was feeling, even though I was trying to explain them away with caffeine withdrawal and alien brain thieves.

I most definitely wasn’t imagining the fatigue that started about 4 days after I ovulated. It was like nothing I have ever felt, and this is coming from someone who has had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome in the past. It wasn’t just that I really wanted a nap, it’s that I could not function without one, sometimes two, a day. I once fell asleep sitting upright in my chair reading a blog.

My bbt went down, significantly, 10 days after ovulation. I had mild cramping that day, and the next. My boobs hurt. My brain cells appeared to be leaving my head at an alarming rate.

The fatigue just…went away on Tuesday. I had energy and felt like doing something for the first time in almost a week. I only dozed for 15 minutes on the couch as opposed to passing out and drooling on myself for two and a half hours. I could think clearly again.

Something was different, and I felt much less optimistic about the pregnancy test the next day. But Aunt Flo had to be a bitch and come later in the morning, so I still wasted a pregnancy test when I got up.

So, maybe, just maybe, what happened was that everything was going along swimmingly, and a little embryo (or is it blastocyst?) did implant in my uterus. And then a day or so later it was all, “Damn, these are not cozy digs. There’s no room up in here! I’m out.”

Which means Jerrad and I will be spending some time this weekend filling out ginormous packets full of terribly rude questions like how old was I when I got my boobies and how often does my husband jack off, so we can get an appointment with the fertility specialist and I can have more uncomfortable medical instruments inserted into my hooha.