I’m on my last round of Clomid, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t work. I’m still a few days out from my period, but I’m not feeling it. I don’t know. I can just TELL, okay?
Last week I was in San Francisco on vacation. In an attempt to wrap up all the loose ends before I went, I decided to call my doctor to see what the next steps are in case Clomid doesn’t work. Weird, but I felt like knowing what Plan C was would allow me to relax and enjoy my time off. Lo! He wasn’t in until Tuesday, so I left him a message. I packed myself up, and hopped on the next plane to SFO.
Fast forward: It is Tuesday, I’m on vacation. Specifically, I’m touring Alcatraz. I saw an “unknown” number pop up, and I know it’s my doctor. So I did what any other person does when they are on vacation and expecting news from their doctor… I picked up the phone regardless of how inappropriate the surroundings. After hearing that these rounds of Clomid haven’t worked (but I have been ovulating) he told me that I should see a reproductive specialist to discuss IVF. Though not surprising, not exactly the news I was hoping for either.
There I was, standing in Alcatraz surrounded by sweaty European tourists. I was on an island known as “the last stop,” as a place of hopelessness. I was trapped metaphorically and physically. And then I died.
Actually, I mostly kept my shit together. Mostly, that is, until the ferry ride back. 1) I could no longer distract myself with tales of dangerous prisoners and fatal escape plans. 2) On this very crowded ferry, I am seated next to a very pregnant women with a disgustingly adorable 2 year old.
I could have punched myself in the face.
Instead, I cried. The slow, leaky kind. The “I’m going to hide behind my exceptionally large sunglasses and hope people think I’m just sweating from my eyeballs” kind. Luckily, I went mostly unnoticed. Except by that frigging 2 year old who wanted nothing more than to get into my lap.
I could have punched that baby in the face.
I know what you’re thinking. Said 2 year old had no idea that I was in the middle of an existential crisis, deciding whether or not it is worth continuing to live. (I never said I wasn’t dramatic.) And this impressively pregnant woman had no idea that her rotundness wasn’t something I was about to coo at. In fact, it’s appearance in the seat next to me turned me into an emotional faucet.
No, I don’t expect the two humans to have any idea what’s going on in my head. But GOD DAMNIT, UNIVERSE… Could you do me a solid? Do you really have to put this LITERALLY in my lap? YELLING! ALL THE YELLING!
Mental picture: Me in a floppy sun hat and massive Jackie O sunglasses, tears running down my face. One 2 year old, desperately trying to crawl into my scrawny, vacant lap. And one pregnant mother who is too busy enjoying air conditioning to notice that I am in no way interested in hanging out with her offspring.
There are no winners here.