Fear of trying

Like this duck, I am dragging my feet. Unlike this duck, I will not have 7 babies this year.

I was on the phone with the IVF clinic, again.

“Just give us a call when your next cycle starts, and we’ll go from there,” the doctor said. “If it doesn’t start on time, give us a call then, too.”

I, ever the obedient patient, agreed to do exactly that. For those of you who aren’t down with the LING-o, that means call us when you get your monthly pain-in-the-@ss visitor. Oh, Aunt Flow, how I dislike you.

Most cycles last 28 days, but that’s just an average. Back in college mine were 35 days (awesome). But since starting this whole “trying to get preggers” thing, I’ve been all over the place, mostly because the docs were manipulating my cycle with synthetic hormones.  For the most part, I’ve been between 26 and 32 days for the past 18 months.

But I’m no college kid (sadly). Back to present day: day #37 of my current cycle.

Thirty-seven.  As in, 9 days past 28. Five days past my typical max.

So one of two things has happened. (1) I did not ovulate, and without doctor intervention [more of those tasty synthetic hormones], I could go months without Aunt Flow ever showing up, the lazy bitch. Or (2) I’m pregnant.

Let’s not even pretend #2 is possible, kay? It’s just not. That crap only happens in Lifetime channel movies, and to your coworker’s spouse’s sister-in-law. Not to me. So let’s not go there.

(Before you eternal optimists get all excited, relax. I’ll take a pregnancy test before I call the doc. Sheesh. I still have some optimism left in me. But a happy ending is something I can’t emotionally afford to entertain.)

I should call my doc and let them know my cycle’s doing that thing where it goes on forever, so they can write me a script and I can jump-start the show. Then I’ll start the meds for the frozen cycle, and we’ll do the transfer on day 19, and on day 33 I’ll go back to the lab for a blood draw to see if I’m pregnant.

On SNL Saturday night, Seth Meyers said that dressing your dog in a costume is a great way to tell your neighbors “We can’t have kids.” On that note, my furbaby went as a Pepper Shaker!

Yada, yada, yada. It’s not my first dog-and-pony show, and if memory serves, it was more like a donkey show last time. Really, really awful.

So then why am I signing up for this emotional shit-coaster again? (“If you barfed on your first time on The Manta, that means you should ride it again as soon as possible! Step right up, strap in, and let’s get nauseous!”)

Why are we doing this again? Because I have some weird subprimal urge to parent something. In addition to my dog.

Yes, I’ve been dragging my feet on calling the doctor. I tell myself it’s because I’m kind of enjoying my Infertility Vacation. But frankly, there’s more to it. I’m  terrified of going through this again.

I think it won’t hurt as bad if it fails, because I will know what to expect this time. Right? Right?

Or maybe I’m getting really good at blowing smoke up my own arse.