I don't have my period. I wasn't paying attention to my last cycle, but I think I'm late.
Heather isn't. She started spotting Wednesday night, two days before our planned pregnancy test, and we waffled through Thursday, trying to interpret her uterine auspices. When she didn't bleed enough to require a tampon-- yes, I did look at it-- I asked how the pad looked. Was her underwear staining? Was she cramping? I don't have any shame in asking anymore.
But the cramps came, and the tampons came necessary, and we tried to sort ourselves out. I think we had both bought in this time, delighting in Heather's few physical symptoms, congratulating ourselves on a very tidy insemination. Secretly, we liked the poetry of getting pregnant right on deadline-- going Over the Top like Stallone, making that crucial, final surge. Sweeter than a positive test on Mother's Day.
The deadline is unclear now. After a couple days of moderate grief, Heather's disappointment peaked, and she started talking not about drugs but IVF. "I'd rather spend $10,00 once for a 50% shot than spend $1,000 a month, ten times." My instinct was to go slow on fertility treatments, but it's her money and her body. She knows what her grief feels like and whether she can handle it. I said as much, hoping she'd rethink it in a few days, and this weekend we agreed to do at least one more cycle of ICI while researching ART. Heather says 7 is her other lucky number, anyhow.
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