Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Fail Blog

Sometimes, I feel like we're treading water.  I don't know what we're doing anymore.  It's just survival.

I remember in college talking about "liminal states"-- existing, unrooted, between two fixed states.  Heather and I exist in the twilight zone between pregnant and not-pregnant.  We're childless but saddled with ever-present responsibility for the child we want. 

Heather's much-anticipated HSG dye test was delayed from Tuesday till Thursday because, although I told the lady last Thursday that Heather was on her first day of her period, we learned through a phone call on Monday afternoon that they can't do the test while you're even spotting.  Which totally makes sense; I get it, now that I think of it.  But I don't think I'm alone in going along with a doctor or nurse's suggestion thoughtlessly.

I read an article in the Times today about decision fatigue: the more decisions we face, the harder they become.  We get tapped out.  And when we're fading, we make irrational decisions, make safe decisions, or take comfort in following the suggestions of people around us.  It's been over a year since Heather's first ICI, and we'd been making decisions for six months before that: doctors, timing, mucus, finances, donors.  And, throughout the process, each of those choices has been re-evaluated dozens of times.

It used to be novel, but there's nothing giddy about donor-shopping now, and advice from friends and doctors has such overwhelming emotional power that rejecting any of it is wrenching.  Thinking about it is wrenching.  Sometimes I can't open e-mail or Facebook messages about the process because I just want to be under the mental blankets.  Let me stop thinking about what to insert or buy or drink; I can't.  I can't.

Monday, we got the news about spotting.  Monday night, Heather slept with a maxi pad to be sure she still had her period.  Tuesday morning, we called the hospital and said that it was too soon for her to come in; we rescheduled for Thursday.  Wednesday morning, Heather got a call from some guy at the hospital, who left her a message that she should get in touch with him regarding tomorrow's appointment.  Late Wednesday night, his voice-mail was discovered, along with one from later in the day, asking Heather to call back and confirm her appointment.
I was horrified, feeling like we'd dropped the ball in every motherfucking direction.  Earlier in the day, I'd found my own voice-mail from the ob-gyn's office, saying that we needed to reschedule September's appointment.  I rarely pick up my phone during the day, and Heather doesn't check often either, so of course when we get these messages it's after-hours and we can't do anything about them.  I called the hospital's main number and confirmed the appointment, but we have no idea why the guy called-- was this about the laxative??-- and whether we'll have missed something essential.  Heather will have to reschedule once again.

There's nothing we can do right now, Heather said, so we'll just call in the morning and stop worrying about it. 

I don't want to make any more decisions. 

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