We're approaching the end of our first week's wait, alternating between self-recrimination and tentative joy.
The joy isn't unlike what I felt in the hours before last week's lottery drawing: I didn't truly believe I'd win, but I was genuinely surprised when I didn't. "Heather, none of these numbers match!"
I don't truly believe we're pregnant. Thoughts become things, I know; it's just that we discovered late in the game that Clomid delays ovulation hugely, so we inseminated on day 14, and got the egg & dot on 18 and 19. That's not ideal. There's always the business about how sperm can live in the body for up to five days, but that seems like a lot to ask. Of course, I've also heard that cervical mucus, before ovulation, is unfriendly to sperm. And we only had a 20% chance to start with.
Still. Still. There was something so organic about this last round of ICI that it seems simply contrary for it not to work. All along, we've been scrupulously attentive to timing and procedure, struggling at best with the emotional aspects. Heather would get impatient with my clumsy speculum work, I'd get anxious, and we'd lie in the bed, tense and despondent. This time, everything was Zen.
I guess it had to be, though: just about everything looks Zen next to of IVF. I don't want to drive to Nashville once, not to speak of hormone shots or lab work or extractions. As a passionate advocate of napping, I believe that everything done while snuggled up in bed is at best possible advantage. That we were comfortable enough to snuggle and sing along with "Bare Necessities" after insemination seems like it should ensure success, more than any other circumstance.
It's been a week and we're not anxious. We're just waiting for the negative.
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