Today is day fucking 30. Heather is currently on the phone with her cousin Jody who, this morning, texted her the following:
heather ur getting old. Get er done. Ur gonna be the age i was when i became grandma.
Jody is a delight, so we don't hold it against her, and this is a good time for it: we're happy and snuggly in these last few days before Heather gets her period. We're soaking up the fantasy before it's gone. In a week, when the fantasy has turned to blood and cramps, we might not find Jody so delightful.
Clomid delayed Heather's ovulation by about four days, relative to her usual cycle, and we assume it'll delay her period, too. So, while it's been more than two weeks since we inseminated, we're still a couple days short of that landmark for ovulation. There's no real excuse for us to be optimistic-- nobody recommends inseminating four days before ovulation-- but we are. Maybe just to be contrary, thinking that it would be a fantastic fuck-you to Nashville and blood tests and hormone shots if Heather got pregnant just before starting IVF. And we're contrary people.
It seems all the more appealing at the moment, since last week I called Dr. King's office to ask about the results of the two previous blood tests (the results of the notorious Clomid Challenge) and whether they'd been sent to the Nashville clinic. There was a lot of voicemail involved, but eventually I talked to a nurse who said, "Oh, well, Dr. King's not handy, but I showed it to the other doctor and she said it looked like Heather has had CMV exposure, but otherwise it looks good."
To which I said, "Um, what? We aren't worried about CMV. That's neither here nor there. Mostly we just needed to get all these tests done so the IVF specialists had the lab work." And the nurse was puzzled. She said that we needed to fill out consent forms before the results could be sent-- even though we'd already done so and Dr. King's regular nurse had said they had all the information and would send the results.
Fortunately, this lady recognized that she had incomplete information and that the regular nurse would have to call me back. So that didn't happen, and Friday I called back. Voicemail. Then the random nurse again: "I thought we already talked about the test results? This note says we talked days ago."
Turns out, the regular nurse-- seriously, too many nurses with too many names and it doesn't matter since none of them are ever available other than through voicemail, in which case you'd think they'd just wait and have the right nurse call back rather than another nurse who was totally adrift-- had some family emergency and had consequently missed the earlier message.
"I'm glad you called, because otherwise it might have been who knows how long before she found the message!"
Okay, I'm the greatest. But it didn't even fucking matter, because the relevant nurse wasn't there, and the irrelevant nurse couldn't talk to her till Monday, and all I had to work with was the possibility I'd get a call Monday. Or that I'll have to call on Monday because this is MADNESS.
This madness is the reason-- well, there are about fifteen-hundred other reasons, but those are mostly Heather's reasons and this one is mine, too-- that being pregnant now would be so fucking sweet. I would love to stop making these calls, reciting Heather's birth date while leaving messages, explaining what the point of each test is.
Saturday, Heather said her stomach hurt. We figured it was probably cramps and were duly bummed. But later she said it felt like someone had punched her-- not like her usual cramps-- and asked me to rub her tummy and tell the pain to go. There I was, with my ear to her stomach, talking sweetly, and I listened closely, wondering if brand-new fetuses made sounds.