I’m still trying to figure out how I am going to structure this blog. What kinds of posts I am going to write and how I am going to promote myself. Am I a resource-laden blog? A personal experience blog? Am I hopeful? Bitter? Funny?
To date, I settled on all of the above. I am, however, leaning towards a personal experience/ journal-type blog. I REALLY regret not blogging everything since we started on our infertility journey. It’s such a healthy way of processing things for me. Anyway, my posts will sometimes have a specific theme, and sometimes they’ll just be dated to reflect a personal experience or event.
Like this one.
My staff Christmas party is tonight, and all week I’ve been thinking about last year’s party, and how I was feeling that night.
We were right in the middle of our first round of injectibles. I had previously tried Clomid/Letrozole and had been unsuccessful with both of those, so naturally, we moved on to the injectable hormones. As you do. If you’ve never done injections than you won’t know that you have to give yourself a needle every night, around the same time. My doctor recommended that I take my needle between 7 and 8 pm, so I chose 7:30 to be my time. I was diligent. I took that needle every night at 7:30 on the dot, and I made sure that I could rest afterward with a hot water bottle placed gently over my baby-maker.
My staff Christmas party fell right smack dab in the middle of my injection treatments, so guess who had to give themselves an injection right in the middle of her party? This gal! Well, I shouldn’t say right in the middle. I mean, I did excuse myself and go to the bathroom. But yes, I had all of my fertility medication with me that night, tucked away safely in my purse. At this point, not many people knew that we were undergoing treatments, so I definitely wasn’t announcing anything when I got up to give myself my shot. I remember thinking how ridiculous it all was. Here I was, alone in a bathroom in an old age hall. The sounds of my colleagues hooting and hollering muffled behind a locked door. God damn, I hope I locked it alright. My skirt rolled down and my sweater tucked under my bra, skin pinched and ready to go. I felt like a junkie for a mild second. Is that what it felt like to live a double life? I plunged the needle in and it stung, as it sometimes did when I didn’t let the alcohol dry enough. I let the hormones in and held the needle in place for ten seconds, just as the nurse had told me to. I counted under my breath, while I heard the door slam as a group of smokers excited the building. Everyone around me was having the best time, and I was scared shitless, all alone in this bathroom.
My co-workers laughed and cheered to their favourite songs, clapping and throwing their heads back without a care, while I repeated a little message of hope to myself. “My body knows what to do. My body is fertile.”
It was such an extreme contrast of awareness and existence. I felt like I was on another level that night. I think that’s how people who carry heavy secrets or burdens must always feel.
I spent the rest of the evening pretending like my body wasn’t coursing with fertility hormones. I ate a little, avoided alcohol, and kept up polite conversation. A girl I went to high school was there, she was very drunk, falling all over the place, shouting at people, causing a scene for herself. I don’t mind drunk people. As long as they’re having fun and no one is getting hurt, I’m okay with people being silly. But she was beyond silly as the night progressed, I’m told, because I also left early that night to get some rest. You have to act SUPER boring when you’re doing treatments. Get lots of rest, eat healthily, and stay away from the booze. This will naturally bring on speculation that you might be pregnant, which will ultimately result in someone asking you if you are, in fact, pregnant. This will be extremely hurtful because don’t forget how bad you already want a baby, now add a million hormones on top!! Fertility treatments are not only physically taxing, they are emotionally draning.
Luckily, or perhaps even tragically, people have stopped asking me if we’re still trying, or if I’m pregnant yet. I think they all just assume that the answer to those questions is yes/no. Always. Yes, we’re still trying. No, we’re not pregant. Yet. Never yet.
Anyway, I found out a few months that that drunk girl was pregnant at that party and didn’t know.
I was shooting up hormones and avoiding wine and all of my favourite foods, but she was the one who got pregnant. Isn’t life funny?
My Christmas staff party is tonight, and you will be relieved to know that I will NOT be shooting up hormones in the bathroom. I will hopefully be enjoying some wine, eating my favourite foods, and having a great time with my family and friends.
I know people say this all of the time, but what a difference a year makes.
I was so scared and hopeful around this time last year. Wishing and hoping for a Christmas pregnancy. Telling myself that nothing bad happens at Christmas. That surely we deserve a baby and we’ll get that positive soon enough.
We’ve decided to enjoy ourselves this Christmas. To eat dairy and gluten and even sugar. (In moderation, of course) To shop, instead of save. And to enjoy each other and our child-free Christmas, because who knows if this one will be our last one or not.