First of all, a uterus update. My period has all but stopped, which is great. I was ever so slightly worried, since it started on its own, that I might wind up having a drawn-out slow trickle that went on and on. That’s probably totally illogical, because if things are starting to work well enough that I menstruated without added chemicals for the first time in about 5 months, then hopefully they are also working well enough for my period to stay short and sweet. Which it looks like it did. Yay.
Also, after deliberating a bit, I am taking round 4 of Clomid. This time I’m going with the 100mg, not because of another freakout about multiples but because I wound up with the massive headaches last month with the 150mg. Even though the 100mg didn’t do the trick two cycles ago, perhaps in combination with Metformin this time, it will be a high enough dosage. I did not call Dr. W when my period started, like he told me to. I did not seek his opinion on how to approach this cycle. I don’t plan on talking to him ever ever again. I felt like I was well enough equipped, with plenty of information and just enough experience and sufficient prescription refills, to choose my own path and save myself the doubtless frustration that would have come out of talking to him again. When I get to the east coast in January, I’ll revisit the whole medical-professional idea. Until then I’ll be writing scathing internet reviews of him and his office and fuming about that whole experience.
Backing up, I said I deliberated on taking Clomid. That’s because I’ll be slightly surprised if I do ovulate this cycle, medicated or not, at least within a normal-ish time frame – because of all my life stress right now. Oh yes, the cortisol is running rampant through my system. Being married to the military, this is not our first (or even second or third) move, and usually I think I handle them pretty well. This time is different. This time it’s like everything is reaching crescendo at the same moment and it’s all just really, really loud noise. In the next 10 days, which is approximately the number of days until a normal person would ovulate, I will:
- leave my job
- find out if I’ll get either of the two jobs I’ve been pursuing in RI, or if we’re bound to collapse into bankruptcy (ok, possible exaggeration)
- wrap up two major renovation projects on my house
- put the house on the market (really way too late to be doing this, but that’s because of the renovation projects), and have two brokers’ tours come through
- attend Hubs’ Masters program graduation (which means he’s pretty damn stressed, too)
- watch strangers put all of my things into boxes and load those boxes onto a big truck
- get two of our cars loaded onto a different big truck
Somewhere in there, I have to do all the crappy annoying moving business like remembering all the places where we need to change our address, canceling our sewer service, and figuring out where to turn in the cable box, plus take both pets to the vet and get my car serviced. And, this weekend we agreed to go on a 4 hour hike as a last hurrah with our camping friends, and then cook them a duck dinner. (I’m not complaining about this last part, mind you, but I really feel like it’s not the most responsible use of my very tiny amount of time.) Then, you know what happens right after these next 10 days? We go to SoCal for a week of holidays with family, then put the dog and cat and all the light bulbs and candles and booze that the movers wouldn’t take into the car, drive 3000 miles, spend 10 more days with my mother in law, and finally drive another 1000 miles in a frigid northerly direction (up the Jersey Turnpike!!) before we breathe a sigh of relief in our new home.
It makes my head spin – and we STILL decided NOT to take a baby break this month!