Attitude of Gratitude
So basically, nothing is wrong with us.
Justin Beck’s sperm analysis came back all awesome and stuff. He finally dropped the specimen off on Tuesday morning and then I couldn’t sleep all night. Wednesday morning my doctor called to tell me that everything looks good. I wanted numbers, quite frankly. I was like how many millions per milliliter? Are they in good shape? Are they good swimmers? What kind of motility am I working with? She said everything looked great.
I called my husband to tell him that he’s not a mung beast (he made that terminology up and it’s stuck – I can’t stop saying it!) and this fool said, “Yesssssssssssss!” He was so excited. Then he reprimanded me for freaking him out for three months straight. But look here, he was hmming and hawing – traveling all across the UK eating Lebanese food, shredding on his little guitar, playing congas in the basement and shit, wasting precious time because I am totally old now and we have no time to waste! -- and I needed answers.
And my answer is that nothing is wrong with us. That she can see. As you know, I am a medical Googler so that answer is not really working for me. Now I’m on this new kick. What if I have unexplained infertility? The doctor has not yet expressed that. So I'm going to stay positive. She just said to buy the ovulation predictor kit and to have sex every other day much to my husband’s dismay. He seems to believe it’s better to increase the odds by having sex daily to which I replied, hell to the no. I obviously have sex apathy. If it ain’t for making little children, I ain’t interested. This fool is looking for The Pussy Cat Dolls interpretation of getting pregnant and I’m just like, you married the wrong mother fucker. I’m not putting on a show, slinking across the bed in no lingerie with Sade playing in the background whipping my hair all about. Kiss my ass. Hurry this along, finish up, prop my butt up on this pillow and go downstairs to get me a rice krispie treat please, thank you.
I successfully charted my first cycle last month. Taking the temperature isn’t so bad. I was, however, sad the day my period started. Six days after ovulation, ten days after ovulation – every day I felt tingly in my left side that I could swear was real live implantation! I would look at the clock and look at my outfit (usually house clothes consisting of MerchDirect fuckups) and I listen to the sounds around me so that I can remember the exact moment I got pregnant and recall it to my child, if this was in fact the case. Hey baby. The day you were conceived, I don’t know much about clothes, but my hair looked fierce.
I am now on a prenatal vitamin that has that disgusting concentrated vitamin smell that reminds me of raccoon urine. The raccoons are back by the way. I drink green tea every day to help with the cervical fluid (ugh). And I take folic acid and Vitamin C (for my skin, really, I admit). And yes, I prop my legs up post-coitus (love hate that word) like a freak.
I am also not as depressed and pessimistic as I was two weeks ago. Two weeks ago? Meltdown city. Melting the fuck down, for real. Like, ugly face child of war crying at the mere thought of a negative pregnancy test. A friend announcing she’s pregnant? Fucking forget it – windows open and I’m about to jump out this bitch while ugly face crying. Shit was deep. Poor Justin Beck didn’t know what to do with me. He just sat there at the edge of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. Umhmm, a blanket. Because I had this fit at 1 in the morning which required that I move to the sofa downstairs so as not to disturb my hard-working husband’s sleep. But my Feds-just-done-broke-up-the-fundamentalist-camp style crying woke his ass anyway and he came down the stairs, bundled up, without the first clue of what to say to me.
“Melissa.”
“Melissa.”
“Melissa, dude…”
“Melissa, babe. Let’s just go back to bed.”
“Melissa. You gotta relax. It’ll be …”
Of course, when I hear the word “relax” the tailspin truly gets momentum and I become Sybil. Sophia. All kinds of crazy. You told Harpo to beat me? He consoled me by promising to get the semen analysis as soon as possible. Good thinking, babe.
That night ended (or morning started) with a batch of brownies and a good long Google session. I was trying to figure out how to get some fertility acupuncture on Long Island. Um, y’all don’t have that out here or something? Anyway, he agreed to get the test. We got the happy results and I am feeling lots better.
Lots better.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m still crazy and obsessed, but I’m not out loud with it. Plus, I have a soft space to land when I’m sad. I can express my feelings freely without being judged to my family and close friends. Well, actually, I have tried to talk to Mercy about all this shit but I’m afraid it’s a bit too complicated. So she doesn’t get the day-to-day struggle details anymore. I get very frustrated talking to my mom. I feel guilty about it too. But shit, she’s confused and there’s no way to explain this so forget about it.
I called this woman at the top of the week to say Justin Beck’s sperm works. And then I gave her some back story on my test results, a refresher because I don’t think she’s a very good actual listener. I love her to pieces, I do. But I don’t think she absorbs the information the same way I would, or you would. So I’m giving her the information. Like, a whole five minute telephone paragraph’s worth of good juicy clinical pregnancy talk that ended with, “So we both checked out. I ovulate and his sperm works so the doctor said I can resume regular sex every other day the week I ovulate and hope for the best! I’m so relieved!” Smile, smile.
There was a pause.
Silence.
Finally, Mercy Howard goes, “So go get dee pertility! When you gonna make dose baby, Meleesa!”
The fuck?
She then launched into this doozy:
I am watching dis singer on dee Ellen DeG…DeGen…dat one Ellen lesbian show. Oh my god, Meleesa. Dis singer, I need dat CD. He is Pilipino and oh my god, good singer. He is dee singer por dat group Journey.
“Journey was on Ellen, mom?”
Oh yes. Journey. He is Pilipino. He is good singer, Meleesa. Can you pind that CD por me?
“Mom, I don’t think Journey was on Ellen. They’re like old school.”
“No ees not. Dey are on dee TB yesterday. I watching dat one. Can you pind it?”
I just agreed to find it. Hung up and vowed to keep it simple on the baby tip for her. I won’t be calling home with any more pregnancy details. We’ll just chit chat about the price of Tide at WalMart and whether or not her best friend Eula May will be visiting this summer so they can be mall walking partners. Totally.
UPDATE: My husband just Googled and said Journey does have a new Filipino singer. Mercy, I apologize. Years and years of figuring out what she is saying and I got jaded. She knew what she was talking about. And I will be finding the CD like a good daughter should. Sorry mom.
But I am okay. Really okay. No meltdowns. No internal hate speech.
As a matter of fact, last night I went to dinner with a girl that’s 11 weeks pregnant. My husband and her husband do business together, but we’ve been going to dinners every now and again. We get to talking and it’s to the point now where if she asked me to take her to the airport between the hours of 8 am to 2 pm and then 7 pm to 11 pm, I would without hesitation. She’s a friend like that. So she’s pregnant and her bump is lovely. I find myself drawn to her because I get the sense that she has a level of sensitivity about her. Like, saintly shit. She knows what not to say or ask me and she’s warm about it. If you are TTC, then you know about that whole sensitivity thing. It’s deep and it’s so important and yet so often overlooked. Words are powerful.
I think I spent a good hour asking every question under the sun and then we looked at her sonogram pictures. The baby is adorable already! I left the dinner, not with a sense of doom and gloom about my own predicament, but instead with over-the-moon happiness for her and hope for myself and Justin.
Then tonight, your girl Melissa – that’s me! – is going to a barbeque hosted by another pregnant couple. Look at her go! I’m just walking right through the fires here! I’m keeping my shit together! I’m really proud of myself.
It seems like an easy enough task. Socialize on Long Island with like minds, homeowners expecting babies. But, emotionally it’s not that easy for me! I find it difficult to maintain a respectful sense of my happy self, to not become self-involved and totally insular with my depression. Plus, um gross, to be envious is so dangerous. So when it comes to this baby shit, I have to sit down with myself and say, Who do I want to be and what do I want to project? And when I’m fucked up inside, it’s ugly and I don’t want that. Justin Beck really doesn’t want that. So I have to work hard at this. Accepting invitations to places and events that require a glimpse into the world of easily conceived babies is a huge, brutal step but I’m a G and I can do it. Walking right through the flames, I tell you.
Fingers crossed for all my new cyber friends on the conception tip. No, I will not send baby dust, dancing glittery icons and hugging emoticons across your screen. I have not gotten that deep just yet but I will keep my fingers crossed for you.
And yes, I’ll say it because I mean it. For all the ladies out there with their first BFPs (positive pregnancy tests) or first babies, CONGRATULATIONS AND DO THE WOP! I’m so happy for you. (small voice) If you have any leftover OPK sticks, holler at your girl.
Again thank you, you, you and you for all your well wishes. It really does help and I appreciate you. Watch this video. I’m corny, but I’m saying…