As if all this poking and prodding, reaping and sowing wasn’t enough, my poor girlie bits are now being subjected to 24-hour interrogation as I try to work out whether I am, or am not, pregnant.
Evidence is scant. My skin glows, but my doctor warned that it’s a common side-effect of the progesterone being injected daily into my upper-butt cheeks. Same goes for my unusually buxom appearance right now. Thanks progesterone!
Some women say they could tell right away whether their egg transfer worked or not, but I’m not so sure it’s true. I can detect absolutely no discernible change. I do have more energy now, and with the hormone injections almost all done it’s dawning on my just how fogged and tired I’ve been of late.
But I can’t tell a blastocyst from a bellyache. I mentally check-in every now and then, hoping to catch my uterus off guard. I don’t know what I’m hoping to gain from this game. It’s as if my uterus has gotten up from a Scrabble game to rummage through the fridge, and I’m peering over its tile holder to sneak a peek at its letters. Every time, said organ raises its head, bottle of milk poised halfway to its mouth, derision in its eyes, and shoots me a “nuh-uh, buddy, it’s not gonna be that easy” look.
At other points in the day, my hand comes to rest on my still-relatively-flat belly, trying to pick up some kind of energy field, as if the Starship Enterprise warped into my abdomen and will be able to a report to my curious fingers. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Some kind of Morse code being tapped out through my organ lining? The echo of a too-loud stereo as the two new roomies get to know each other?
Regardless, I’m not picking up a thing. It’s still almost two weeks until we go and find out if this has worked. In the meantime, I’m just going to admit that I have no idea what is going on in there, and chalk my restless, incessant “checking in” on caffeine-and-wine-withdrawal delirium.