April 19, 2005
It's not my first two-week wait.
No, I had two-week waits wondering-- er, hoping-- that I might be one of the 1% of women to get pregnant on the Pill. I had a "sort of" two-week wait a couple of months ago after some risky anniversary behavior.
In fact, I even had two-week waits in my virginal days. My pre-pill periods were so regular that the few late ones would cause me to panic about what non-intercourse action with the current boyfriend could have led me to conceive. I'll never forget going through sorority rush wondering, "What will these girls think if they find out I'm pregnant with baby Jesus?"
Still, this month's wait has been unique: it's truly my first in which conception would not be a freak, bizarre occurrence.
Mind Games
I didn't want to obsess these two weeks. Really. Well, this is why I don't believe in free will.
Let me explain: Do not think about breathing. Where's she going with this? you ask. Just trust me. Do not think about breathing, about that breath going in, out, in, out. Do not breathe slowly. Do not fill your lungs with a deep breath.
How you doing there?
Now, try telling someone in the two-week wait not to think about being pregnant. Do not figure out your potential due date. Do not peek inside a pregnancy book. Whatever you do, do not picture holding your own baby nine months from now.
Hmm.
I've decided that wondering will just have to be a part of the game for me. The harder I try not to think about things, the more I find myself thinking about them!
My new approach is to allow myself to embrace the thoughts, then re-direct myself to the tasks at hand.
I'm Sure I'm Pregnant, Because...
At least a quarter of my wayward thoughts center on pregnancy symptoms. Intellectually, I know that the bodily clues found in the first two weeks after conception can easily be explained by PMS. Intellectually.
Okay, but how about these symptoms?
1) I was standing in the kitchen, when-- snap! My bra strap popped off. Swelling?
2) I dreamt that I caught a rabbit. It doesn't take a guru to figure out that one.
3) At what I think was ten days past ovulation, my temp dropped. Could I be in the 10% of women who get an implantation dip?
After seeing that dip, I found myself nearing schizophrenia. I must be pregnant!... No, I couldn't be pregnant!... An implantation dip-- it couldn't be more clear!... No, Aunt Flo is coming--that's all it means!...
When I made it through day 10 spot free, I knew it all hinged on the next day's temp. Don't ask me how I ever fell asleep.
With butterflies-- no, a drum corps-- in my belly, I took my temp yesterday. Waiting, waiting, waiting for the beep.
97.5. Low. Aunt Flo. Here in all her glory.
The funny thing is that her arrival hasn't devastated me as I expected. Heading into cycle two, my heart is somehow light.
Showing posts with label fertility awareness method. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fertility awareness method. Show all posts
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Letting Go (Wk 5: TRYING TO CONCEIVE)
April 6, 2005
Instead of taking my usual slew of fertility vitamins this morning, I took a Flintstone's. I just had to. It felt good. It reminded me of a time when I was a child, not an adult trying (unsuccessfully) to make one.
Turns out all my beautiful high temps this past weekend had more to do with jetlag than ovulation. Yesterday, I tried not to let a low temp discourage me. Implantation dip, right?... right?...
Nope.
I began this morning, like so many other mornings lately, in tears. Wishing I'd never taken birth control pills. Wishing we'd started trying earlier. Wishing that Aunt Flo would just come on already, to at least start a fresh new cycle.
What's a Girl to do?
My now-pregnant friend Karen once visited the library to pick up some fertility books. As she checked out a book on how to get pregnant quickly and naturally, the librarian held up the book and said, "Have sex."
So here's what I'm going to do: for the first time in 218 mornings, I will not temp tomorrow. The alarm will go off, but instead of reaching for the thermometer, I'll hit the snooze button.
I've already packed away all trying-to-conceive paraphernalia into a dresser, removing temptation.
As this cycle goes on, will I wonder all the more whether I am pregnant? Possibly. Still, I cannot go on like this.
Am I quitting charting forever? Absolutely not! I'm sure I'll pick it back up next cycle, since it really does improve the odds of conception. But there comes a time when trying to conceive takes backseat to improving one's sanity.
After two false sets of high temps, a 34-day cycle with no ovulation in sight, and emotions in overdrive, it's time to catch my breath.
In the Meantime...
I will not think of babies! I will not think of babies. I will not think of babies?
Who am I kidding? But I can try.
Once upon a time, I really didn't think about them. Honestly, I thought about horses, fashion, art, books, God, strawberries... I enjoyed summer nights with the sun dragging its way to bed. I enjoyed drinks with the girls, venting about boyfriends, parents, and work.
Can I find my way back?
Instead of taking my usual slew of fertility vitamins this morning, I took a Flintstone's. I just had to. It felt good. It reminded me of a time when I was a child, not an adult trying (unsuccessfully) to make one.
Turns out all my beautiful high temps this past weekend had more to do with jetlag than ovulation. Yesterday, I tried not to let a low temp discourage me. Implantation dip, right?... right?...
Nope.
I began this morning, like so many other mornings lately, in tears. Wishing I'd never taken birth control pills. Wishing we'd started trying earlier. Wishing that Aunt Flo would just come on already, to at least start a fresh new cycle.
What's a Girl to do?
My now-pregnant friend Karen once visited the library to pick up some fertility books. As she checked out a book on how to get pregnant quickly and naturally, the librarian held up the book and said, "Have sex."
So here's what I'm going to do: for the first time in 218 mornings, I will not temp tomorrow. The alarm will go off, but instead of reaching for the thermometer, I'll hit the snooze button.
I've already packed away all trying-to-conceive paraphernalia into a dresser, removing temptation.
As this cycle goes on, will I wonder all the more whether I am pregnant? Possibly. Still, I cannot go on like this.
Am I quitting charting forever? Absolutely not! I'm sure I'll pick it back up next cycle, since it really does improve the odds of conception. But there comes a time when trying to conceive takes backseat to improving one's sanity.
After two false sets of high temps, a 34-day cycle with no ovulation in sight, and emotions in overdrive, it's time to catch my breath.
In the Meantime...
I will not think of babies! I will not think of babies. I will not think of babies?
Who am I kidding? But I can try.
Once upon a time, I really didn't think about them. Honestly, I thought about horses, fashion, art, books, God, strawberries... I enjoyed summer nights with the sun dragging its way to bed. I enjoyed drinks with the girls, venting about boyfriends, parents, and work.
Can I find my way back?
Friday, April 6, 2007
The Big "O" (Wk 2: TRYING TO CONCEIVE)
March 25, 2005
The Big "O." Sigh... There was a time I thought it meant something else. And I don't mean Oprah.
In recent months, though, it's taken on a whole new meaning. That's right, girls: were talking ovulation. That sometimes elusive yet absolute essential to babymaking. That biological detail which, in seventh grade sex ed. class, was about as interesting to me as photosynthesis. Who knew that sixteen years later, an obsession with it would crowd my thoughts more than any junior high crush?
How It All Began
It all started when I came off birth control pills. No, wait--it actually started when I gained fifteen pounds and experienced periodic nausea on The Pill. A friend of mine suggested I try Natural Family Planning.
"Oh, you mean the rhythm method," I said. "No thanks."
Yet as my friend explained the clues my body has been giving me for years, I agreed to do some reading. Four fertility books later, I was a convert. By reading my body's signals, I would know when ovulation was coming and when it had gone. All a girl needs for birth control!
Armed with a basal body thermometer, a chart, and a newfound ability to touch parts of my body that previously I did not know existed, I described the method to my husband.
All of the books had told me what a bonding experience this would be for us. He would ask my symptoms and record them on the chart. We would decide together which days were "safe." We would grow in intimacy as we explored other ways to express affection on the unsafe days.
A short discussion later, I wondered where those books had found those men. So we bought stock in Trojan.
I was too intrigued with my body, though, to give up. I charted, I campaigned, and a few months later had a compliant husband, who was perhaps less than thrilled with the previous compromise.
Now that we're trying to achieve what we once worked so hard to prevent, the chart consumes me. No blissful ignorance to our attempts at babymaking! I'm on the constant lookout for The Big "O."
Waiting is the Hardest Part
So the month we actually start trying, my chart gets all screwy. It's Day 23 with no O in sight. Six months of folks remedies to regulate ovulation have worked, so it seems, for the most part. Until now. When it counts.
"You take more pills than an 80-year-old woman," Tom chides as I throw a handful of vitamins down my throat.
"My body's got to be healthy if I'm going to ovulate," I reply, a touch of hysteria to my voice. Did I mention I've given up sugar?
Serious business, this babymaking.
The Big "O." Sigh... There was a time I thought it meant something else. And I don't mean Oprah.
In recent months, though, it's taken on a whole new meaning. That's right, girls: were talking ovulation. That sometimes elusive yet absolute essential to babymaking. That biological detail which, in seventh grade sex ed. class, was about as interesting to me as photosynthesis. Who knew that sixteen years later, an obsession with it would crowd my thoughts more than any junior high crush?
How It All Began
It all started when I came off birth control pills. No, wait--it actually started when I gained fifteen pounds and experienced periodic nausea on The Pill. A friend of mine suggested I try Natural Family Planning.
"Oh, you mean the rhythm method," I said. "No thanks."
Yet as my friend explained the clues my body has been giving me for years, I agreed to do some reading. Four fertility books later, I was a convert. By reading my body's signals, I would know when ovulation was coming and when it had gone. All a girl needs for birth control!
Armed with a basal body thermometer, a chart, and a newfound ability to touch parts of my body that previously I did not know existed, I described the method to my husband.
All of the books had told me what a bonding experience this would be for us. He would ask my symptoms and record them on the chart. We would decide together which days were "safe." We would grow in intimacy as we explored other ways to express affection on the unsafe days.
A short discussion later, I wondered where those books had found those men. So we bought stock in Trojan.
I was too intrigued with my body, though, to give up. I charted, I campaigned, and a few months later had a compliant husband, who was perhaps less than thrilled with the previous compromise.
Now that we're trying to achieve what we once worked so hard to prevent, the chart consumes me. No blissful ignorance to our attempts at babymaking! I'm on the constant lookout for The Big "O."
Waiting is the Hardest Part
So the month we actually start trying, my chart gets all screwy. It's Day 23 with no O in sight. Six months of folks remedies to regulate ovulation have worked, so it seems, for the most part. Until now. When it counts.
"You take more pills than an 80-year-old woman," Tom chides as I throw a handful of vitamins down my throat.
"My body's got to be healthy if I'm going to ovulate," I reply, a touch of hysteria to my voice. Did I mention I've given up sugar?
Serious business, this babymaking.
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