Less Talk, More Action

With all the sex I had last month, you'd think I'd surely be knocked up by now.

Nope.

It was late, that wily period, making me think that maybe, just maybe, this was the month. The month where I didn't have to buy a new box of Tampax. The month where instead, Mr. Lyrehca bought me a pregnancy test and I peed on yet another stick and saw something good.

(Odd that ovulation prediction kits and at home pregnancy tests both involve holding a plastic stick under you while you relieve yourself.)

But nope.

He did buy the test, a day or two after I knew the period was supoosed to be here. But the damn thing was negative--just as I was *so* sure I was starting to notice weird smells.

"Honey, do you smell that? It smells like something's on fire."

"No, I don't smell anything."

(Me, excited.) "Maybe I'm pregnant if I smell things no one else does!"

Three days later, I bought a new box of tampons.

Annoyed, we called our infertility doc to get the next open appointment, and I went in like gangbusters.

"Look, it's been more than six months," I said. "I just turned 36. We're impatient. We don't want to keep going without help. Should we just look into adoption?"

(Mr. Lyrehca tells me I need to think more positively. For the last few weeks, he'd look at me, and tell me to follow his lead: Pump your arm into the air, and say, "Woo, woo... go ovaries!" After I was sure I'd already ovulated, the phrase changed to "Woo, woo... go feetie," which is short for fetus, of course. No, I am not making this up. Instead, I'm thinking positively and actually did these chants. Kind of like acupuncture: I don't know exactly why or even if it works, but it doesn't hurt to try.)

The infertility doc listened to me rant, listened to the Mister ask calmer questions, and suggested we move on to Clomid and IUI before we consider adoption. The Clomid starts tomorrow, and I was pleased to notice that my out of pocket costs for this round are reasonable. Like, I could stay in for dinner one night and recoup the cost of this month's Clomid.

Clomid is supposed to crank up my grandma ovaries so that I should produce some solid eggs. Apparently, I'm producing an egg somewhere, but it seems to have missed the message about connecting with its soul mate, the Mister's sperm. Like two ships in the night, they're just passing each other for points unknown.

Later this month, we move on to IUI, the romantic turkey baster method of conception to try to ensure a more lasting soul connection within. Apparently, our genetic material needs some help getting together.

Think of the marketing possibilities for this. IUI: the mechanical dating service. Sort of like Match.com for internal plumbing.

After this week's doc's appointment, I immediately signed up for a secondary insurance plan that somewhat covers all this infertility schtick, since my regular insurance chooses not to.

Monthly, this extra insurance will cost about the same as a very fancy pair of shoes. Like, Sex and the City shoes. Altogether, these shoes will ultimately cover a portion of what could amount to a year of college tuition if we have to move forward with IVF cycles.

(And that's a private university, not the in-house state school tuition.)

But first thing's first. I'm being positive.

"Woo, woo... go ovaries!"