Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise

Well! As it turns out, my tubes ‘n utes are all clear. Or at least, they are now. I got the old song and dance about how I’m getting an extra fertility boost, thanks to tubes that are freshly flushed! And then I had to explain that no, really, GETTING pregnant is not my problem, man, so even if my tubes are lubed up with an entire gallon of baby sauce, it’s KEEPING THEM that seems to be an issue. Or isn’t. Oh, I don’t even know anymore. Two miscarriages could mean DOOM! and BAD THINGS! or it could just be dumb-shit luck. You don’t know.

What I DO know is that despite Julie’s terrifying warning to me that the HSG was the single most painful gynecological procedure she’s ever had (AND THIS IS JULIE, PEOPLE), it … well, it was pretty much not that bad. I thought the whole washing of the cervix (with special soap and a … brush?) was going to be painful, along with the insertion of a balloon (YES REALLY) and a catheter (NOT THAT KIND) was going to hurt like a bitch, but instead, I felt nothing. “You’re done?” I chirped hopefully. “Uhhh, not at all,” came the reply.

It was a crazy surreal experience — and one that I now CLEARLY remember having before, albeit in a much different setting — having dye shot through my uterus and tubes and watching it go sliding on in as I, um, felt it, in the form of creepy, awful cramping. Not super-painful, necessarily, just CREEPY, knowing that there was this bright-orange iodine solution causing my discomfort and I could actually WITNESS IT. I suppose it’s why I never wanted to stick my hand down there while I was in labor, nor did I have any interest in the mirror. I’m cool with pain, so long as I don’t actually see where it’s coming from. Because EW.

What turned out to be much more miserable was the recurrent loss blood work-up I had done a full two hours later, which involved so much blood that they treated me like I was a donor. Juice, cookies, the whole nine yards. It was … kind of absurd, woozy-making and resulted in a butterfly-shaped bruise and a sore arm. Dye through the utes? Painless. Bloodwork? HOURS OF AGONY. WTF.

I might find out what, if anything, is going on as soon as tomorrow — at least part of the story, anyway — and I’m both nervous and excited and a little freaked out overall. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I have no idea if I’m 100% ready to get back into this circus. I know that I’ll wait at least a few months before hopping on the train, because you guys, I’ve been pregnant, or recovering from being pregnant, since last November. It’s JUNE.  That’s eight months of my body going through a shit-ton of roller coasters, both physically and emotionally, and it’s … well, it’s a ride I am ready for the RESULTS of, but not the actual RIDING THEREOF. What I would like to do is be put into a coma during any future pregnancies — oh, and put Sam on ice, too — and then wake up and resume my life with two children, unaware of the process of getting there entirely.

Also, let’s be honest, I’ve just lost thirteen pounds through some serious blood, sweat and sinuses. I’m down a pants size. Am I all that jazzed about getting into a pair with a waistband that can only be described as VOLUMINOUS?

(Well, kind of. MAN.)

I tell you what this whole thing has cured me of: any desire whatsoever to have a third child. Once I have a second, God willing? DONE. DONE. DONE. So hilariously finished, I can’t even tell you. I don’t have the stomach for this. I cannot imagine doing this a third time. I can’t. Once was worth it, OBVIOUSLY. Twice is something I believe strongly in and want desperately. I know I can’t guarantee how I’ll feel a third time, but after this? HAAAAA NO. I am somewhat grateful that I feel this way, because I think two is an appropriate limit for me, time-wise and finance-wise, and yet honestly, I love being a mom so goddamned much that I would legitimately consider having an entire basketball team of them if it were remotely practical for us. And you know, if I’d started procreating at 23 instead of 33.

The other thing is, dude, the babysitter. I love her, Sam loved her, she emptied my dishwasher (?!) and it was perfect. I COULD GET HOOKED ON THIS. I find myself wanting to push Adam to get a major promotion so that we can hire someone more often without requiring me to work! I could have a nanny AND be a stay-at-home mom! Real Housewives of Boston’s Western Suburbs, here I come! But seriously, she was fantastic. And surprisingly, she did NOT abscond with my daughter! Whaaaaat?

Listen, I hope you have a great weekend. I’ll be catching up on email and reading A Discovery of Witches, which I LOVE.

*Avett Brothers

36 comments June 23rd, 2011