It was November 14, 2009 when I took my last birth control pill. My husband and I decided that 2010 was the year we were going to have a baby. I went to the OB in December for my yearly well-woman visit and talked to my doctor about our plans to try to conceive. She wrote me a prescription for prenatal vitamins and said, “It takes most couples your age six to eight months of trying before the they are successful. Just have fun.”
We continued to use protection until January and in our first unprotected cycle were blessed enough to get pregnant. I was that woman: the one whom women who have been trying to conceive for years, want to punch in the uterus.
Here I am, a year later, a year after stopping my birth control pill, one unsuccessful pregnancy later wondering, “What the hell happened?”
I know I’m being a whiny little…ahem. I know there are women out there who want to punch me in my uterus and say “At least you were able to get pregnant once. That means you can do it again.” I know that I have no room to complain because we haven’t been actively and unsuccessfully trying for more than 12 consecutive months and therefore, I’m not technically infertile.
But I do wonder, what if my first pregnancy was my last pregnancy? How does this story end? Is it happily ever after as so many people try to reassure me? Or is it simply The End? How do I know if I’m on the last page of the last chapter or if I’m just in the middle of the book?
My mom is the kind of person who reads the end of the book before she reads the beginning. If the end is worth it, she’ll go back and read the rest. I wish I could skip ahead to the end of my story to see what kind of ending it has.
I’ve been taking my progesterone pills for a week now. My face looks like a war zone, my bowels are in distress, and I’m pretty sure that a nitroglycerin plant could explode just outside my bedroom and I wouldn’t notice. I have a window of about 45 minutes between taking the pill and entering into a coma. On the plus side, I’m getting some great sleep.
Waking up the next day is a bit of a challenge and I think the extra hormones are eating brain cells because I left the pill bottle in my gym bag and left the gym bag in my car. If you want to know what I found when I opened the bottle that night, put a few jellybeans in the microwave for thirty seconds.
The next day, I sheepishly showed the pharmacist my ‘whoops.’ Her eyes popped out of her head and she said, “Wow. Oh. Hmmm.” Thanks lady. Yeah. I know I’m supposed to keep the pills in a cool dark place.
I watched her put the melted, rubbery yellow hunk in the palm of her hand and take it to the back to find out if they could replace the prescription with the ‘damaged’ feature of my insurance plan. You would have though she was carrying a tiny rhinoceros in the palm of her hand by the reactions of the staff in the back. Through the glass, I saw raised eyebrows and confused faces. Seriously guys. I can’t be the first person to have done this. I’ve been really careful with my replacement pills, especially since I had to pay full price for half the pills.
I have three more days with this round. Then we wait for the magic to happen. Supposedly, my body will recognize the rapid decline in the hormone and Aunt Flo will show up. From there, we wait until cycle day 21. On that day, I run to the doctor without passing go and get my blood drawn. The results will tell us whether I am ovulating.
If I am, then I’ll continue taking the progesterone and hope that our routine — I mean our every-other -day romantic rendezvous’, result in a pregnancy. If I’m not ovulating, then we have to make a decision about whether to start a course of egg-releasing pills.
Thanks a lot body. This is so much fun.