After I posted my diatribe last night (which, I might add, felt damn good), I drove to the airport in the new non-daylight savings time darkness to pick up Mr. X from his week-long business trip. I needed the time in the car, away from the house … and the house of Her … to figure out just why I had such a visceral reaction to what should have been a relatively non-event.
I drove through the familiar streets listening to/singing with my mellow mix CD, perfect for ruminating. Ruminating for me is closer to stewing in my own juices than doing the thinker pose, but that’s another post for another November. I spent the first 20 minutes basically seething and letting it all out. I got to the cell phone lot and waited for Mr. X to call when he had retrieved his bags. My ten minute sojourn in the semi-lit parking lot allowed my anger to begin to deflate and I was able to objectively think about the whole thing.
I’ve come to understand that the whole situation was a perfect storm of things that trigger my bitter reaction and they all came up at once:
- Little to no warning that she was that pregnant. I was expecting maybe three months, but no, she was sporting the pooch like it was the prow of a giant sailing ship, parting the seas of the neighborhood.
- Knowing when they started and being able to count. If they started in March, as I was informed, and she looked to be about 5-6 months along, then happy damn day, they got super lucky the first or second time out of the gate. And, unlike me, she has a succesful pregnancy.
- Being confronted during what is usually one of the more peaceful parts of my day, namely taking G for a walk. For the record, these people never walk their dogs in the neighborhood that I’ve ever seen. So, I must (sheepishly) admit that I felt a little possessive of the 5pm walking hour since they haven’t ever taken that slot before. My inner cynic wondered if they took the dogs for a walk just to show off the pooch.
- And, finally, the smug smile. I know in my post yesterday I wanted to see it, but I really think that it was there. This in turn led me to the conclusion that she knew about us and was doing it anyway. Whether this is true is open to copious amounts of debate with at least five talking heads on Fox. But, I know in my heart what it felt like and that’s what matters to me.
There you have it, the anatomy of bitter. And I got to use ‘prow’ on an infertility blog. I think I’ve earned a Reese’s.
On a happier note, today is CD 4 and I went in for the beginning of the Clomid Challenge (which I always say in my head in that BOOMING VOICE OF THE VOICE OVER GUY). Dr. Salsa was there wearing a tie that I swear looked like it had giant sperms swimming on it. Mr. X was with me and his first words were, “what was on his tie?” I was thinking the exact same thing.
The coolest and most definitely weirdest part was he did a baseline ultrasound (lots of tiny little follicles developing) and I got to watch it ON THE CEILING. I shit you not. It was the freakiest thing ever watching your innards on a screen on the ceiling. It’s a fabulous idea and not an option at Dr. Uterus’s but I’m still a little weirded out by the experience.
And, in the Irony of the Day Award category, I start my Clomid tomorrow. Talk about full circle since I started on Clomid like just about every other infertile girl almost three years ago and here I am doing it again. Except, this time my tubes are open. I’m not going to begin to think about how ridiculous it would be if I actually got pregnant on Clomid. After IVF.
As Emperor Joseph said in Amadeus, “Well, there it is!”