Panic! At the Bunco

Monthly Bunco has been a relatively safe outlet for me. I can meet up with lots of women, enjoy girly conversation and not be worried about surprise pregnancy announcements or bulging bellies since all of the women are the parents of at least teenagers and are much more interested in discussing what the people down the street are doing (or not doing) to their lawn.  Monday night, I presented myself on the steps at the appointed hour for our monthly get together and greeted friends right and left. It was shaping up to be a typical low-key Bunco affair.

I made my way to the kitchen and commenced dishing with my neighbor down the street about something really trivial and stuffing some awesome cheese into my mouth.  I was simultaneously eyeing up the bar and debating if I wanted a red-wine hangover the next morning. 

This train of thought came to a screeching halt when something waded into my peripheral vision, that looked an awful lot like a large, swollen beachball of a belly.  It broke the waves ahead of its owner.  It had that slow movement favored by people carrying a lot of weight in the front.  Sure enough, it was a pregnant lady. At my bunco. WTF?!

If you could have taken a picture of me, the imge would be me with very wide eyes, with hand bearing cheese on cracker frozen in place on trajectory to meet open mouth that is now open for another reason.  In other words, I looked like a freaking deer in her very ample headlights.

I unfroze, ate the delicious cheese, and headed out to the other room away from this paragon of fertility.  I debated for about 20 seconds if I could excuse myself from the festivities.  But, I decided that this was a good challenge: could I stick it out, have a good time and manage to avoid her?  I was going to find out. I decided right then and there that neither this interloper nor her giant stomach were not going to run me out of my bunco night!

But, she kept following me, being introduced by the Judas of a neighbor who brought her along to meet the girls.  I developed a sudden interest in the backyard, answered the door when the doorbell rang and tried to get the hell away from her.  I got trapped in the kitchen , though, with her and some of the ladies where the first question asked of her was, “So, when you are due?!” Ugh. Preggo declares herself to be 7 months along but, “huge” – her words, not mine.   This started the ladies who had popped babies previously to chime in with their stories of being huge and ending up with twins.  Preggo dispels any notions that she is carrying two – “We only saw one heartbeat!”  Double ugh with knife stabbing. 

Not a moment too soon, it was time to go to the tables. Mental notations of where Preggo was heading were made and I went into the exact opposite direction.  I proceeded to eat too much chocolate while beginning what would turn out to be a spectacular losing streak (10 out 12). 

Losing on the fourth game at a given table means that you have to move to another table. Winners get to stay.  Needless to say, I lost the fourth game and headed to my second table where I breathed a huge sigh that Preggo was at the other table, at least for the next four games. 

Luck, that bitch, ran out on me again, and I lost the fourth game meaning I had to go to the third table where, you guessed it, she was sitting, enthroned.  This was easily one of the hardest things I have had to do in a long time.  I sat at the table and actually conversed with a very pregnant lady who I am pretty certain got that way the way most people do.  And you know what?

It wasn’t that bad.  We had a decent conversation. She made a few gratuitous preggo references, but all in all, it wasn’t terrible.  I am at that point in my infertility journey that I have a very visceral, usually negative reaction to visibly pregnant women, but sitting there with her, I was able to see her as someone I could relate to, even if she is pregnant and I am not. I was so proud of myself that I stayed there, I talked with her and was able to forget that she had what I did not.

And, I realized, walking home that night, that it hurt to be near her, but it was a self-inflicted hurt. No one else was involved.  She did not come to Bunco to flaunt her luck in my face. Even my neighbor who invited her (and knows some of our IF history) didn’t invite her to make me feel like shit.  And I felt such relief at this realization.  The power of the Preggo on me is only that which I give her.  And, I didn’t give her more than a centimeter.

I enjoyed my evening and I enjoyed meeting her.  I enjoyed deciding that my evening was not going to be ruined by her and I was going to have a good time even if she was there.  And I did.  I was a winner after all.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

First, thanks to everyone for your good wishes on my biopsy today! Here’s the rundown:

The Good: the biopsy itself took maybe a minute.  For some reason, Dr. Uterus thought I had had one before, so I politely informed him that while I had partook of the panolpy of infertility abbreviated procedures (HSG, SHG, IVF, IUI), I had not had the pleasure of an endometrial biopsy (which I don’t think has an abbreviation). But, I’m always one for a new challenge!

The other good: NO MORE BUTT SHOTS!!! Can you tell how excited I am?  My tush may never forgive me – my glutes were still sore from the shots in March. Yes, March. But, truth be told, they were only sore when I poked.  Which I don’t do often in polite company.

 The Bad: As with most things in life, there are more bad than good things to report. First bad thing: we won’t know for almost TWO FREAKING WEEKS if the hoodwinking worked, during which time I will already be popping the Estrace pills.  Thankfully, the butt shots will not start up until some time after that.

Second bad thing: I need another SHG (insert collective ‘boo’ here).  My first SHG last December before our IVF this spring didn’t go so well.  In fact, of all of the procedures I have had where I was not sedated, this one by far sucked the most in terms of sheer agony.  In other words, I put the hysterical in sonohysterogram.  I reminded Dr. Uterus of what a nasty time I had of it last time and he offered to use a different catheter this time.  I’ll take it!

Third bad thing: it feels really, really weird to have the inside of your uterus scrapped.  I don’t think I need to elaborate.

Fourth bad thing: CRAMPS!  Luckily, they heeded the smack down of the Advil I took when I got home. 

And, finally.

The Ugly: I have mentioned before that Dr. Uterus – for some imperceptible reason likely only known to him – shares his office space with a high risk OB.  If I didn’t seriously think he was the second coming, I would find me an RE who did not appear to be so insensitive.  On any given day, there are very pregnant ladies in the waiting area with their husbands watching as the infertile girls come in and sign in.  We are so easy to pick out – looking straight ahead so our gaze doesn’t bounce from belly to belly to belly.  No tell-tale bump, and no escort.  Most of us go it alone except for those important visits (like the first baby ultrasound or the IUI).  It can be so demoralizing when the room is filled with unborn children and their mothers and you walk in, alone and barren as a field after a harvest.  The Infertile Freak. I imagine it’s what the perp walk feels like. 

What is so frustrating is that you are surrounded not only when you go in – I usually run into them when they are going on the elevator and I. Just. Know. that they are going to this office.  Today was particularly bad because I was waylaid behind a very pregnant woman and her husband (who frankly looked like he couldn’t even figure out how she came to be pregnant, let alone which direction down the hall to go).  I have to walk behind them down that Long Corridor to his office and then wait behind her while she signs in and then stands there, with her huge belly mocking me.  Finally, she realized that I needed to sign in too and moved out of the way.  I wanted to run as far away as possible from those bellies.  It was like a horror movie.

But, I didn’t.  I walked with as much grace as I could muster to a seat that was not connected to any others so one of those bellies could not park itself next to me.  I knew that they were all looking my flat stomach and thinking to themselves, “Oh, poor thing, she’s here for the infertility doctor.” And, simultaneoulsy thinking themselves to be so lucky to have a living infant growing inside of them.

I sat down and promptly opened my book, while willing Dr. Uterus’s nurse to come get me so I wouldn’t have to fight the urge to look at what I was missing. 

thumbs up: joeltelling, thumbs down: striatic