Love, Passing Woman, Pregnancy, Volatile bodies

A Miracle

I’m pregnant. I’m almost four months along now and starting to believe it. By starting to I mean that I don’t check the toilet paper for blood every time I go, just every other time. Also, I’m becoming huge. Surprisingly none of this has been a problem for Wonderboy. You should see him. He’s so happy all the time it’s impossible to remember what he used to be like. And he can’t go more than a couple of minutes without groping my huge boobs. I’ve already upgraded a cup and I fear I’ll have to upgrade my winter coat and every clothing I have in no more than a month.

I am happy. It’s been so much easier to negotiate sexual things even though I’ve barely been able to share any with Wonderboy in these passed months. There’s such a sense of fulfillment. It’s not only in my body, although it most definitely is in my body, it’s also in our relationship and in my relationship with the world at large. I’ve fulfilled this potential I had, this demand I faced within myself. Sex can finally be lifted out of the hole of having anything to do with infertility and it can start to be itself again. It has surprised me how much happiness the news brings to people close to me, even people I don’t know that well. Especially women. They don’t know about our struggles but yet they tear up, want to hug me and make sure I’m okay. This makes me believe even more that there’s something deeply engraved in us, that it wasn’t just me with the pain, that it’s in us (most of us anyway). The desire to be fulfilled and fulfill the potential like this as a miracle worker.

It’s quite disillusioning, being pregnant. Seeing that little critter spasm inside my uterus didn’t exactly bond me with it. Nor did the fact that I learned that it doesn’t have brains yet and that’s why it moves like that or that it’s entrails aren’t even inside its body. Still, everything is like it’s supposed to be. It’s healthy, it’s growing, it’s going to be our child. And seeing it was important. It made the fact real that it’s a another person, not just my ever changing body.

I’m guessing you’d like to know what happened? How did we conceive finally after almost four years?

Our money was running out. We’d had to move onto a private clinic because of the treatments I needed. This was the third IVF at the clinic, our fifth all together. I’d had to stop taking the hormones that helped me produce more and more viable eggs, because they gave me pretty severe cardiac dysrhythmia. In the end I also started to suffer from breathing problems during the treatments. My throat kept closing up and sometimes I would wake up startled and try to catch my breath sitting down. It was pretty clear that my body wasn’t handling the treatments well anymore and it was endangering my health.

After the first try after the help of the hormones, with the starting pregnancy with the twins that twindled so early on, on fourth to sixth week like all the eight other pregnancies, we decided that it wasn’t worth putting my health at risk. What was wrong even the doctor couldn’t guess. The embryos were perfect. My uterus, the hormones, everything was perfect. Except the result. We decided that we would make one last attempt and then settle in on the donor program to get eggs from someone else.

To my doctors (positive) dismay I already had three donors lined up, because my little sister and my friends love me to death and I will never forget what they promised me and how they changed my life when they did. Everyone just wanted for us to have a child. Everyone wanted us to be happy.

But we still had that last chance. And since it was the last chance I begged the doctor, like I’d asked a number of times before, if we could try the cortisone treatment. I’ve had a lot of time to read in these 3,5 years and I’ve read a lot of research. If I had an immunological decease, like the celiac decease, my body could be attacking the embryo thinking it was a virus. And the only thing that would help with that is cortisone. They didn’t find any antibodies in my blood to suggest I had celiac decease, but our first doctor had put me on gluten free diet anyway. And it had helped. It changed my body shape because I lost so much weight. It changed my bodily functions, my activity levels, pretty much everything for better. But they couldn’t find the antibodies in my blood, so they wouldn’t put me on cortisone with the IVF treatment. The doctor finally caved. Since this is the last try, she said.

I started the cortisone straight away since the treatment was right around the corner. When we started with the injections I already felt the difference. It didn’t hurt. My ovaries didn’t burn, I couldn’t really feel anything while the eggs were growing but some mild discomfort. I knew straight away that this was it. I knew that we had found the answer and that this was what I was supposed to feel all those other times. Even the doctor was intrigued when I told her about the pains not being there this time.

We got fewer eggs than the last time and like last time none of them were considered ripe. The doctor had noticed that all our viable embryos had sprung from the raw eggs and from the ones they didn’t use ICSI for. So it turns out that Wonderboy’s sperm was actually doing its job best when it was left to fend for itself like it’s supposed to. So we chose to put them all on the petri dish and hope for the best since there weren’t many eggs to begin with. There were six when we left the clinic.

And when I went to see the doctor a couple of days later there was only one that had developed normally to eight cells. Only eight little cells put together! How could that ever grow into a child? Its inner workings weren’t perfect so they couldn’t do assisted hatching like we had talked, but they had added this embryo glue to help it attach. And in it went.

The excruciating pains started four days later when it was supposed to attach and I knew of course what was happening. But it was like all those eight other times. I was just more in pain than before and the pains didn’t subside. I spent the weekend under a duvet with a painkiller and a hot water bottle. After that I got used to waking up every night at 0.30 am and 3-4 am to pains that the painkillers I was allowed to take weren’t really combating very well. And I became pretty hopeful. Since the pains were continuous, they weren’t fading like before, they were getting more strength.

And then one thursday morning I did the pregnancy test. It was the fourteenth day after conceiving in the lab and I was due to take a blood test the 18th in the clinic. I had barely had time to put the stick down when it brightened with two crossing lines. No doubt, I was pregnant. But doubt there was… so much doubt and fear. Wonderboy wouldn’t believe it until we saw what the blood works would say. On monday I went to the clinic and later that day I called for the results. With the twins my hcg levels had tipped a bit to 6-8 hcg. I knew that it was supposed to be 280 by now and I was scared. But there was no need. It was over 800. I was most definitely pregnant.

I went to the first ultrasound on week 5 and we already saw the heartbeat. Then we went together at the end of 6th week and it had grown to twice its size. Everything was good. Everything was normal.

And every night I woke up twice to the excruciating pain that even my doctor was a bit concerned about. But I wasn’t. If I had felt pains the eight times we conceived before, it was only natural that this would hurt even more. Because this time it had worked.

I haven’t had a lot time to process this. I haven’t had a lot of time to be happy. I’ve been so sick, the pains have been at times unbelievable and I have suffered from near continuous migraine for the first time in my life. This is the first time I am able to write anything this long without puking or having to go into a dark room to lie down. This is the second week there has been some normal days. Yesterday was the start of the week 15 of the pregnancy, and it was the first day I didn’t suffer from anything until late at night.

It must be self-evident that I don’t care. I don’t care. We will probably only ever have this one child. And it will be so loved, it is so loved already. We have fought this battle together and we have conquered. Everything is better now. I didn’t think it would be, but it is. Everything is easier, well, except moving and maybe sex. And even that doesn’t matter so much anymore. We have had to learn to wait, to be patient, to tread lightly with sexy things. But we have had ample time to learn the skills to do that: negotiate, be frank and unassuming when it comes to sexual acts.

Last time I said I didn’t want him to hit me or strangle me at all. There was a pause, he was scared and uneasy, because he had noticed that my responses were different and didn’t know what he could do now. We cuddled and talked and then started again. And when his hand went gently on my throat when we were getting close it wasn’t enough for me. I pushed his hand to grip more tightly. Because he had listened to me and I had spoken to him, I could do that. I could ask for it.

There were some droplets of blood, and even though our nurse had said after the first ultrasound and my freaking out on some blood that it was perfectly normal, I asked that we’d not have intercourse again. The blood was too scary. It’s not worth it. I don’t know if we will or won’t, if I change my mind. But I know it will be different. It will all be different. And it will all be the same, too.

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Craving for more, Hyper-Sexual, Passing Woman, What Women Really Want

A Changing Sexuality – Eye for Men

I had a dream. I was standing alone with a police man. I don’t think he was dressed in an uniform, but I can’t be certain anymore. He was a man build like a bull, big, fit, very muscular and had a hair the color of straw. I wanted him. Somehow because he was so big, I wanted him even more. I never used to like men like him. I picked my men from a narrow pool of wuthering hights and showing rib cages. Men who worked out with me, those with arms as wide as my thighs, bulging muscles and clenched jaws, never had my attention.

Until now.

I notice every bouncer who isn’t butt ugly. I look after the working men coming to have lunch in the near by restaurant. I shamelessly eye the very young men in the parks throwing frisbee without their shirts on.

I was left speechless when there was a new cashier in the grocery store near us. He was beautiful, arabic features and coloring, but spoke our language as a native. He looked into my eyes a while too long when giving me the receipt and I was struck by a lighting. What a beautiful man.

But when I see a really big guy, who has been working out. When I did my workout near a guy who lifted 170 kg just like that. I smiled at him, I smiled so wide. I want to touch men like him. I want to be under them. I want them to take me. And him, as any other decent man, smiled at me and was polite, wonderful. Cheerful even.

In the dream there had been a crime: a rape I think. We were talking about a woman going to a car with a stranger with the police man, not a nice one, not a one you could trust. A brick wall of justice and menace at the same time. Like a superhero gone bad.

You know how that’ll end up, he said.

Yeah, I said.

She’ll get raped, he added or then we both just knew what he meant.

But he meant more than that. He was propositioning me. His car was just around the corner, and I could just walk there with him. He was promising me he would rape me if I did.

I took a hold of his hand. I wanted him to ravage me. I remembered I was married. I knew I shouldn’t, and I had to stop for a second, to try to convince myself not to do it. But I took him up on his offer and called his bluff. Well, what are you gonna do now?

His hand was bigger than mine and wide and warm. He guided me, not to his car, but to a huge warehouse with sheet metal covered walls and hallowed halls filled with car parts and wooden crates.

When we got in I saw a woman dangling from the ceiling by a harness farther inside. She had wings and a huge black dildo in a harness at her crotch. I mean huge, the thing was down to her knees, shiny and bouncing as she swung on the harness back and forth. Her face was hidden in a glittery and feathery mask.

The man was now more a bull than a police. He grabbed me and started to hump me from behind before I could touch him. I suddenly knew that he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of his own cock, that he had a mechanic cock pushed between my thighs. He pushed me down on a bed and came on top of me. I could see his square jaw, his broad neck and his blond hair. He was so not like my Wonderboy. And I craved it.

Suddenly his humping and desire came to a halt. He clutched me into his arms rough and panted in my ear.

The lady in the harness came down, took the mask of and was at the door before I could realize what was happening. She had a giant tube like gym back and was dressed in gym clothes, not so scary anymore.

Men, they are all like that. What a pity, she said like we were accomplishes in a mutual scene.

It took me a while to realize that she was referring to the guy. He had come too soon, all over my clothes.

I woke up not horny but craving the physical overpowering of a strong, big bodybuilder like my police. The dream made me smile through the day. I daydreamed about it. But it is so like me. Even in my dreams I don’t get the pay-off of cheating. I get realism.

As I’m growing older I seem to notice my horizon on sexy changing, widening. I like that. I can appreciate bodies I would’ve felt were unattractive before. And it seems to me to be somehow very symbolic that I’d mostly desire after the big, masculine men. They have after all, the age old marks of high testosterone levels – bulls for my ever needy womb.

I doubt it’s as straightforward as that, but I believe that’s one of the reasons. And I don’t mind. As long as I can admire from a safe distance. As long as I can dream.

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Passing Woman, Pregnancy, Self-Questioning, Volatile bodies

I’ve been reading a lot of research about settling for not having kids. I met a fellow fertility treatment buddy of war the other day, but she wasn’t a war buddy anymore. She had given up. On Facebook I’ve seen enough to realize that three of the women I know in addition to the first one have given up hope. One of them even was so bold as to say that it was a huge mistake to even start the treatments at all.

I read about a study today which stated that one third of the couples in fertility treatments just give up. The study, or the article based on it, made it sound like they were giving up against their better judgement. But really: if these women are giving up six to eight years into their career as trying to become moms – is that giving up? Really? Should they keep on trying and for how long? How long would it be prudent? How long would suffice so that everybody could agree that it’s not going to happen?

I feel so conflicted. It makes my skin crawl that people have an opinion or a say in the matter of someone else’s treatments or their becoming a parent. Is fifteen years enough that you can give up? What about three, if it makes your marriage crumble? What about one, if you fall completely apart?

And why would it? If I was in your shoes, I’d just... sprinkle on some fairy dust and conceive? Yeah. I used to think like that too. Just do it. Stop complaining. Why can’t you do anything about it? Well, with fertility, there’s really not much a woman can do. 

I don’t want to settle. But…

It comes up more an more. In my thoughts. In Wonderboy’s words. 

What if. How’s our life going to be, if we don’t have any children, ever? 

At this moment I don’t really even see anything changing anymore. I got this huuuge deal closing in in a few months and it might change my life. My boss also talked to me about us working on getting me up the ladder an into the management. She also commented that now she could talk about these plans since there was no news. I guess my tragedy is working for me. I don’t even feel betrayed by that, I feel blessed. I’m able and competent enough to start leading these enterprises. 

I’ve been up this whole week, working up until 8 pm  three whole nights. I ain’t got nuthin against it. 

I’m drinking my Cabernet now, while Wonderboy sleeps away his insomnia. It’s funny really what it only took to take this sleeplessness of his away. I only had to tell him that my womb hurts, I bleed some, but it hasn’t started yet and it makes me want to scratch myself to death. He was like “is that all this was?” I don’t know what his all this entails really, but I guess my moods, my not wanting to cuddle, because he went on to say that he only wanted to be cuddled. I apologized and bought a stupid ass panty with a fucking lipstick pink bow on the back and pink lace and I put on my new lace bra and smoky makeup the way I know he likes it…

We got to watch two episodes of the Fullmetal Alchemist before he started to droop and it was time for him to go to sleep. 

This reminded me of the Perverse Cowgirl’s post about 5 love languages, because it amused me to realize that for Wonderboy to feel loved it was enough that I bought us some wine and offered him some and – made myself look very pretty just for him. That wouldn’t be enough for me, I think, but it made him feel so safe and loved that I didn’t even had to cuddle him but a minute before he was almost asleep. 

I was left here with an opened bottle for the longest time and I can’t even tell you how liberating it has been to just drink without any fear of consequences. I chatted with my sister some and now… I guess I’m gonna sleep, too. What am I gonna do – call a cab and go to a club by myself? No. I wanna wake up with my warm Wonderboy and fuck his brains out. a woman with a plan, right?

Maybe more than 6 hours of sleep will finally start my period and release me from this limbo of boiling emotions. I hope… Because otherwise the fucking might be left out of the equation but the rest will not. 

 

Buying panties and reading studies – Just an ordinary day

Aside
Fertility treatments, Love, Male Lead Relationship stuff, Passing Woman, Pregnancy, Volatile bodies, What Women Really Want, Wonderboy

Survival of the Fittest to Adapt

We have been trying to keep doing a small token thing, a ritual if you like. I think it was Lily’s wonderful book that gave us the idea. When we haven’t been able to do much else, and even when we have, Wonderboy has always commanded me to prepare the tea for us. I haven’t been able to do even that with the procedures and my body being so sick.

When I got out of the transfer, I was so proud of myself for doing it all by myself. I was so happy to finally get there that I needed to reward myself, so I bought these hand made chocolates. They were for us both, but Wonderboy’s been on a strict diet so it has mostly been me to consume the chocolates. Somehow Wonderboy still figured a new ritual could take place in this: it is my job to bring the golden chocolate box to him, if I want them. He will pick and choose one for me. Only one. And then I get to eat it. If I ask and he thinks it fits, he can grant me another. This… makes me oddly happy.

We tried to have sex yesterday. It was tentative, I admit, but I was actually turning a little horny. It has been almost three weeks since last time and I do feel a little alienated from my body. From him.

I’m glad that we tried. I’m glad about everything we did. About the nakedness, the warm skin, his scent, his lips. We caressed ear other from head to toes like I’ve never imagined Sex going. It was very loving and we were pretty scared. That’s probably why it didn’t hurt our feelings that we couldn’t do it. The progesterone capsules I have to use go straight into the vagina. They stay there to give me progesterone through the day. (3 times a day, so at work too. That’s been a treat, I’m telling you.) Turns out they also burn like hell, if you go on meddling in the orifices. No amount of lubrication helped, we were both burning. So we stopped. We kept hugging and kissing little, sweet and innocent kisses.

Do you want to do something else? To play? I asked.

Not really, Wonderboy said.

Me neither. It’s because of the burning, it kind of took the desire away.

Yeah, he admitted.

Then we caressed each other for a while.

It’s kind of miraculous that we can have a conversation like this – a situation like this – and both feel pretty happy and serene. We weren’t really even that disappointed. It was about something else entirely. It would’ve been nice to be able to have an orgasm together, but… it wasn’t as important as I once imagined. Huh. We exchanged our love yous there and then went on to read and play games by ourselves. It isn’t such a big deal considering the stuff we are going through.

I woke up tonight with soul shattering cramps. They almost made me throw up and wouldn’t subside in an hour before I took some pain medicine. I had to go sleep on the coach because the pain would stay away in only a certain position. At night I still thought that these could be the pains associated with the implantation. But today… when the cramps kept on rolling and kept shaping into a more familiar shape. I’ve nee here before. All the other times I thought I was pregnant I suffered for these same kinds of cramps and pains and stabs. They remind menstrual cramps a lot but aren’t exactly the same.

Now I feel I know. I know already. It didn’t work. There isn’t going to be a baby, not this time either.

The next time we have a chance will be in another hospital, with another doctor, after some waiting because of our move. It will probably be before next Christmas. Probably. But they might want to treat us differently. We might end up losing time again, doing treatment cycles that don’t result in any embryos. It’s not like it’s self-evident anyway – I got 10 follicles and only one was developed enough that they could transfer it (and only 3 fertilized at all).

Same all fears began to rise. Same all thoughts. Will we ever? Will we have to use someone else’s sperm or follicles in the end, anyway? Will our money run out? Will our will run out?

It’s not for certain yet. Wonderboy still believes I might be pregnant. I don’t anymore. I feel my body too well. Damnit. I was so happy for a while, even to be given a chance.

I don’t really know how I feel yet. But not devastated. Disappointed. Expectant. Sad, a little hopeless even. If it didn’t work, we still don’t know, if we can get pregnant. We still don’t know, if it will ever work for us. We still just have to wait. It’s quite a big thing to ask of someone, this waiting,  without a promise for the hopes to be fulfilled.

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Passing Woman, Pregnancy, Volatile bodies, What Women Really Want, Wonderboy

Time Is On Our Side

I’ll freely admit, to anyone, that I’ve had almost two glasses of red wine by now. So, you know, if this will be a somewhat flow kind of piece, please check the first sentence again.

I got news today. They’ll take the blood tests whenever we are ready. Wonderboy’s trying to get Wednesday off, so we can go, because he just doesn’t want to tell. I understand, but I think he should. He’d get paid leave, if he did. We still have to go tot he doctor in the other city where we used to live, so it’s kind of a hassle. And I sold the car, too. They’ll check caeliac condition (again), chromosomes and then something I didn’t quite understand but it seemed serious. And they’ll check Wondeboy for chromosome problems. Then they’ll send him to get his sperm checked, again, so that they can check the DNA of the sperm.

Anything could turn up. Anything could be wrong with us. Or not. Our doctor said that they’ll put us to another IVF cycle as soon as they get the results… maybe even THIS YEAR. I’m shocked. In a happy way. But because this is so fast and because they weren’t in such a hurry before…

I need to tell you something.

Remember my big sister, Faith? Remember how I told you that they haven’t been conceiving either?

I got some quite stomach turning news Friday night. In the preliminary testing they found out that my sister is suffering from early menopause. This is a serious, serious illness. She’s only 1,5 years my senior, so only a bit over 30. Menopause? At thirty?

We’re all in a shock. I spent my weekend crying, trying to write here, and crying and not typing it. Because it’s not fair. She doesn’t deserve this.

I am so worried for her. It’s not even the trying to have kids thing anymore. Now I’m worried for her life. Because they’re not sure yet, if it actually is early menopause or something worse. They sent her straight into IVF and to the same  private clinic as us to get everything checked. Early menopause is also quite dangerous. Cancer for example is a serious threat to women with (early) menopause. And you know… sexuality and everything. Feeling a Woman, not a grandmom.

We cried together when I called Faith straight away. We talked for two hours and I tried to console her and hear her fears out. The doctor had said to her that “it’s not a matter of weeks”. So, it’s a matter of months that she’ll be out of follicles and go straight into menopause.

What it made me realize is that we are incredibly fortunate. We have time on our side. Years and years…

BUT.

The doctor had asked my sister “isn’t your sister also a patient here? Interesting.” And te next day I get the message that we’re being pushed forward quicker than I thought. I don’t think that’s a coinsidence. I think the doctor’s afraid that I’ll have the same faith as faith. A year and a half from now.

And I want two children. One for each arm. One for each breast. One for each parent.

I don’t know what to think. Not really. I feel hopeful for sure, for us both. I feel a crushing fear and sadness and a need to help and support my sister. And then I have my own sadness to deal with. But somehow. It seems much smaller now, in comparison.

They’ll change the injected hormones, and I’ll start with the antagonist treatment again as soon as we have the results and my period start. I’m not afraid of the needles or the procedure anymore. I’m not quite afraid of anything anymore. Except for my sister.

I’ve challenged my alcoholic dad and said I’ll only visit them on Christmast, if they’re sober enough. I might go now, but only because he promised (!) and mostly because I need to see my sister and be there for her.

I’ve also openly told people about my kink. I’ve attended a party that was openly kinky.

I’ve been open about what I want and where I want it. I’ve been beginning to have squirting orgasms again with Wonderboy. I’ve been falling into subspace with force and surfacing more. I’ve even been able to communicate without sacrificing my sub experience.

I’ve been strangled again and hit a lot, again. I’ve been tied and held a lot. I’ve been kissed and missed a lot. I’ve been made dinner and cleaned for and I’ve done the same, a lot.

I’ve been loved a lot.

And I’m not afraid anymore. I just hope Faith will be okay. I’ll do whatever I can. But maybe it’s not what I can do. It’s what our little sister can give. Her follicles.

❤ Is there any way that you can show your love more? No. No there isn’t.

I could keep going on with these ramblings, I guess, but I don’t have anything to say anymore.

Next I’ll write about my wicked ways. About flirting. I promise.
Edit. Oh yeah. I read a study that said that even two glasses of wine per week during the IVF treatments can result in a 10 to 15% less likeliness to become pregnant. So, that’s why I’m drinking wine on a Monday night. That and maybe the fact that I’m in a shock. These could be the last couple of glasses I can take, because I’m seriously going to do everything just right the next time. I swear!

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Love, Passing Woman, Pregnancy, Volatile bodies

Learning to be a nurse

My period started early. It never does, but of course it did, when I was supposed to wait for the results of this one test that determined what the dosage should be for the injected hormones. I sent my doctor an email the day before my period started, because I could feel they were coming. I asked about the tests and about the dosage. I was worried. If my period had started on Saturday, I couldn’t have called my doctor and I wouldn’t have found out the right dose… That would have meant one more month of waiting. Nothing but waiting.

But my period did start on Friday. And my doctor did have the results. So now I’m injecting 200 IU of hormones into my stomach every morning. And starting from tomorrow there will be two whole injections of different hormones. One is to grow those little buggers up (my follicles) and one to stop them from growing too much.

I am not exactly giving injections to myself, because I wanted us to do this together. Wonderboy does that. Starting from Saturday we have been getting up at 6 am ever morning. He gets the injection needle out (it’s really called a pen and looks like one, which has actually given me a sense of calm). He also puts in the right dose and injects it in to my stomach skin. My job is to desinfect the area and then hold on for dear life while he pierces my skin with the needle.

I confess that there were tears and a lot of talk the first two days. Every feeling that Wonderboy had been suppressing finally bubbled to the surface, when he had to take part, be scared for me and really see what I have to go through.

This has brought us together more than anything that has happened to us. I even feel that there’s this sort of happy waiting. We are actually trying for a baby, and even if it doesn’t sound romantic, and it’s certainly not as much fun as sex is, this is the way we do it. This is the way we make a baby with love.

It doesn’t feel alien. I’ve grown past those feelings. It doesn’t feel unfair anymore that some people get to just have sex and conceive. I am so happy we have this choice. I am so happy that we have grown to be here together. This is the first time I really feel that Wonderboy wants this baby too. This is the first time I feel that he’s serious, that he puts as much into this as I do.

He has been sending me text messages during the day asking how I’m feeling. In one of them he said that he is really worried about me. He has been kind and gentle with me – and he has understood that I haven’t been able to do all the allocated excercises. We have made deals about them. But I haven’t slipped on eating right. I’m a whole size, maybe even two and a half smaller than I was some months ago.

According to this chart I used to be size 8 US 12 UK 42 EU, and now I’m on the tipping point between 6 and 4 depending on the clothes. This is the size I used to be. I even tried a size 2 skirt today and it fit perfectly, but I suspect that it was a label for bigger women, because if I was size 2, I think I would know!

Wonderboy has expressed some worry for me getting pregnant and then gaining the obvious pregnancy weight. I see where he is coming from since my sister blew up like a balloon and is still a bit overweight even though her youngest is over 1 years old. (Which I, by the way, feel is perfectly normal.) It’s just that she’s been overweight over 3 years now, since she had her fist child. I know that it’s important for Wonderboy that I look sexy. I want to look sexy for him. Being thinner makes me feel better in many ways that I didn’t suspect, but the main appeal for me is to see how turned on he gets over my body. There really is no bigger motivation to keep working out a lot and eating well. Well… Maybe the contract and getting spanked, if I don’t do my share, have something to do with it too.

It does feel like a pretty trivial and unfair thing to be worried about, when I’m worrying, if we’re ever going to get pregnant or how I’m going to get through these treatments… But I still talked with Wonderboy about it. I said that we can tweak the contract to consider that I’m pregnant. That I am not interested in letting go of our arrangement, and that I would like it too, if I didn’t gain a lot of excess weight whils pregnant (not the baby weight, the other kind) because that would probably make me feel a lot less desirable and be hard ot get rid of once the baby is born. I think I put his mind at ease about it.

I’m going to get an ultra sound on Friday. Then the doctor, now an IVF conducting doctor from a private clinic, will determine how big are my follicles and which day next week will be the plucking day. It’ll probably be Monday or Tuesday, according to the leaflets they gave us anyway. And that would meaan they would plant the little sprout no later than on Friday next week. Three weeks from now we’ll know, if I’m pregnant or not.

It’s crazy! It’s all here, and I can scarcely believe it!

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Hurting, Love, Passing Woman, Pregnancy

About defences

I was pregnant again for a while. I felt it without a doubt on monday. I’d had a hunch earlier on, but monday I was certain. So certain I actually let myself be happy for it. The feeling is so strange, it doesn’t remind me of anything else I’ve ever felt. Like small vines groping me from the inside, making me feel nausea and then hungry, then just like my world is going to hurl upside down. Tugging me, gently and then forcefully so that I have to move carefully.

I was in the shower for a long time today, held the shower head to my belly, which is in so much pain right now. The blood has started to flow and I feel the pressure in my breasts easing up, the tugging fading under a more forceful hand, one I know so well.

Nothing’s changed, I tried to tell myself. I knew this already. This has happened so many times. This is no news, so I shouldn’t take it as a sign that IVF won’t work. I’ve known this all along, how my body just can’t keep the pregnancy for some reason. Even though the tests won’t tell me and the doctors won’t believe me. But really – I don’t need anyone to tell me.

I tried not to despair in the warm fog on the floor hanging to the small comfort of the hot water bashing my pain from me.

This does not mean it’s never going to be possible, I told myself. It doesn’t change anything. We weren’t even supposed to be trying now that I’m not on hormones this summer. We’ll be in line for the IVF in the fall anyway.

When I told Wonderboy yesterday he just asked, how do you know?

Because I feel it, I answered. I didn’t try to convince him anymore. Didn’t tell him anything. Just let him know.

I was pregnant for a while and now it’s going away again.

And he hugged me a little, but was thinking of other things. Told me how happy and giddy he was about all the things he’s learned about music recently.

I still like you. And I feel bad that you feel bad. You got all my sympathy, he said and held my hand after he’d already raised from the bed to go play his guitar.

I couldn’t even be angry with him. I tried, but I didn’t feel anything. I contemplated about sleeping on the couch, but I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t feel anything.

I’m having a miscarriage, and he’s happy about other things? While I’m in pain and torn by guilt and despair?

I have no way to reconcile that. I waited for him to come home, I waited a couple of days to tell him, even. Because I was afraid he’d brush it off like the doctors. Because we “can’t know” if I really was pregnant. I wonder how I would take it, if he had these pains, if he told me he felt the pregnancy and then the end, the devastating end to it. And I can’t imagine a world, where I would shut it out like he has.

And still. While I watched him play the guitar and then the computer game, telling me ordinary things he’d thought, I couldn’t help but feel this all encompassing love for him. The way he sat there, boylike, smiling and sending me kisses and playing the game while I was tugged in bed. I couldn’t make sense of it. The way he was. The way I felt.

He’d just shut it all out. He’d shielded himself. And maybe I accepted it for the first time. There was absolutely no sadness in it for him. It was so absurd I had no way of reacting. Nothing I could say would change anything.

I’m trying to get over it myself. Trying to forget what it is I’m suffering from now. Not menstrual cramps, but something else. And when I went to to bathroom, saw the unmistakable clot of blood in the toilet paper, and thought hello baby, because it always comes out like that after some clear bleeding. I wondered could he be the way he is, if he’d know all of this? Or would it break him?

There’s nothing I can do now. For the lost ones. Him. The baby. Somehow that makes me feel a little bit better. It’s certain then. There’ll be no baby. At least I know.

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