The Best Laid Plans Part Deux

So, um, YEAH. 

That was fun.

As I mentioned in the last dispatch, we were planning our passionate evenings of togetherness ‘forced nooky’ sessions (love that term, thank you SaraS-P) because, like an idiot, I expected to ovulate around CD17.  It had been Day 17 for the last two months, thanks to the herbs and the acupuncture, and so of course  I expected my body to step up and actually do the right thing at the right time. 

Silly me.

I started spotting that afternoon.  Not just spotting, but SPOT-TING.  As in, holy hell, what is THIS?!? spotting.  It certainly wasn’t implantation, but thank you for the nice thought.

No, this was some kind of mid-cycle breakthrough bleeding extravaganza.  I’ve never experienced such a thing, I remarked as I frantically grabbed for the nearest pantie liner.

I didn’t feel like calling my doctor’s office, so like an idiot, I called the advice nurse for my health insurance.  Ummmm…people? Could you please remind me in the future that this is the WORST idea known to man?  Thank you.

"Are you pregnant?" she asked me.

Once I stopped laughing, I was able to explain that no, no I was most decidedly not fucking pregnant.  She asked me about fourteen gajillion questions, at the end of which she announced, "Well, make sure you get enough sleep.  And if you’re underweight, gain some weight.  If you’re overweight, lose some weight."

Hmmmm…so you mean if I am able to lose these last ten pounds in the next, say three hours or so, the breakthrough bleeding extravaganza will end just in time for the romantic evening of expressive love-making forced death march of baby-making sex to continue?!  YES.  Let me get RIGHT on that!!

So, just to recap and set the stage:  I feel like I’m coming down with the stomach flu.  And BeBop has called earlier in the day to announce in a surprisingly loud voice that HE THINKS HE HAS PUNCTURED HIS EAR DRUM.

"What?"  I asked.

"WHAT?" He said.

"Oh for crissakes, WHAT are you talking about? You think you punctured your ear drum blowing your nose?"

"Oh. Yes. That’s what I think."

"Freak."

"WHAT?"

"Nothing… ."

Add to this equation the BBE, and you have an idea of how the evening started. 

As bedtime neared, I was definitely suffering from that not-so-fresh feeling.  I started walking upstairs and said to BeBop, "don’t stay up too late because we HAVE to have sex." 

I said this with as much excitement as one would say:  I have to report to my chain gang in Northern Uzbekistan.  Or, I have to floss with rusty barbed wire.  Or, I have to watch a seventeen-hour marathon of back-to-back That’s So Raven episodes. You get the idea.

And then?

Then BeBop announces that he slept wrong the prior night and has lost all feeling in his left arm.

When he finally made it upstairs a few minutes later, I was sulking, what with the ear and the stomach and the spotting…

"What’s wrong?"  he asked.

"Um. OH NOTHING," I snarked.  "Just with the stomach ache and the bleeding and the DEAF EAR and the DEAD ARM I’m sure this will be, like, so much fun."

It’s shocking that he didn’t jump my bones that very second, no?  Whining and wallowing and mentioning the word ‘bleeding’ is just so romantic.  But, as all good infertiles do, we pressed on.  (No pun intended.)

And then?  Well, then my goddamn temperature didn’t rise the next morning and I still haven’t seen a positive on the OPK, so I don’t know what the fucking hell is going on with the feminine bits.

Perhaps I should call the assvice nurse back and get some help. 

I could use it.