*not counting Duke Fertility, which was kind of a shitty experience
1. I only cry twice (once bc Feelings, and once when they draw blood for the infectious disease screening).
2. The nurse takes my height and weight by saying, “How tall are you, and how much do you weigh?” That’s cool.
3. Then she says, “You’re here alone?” I reply in the affirmative, and as if to explain the question, she says, “OK, sometimes the husband is coming in from another direction.” (ahem—hetero-normative!!, and also, See #1.)
4. A 38-year-old woman’s chance of conception, when trying, is 12%. With drugs, it can go up to 20%.
5. My insurance covers blood tests but maybe-probably not ultrasounds, insemination, and such because I’m using donor sperm. It would, definitely, cover all of that for 3 cycles if I were using a husband’s. (Read: discrimination.) The financial person says she’ll call BlueCross/BlueShield and let me know what she finds out.
6. The doc says he’d guess I’ve been exposed to CMV (a virus that can cause birth defects) because I hang around germ-monsters for a living, but the blood test results will be back on Friday. If, by some random chance, I’m CMV-negative, I’ll have to choose another donor because Mr. Happy Pants is CMV-positive. Guess I’ll wait to set up the new blog because I don’t want to jinx it by registering babyhappypants.com.
7. As of today, a real thing I’ve uttered to another person: “I’ve been told I have a tiny cervix.”
8. I could already pass for 4 months pregnant any day of the fucking week.
[Edit: After a commenter told me to “stop it”, I realized that it sounds like I’m putting myself down here. I’m not. I think I look pregnant, but it’s kind of cute, no?]
9. My iPhone app tells me I’ll ovulate on Valentine’s Day, which I think is a really sweet gesture on my ovaries’ part. But turns out the druggy drugs they’ll give me will make me ovulate whenever we say Go. So.