THE BRICKEY BFP

‘Twas the Night before Christmas

A BFP story

This time of year is always special to me. I’m a fall baby and l love the fall and winter seasons. I particularly love all the holidays from Halloween right on through Easter (in the spring, but it’s always cold here so I think of it as a winter holiday).

Christmas is especially special to me. I love the pomp and circumstance even though our families don’t really gather together as much as in years past.

For us the road to baby was long and littered. Even Christmas had been tainted by the stain of our infertility.  In 2012 we were quietly optimistic about a holiday pregnancy. Unfortunately, by the New Year we were back to the drawing board.

In our quest to procreate we had one rule that we followed, we’d take a break through the fall and winter month. No drugs, no timing just sit back and relax and enjoy the holidays.  Now, for some people that might be odd considering all the time, money and effort that we were putting into making a baby, but the holidays are already such a busy and stressful time it just seemed like a great time to relax and relate. And really people, we live in Texas were summer dominates ten months of the year.  Gone were the days of my youth when the first snow flurries started in October and you went trick or treating with sweats and snow suites under your costume and winter parkas on top.  I am practically famous for saying “I absolutely don’t want to be pregnant in the height of Texas summer. Let me before the triple digits hit.”  

Last year was no exception. After a summer book conference in Austin, Big CWB and I spent what is normally a 3 hour drive ( it turned into nearly 8 because of a major rainstorm, traffic and traffic accidents) discussing how we’d spend the fall and winter. The decision was made to attempt using a sperm donor and of course our “break”.  We also made a hard line— 2015 was the end.  We’d been on this journey for so long and for me as I was approaching my 34^th birthday I was ready to do something other than track my period, chart my cervical mucus (tmi…sorry) and make mad dash road trips to Odessa (a 400 mile drive one way) because “my temp spiked”.  I was over it.  CWB not so much. Where my excitement and determination was waning his was just ramping up.

By October were definitely ready for our break. We’d been informed that there had been a mix up at the sperm bank we’d been planning to use and our donor was no longer available.  As well as informed that the transfer we’d been waiting on with CWB’s job was not going to happen.  I decided that turning 34 was going to be a blast. I along with our roommate hit the streets and much to my husband’s relief started really exploring the DFW metroplex (he had been concerned that I was being too much of a hermit and my focus on the fertility was wearing on both of our sanities).

With the Roomie in tow, I put miles and miles on Whitey Mclighting and when I wasn’t doing my best impression of a spoiled oilfield wife I was making casual visits to the “Basin” to have lunch with the hubster without the pleasure of having to pop doses of femara and clomid. Or check my temperature or “omg there aren’t any rooms to rent can you meet me at the truck stop and hope no one mistakes me for a lot lizard picking up johns.”

CWB was able to make a trip home for both Thanksgiving and my birthday. Life was fun. I ate. I drank and I even managed to start and stick to a diet (I know, I know, I am supposed to call it a life style change.)

At Christmas the Roomie remarked off handedly about the fact that shortly after my birthday I had begun sleeping and inordinate amount.  CWB casually brushed it off “She does that. Her insomnia will cycle back around and then she’ll sleep a few days straight.”

The Roomie raised an eyebrow and said “Like 16 hours a day for the last nearly three weeks.”  That was a lot even for me, but we all shrugged it off.

Twas the day before Christmas.   Really, it was quite early in the morning on Christmas Eve.  The Roomie needed a tire iron. CWB was playing with the dogs in the back yard, so out to my car I went to investigate my trunk in search of said tool. I lifted the insert in my trunk and where a spare tire should be was a bag from The Dollar Store. Inside said bag were three forgotten pregnancy tests. Hidden from a time when testing was as compulsory as breathing.

I grabbed the bag and the tire iron and made my way inside. Without speaking I handed The Roomie the tire iron and walked straight to my room, closed the door then into the en suite and closed that door as well. I rummaged under the sink for the pee cup (if you’ve ttc’d for any length of time you know exactly what a pee cup is and why it’s under the sink).

Constitutions finished (fancy way of saying I peed…hey I am a writer), I checked the expiration dates and opened the first test. On auto pilot I used the little dropper collected the sample and applied it to the test( did I mention I also used to work for a couple of companies that ran urine screens for everything from pregnancy tests to drug testing for employees?  I’m an expert at conducting urine screens). 

Here’s where I screwed up. I dumped my sample! Yes, knowing in my little brain that I simply wasn’t pregnant I poured the urine into the toilet and flushed. Then I washed the cup and as I was drying it I looked down at the test. The test that my hand was automatically reaching for to brush into the trash can because surely it was negative. The test that was sailing through the air as my brain registered that there were two lines instead of one.  It seemed as if the test hung there, suspended in air halfway from the counter and half way to the toilet side trash can as  I Wyle E Coyoted my calculations. I counted back the days and weeks from my last cycle.  Something I normally let the little app on my phone due because frankly I’m so regular that one period bleeds into the next (no pun intended) and they all feel the same to me.  I just assumed I was days away from the December cycle.  It was then that the little piece of plastic bounced off my toilet and into the trash can with a world shaking thud.

I sat on the side of the tub and stared into the mirror.  What was I doing around my birthday (December 7^th)? When had CWB come home? When had I last been down to Odessa? The movie in my mind was a fast forward replay from my period in November right up to the moment that little test rattled into the trash can like a basketball through a chain link net.  My life didn’t flash before my eyes; it played like a grainy old reel to reel projector film. There was whiskey and beer and wine—lots and lots of wine. Cupcakes, steaks, potatoes, cake—lots and lots of cakes. And sex. Tons of none scheduled, non calculated sex.  Sex that didn’t require timing. Sex  that didn’t end me in some awkward prone position( again if you’ve been a long time ttc-er you know what I’m talking about: legs in the air, pillows under butt, head over the side of a surface). Sex that was just good old fun…the way it was intended to be.

I swallowed a lump in my throat and reached for the trash can. I wasn’t sure if I was going to need to puke or not. Once the trash can was in front of me I thanked the stars that I had emptied it the night before changed the liner. With one hand I reached for the test and the other my phone. Sure enough, there it was. A strong positive.

I threw up.

I needed to retest, but I got rid of my sample. So I snapped a picture of the test with my phone and fired off a message to CWB who by now was helping The Roomie change his tire, pushed it back on the counter and opened the other two. With them lined up like little soldiers I sat on the toilet, pants around my ankles willing myself to go in my most calm and encouraging voice “You just need a trickle. Relax. Think Niagara. Think the Amazon. Think of all the oceans. JUST PEE DAMMIT.”

The text conversation with CWB was classic.

“Don’t panic. Do you have another test?”

“Yes, but I can’t pee.”

“Drink some water and relax. How many tests do you have?”

“Two more.”

“Okay, let me know.”

“REALLY. LET you know. Its freaking positive! BRIGHT FUCHIA LINE.”

“Okay, don’t get worked up. Just pee.”

Needless to say I barely squeezed out enough to get it done and because the samples where “less” the next two test were consecutively lighter however there they were positive.

Now came the whispered conversation by the fence as The Roomie cast furtive glances our way before leaving for work.

We decided…and by we I mean CWB that we would wait a few days and test again. We’d been here before. Positive test and then days later negatives and the arrival of that maddening aunt that every female laments. I pasted on a smile while I internally panicked. Yo, I did thirty four the way most people do 21.  I drank…A LOT.  Should I take the progesterone pills that I’ve got stashed in the back of the bathroom cabinet? What about those suppositories in the fridge?

Christmas day came and CWB and I celebrated by taking a trip to the FT. Worth Botanical Gardens. I was literally sick the entire drive over. We argued in the parking lot in front of the Japanese Garden and never made it out of the car. Back in town we picked up a few odds and ends to complete our Christmas day steak dinners and came home. Unbeknownst to him I also purchased a twin pack of digital pregnancy tests. The super deluxe pack that has the timer so you don’t wait too long to read the results.  I waited till after dinner before texting my sister in the fertility battle…whose progesterone pills I had stashed in my bathroom. She and I weighed my options and decided to be on the safe side I’d start popping said pills.  I could have done the suppository but in my addled mind I couldn’t see how inserting something in my rear was going to help (why the instructions were for anal insertion for a vaginal medication I will never understand). *NB I know someone is reading that thinking “Wait, she has someone else’s pills? That’s crazy.” Listen. I’ve spent thousands upon thousands trying to not just get pregnant but stay that way. There is a whole circle of women out there who know just what I was going through. Not only being prescribed pills at a whopping cost on top of insurance rates, but the culture that drives us to order pills from the UK and Canada when insurance won’t cover them. I am just being honest. Don’t judge me for my journey.

Dinner eaten I sat teary eyed as CWB packed up to head back to work. I had one more meal to prepare for The Roomie as he was spending most of the day with his family but was going to come back to town and open gifts with me.

I waited anxiously as I always do for CWB to complete his trip back to work. Then I had to wait for until I was alone in the wee hours of the morning the day after Christmas. Why I tiptoed through the house when it was just me and the dogs here I still don’t know. I snagged the hidden digital tests and with bladder nearly bursting, proceeded to pray like and pee on the stick. No special pee cup needed.

It didn’t even wait for the timer to go off. Before I had finished relieving myself the thing was beeping and the block letters looked as if there were in bold 60 point font to my sleep and fear hazed eyes.

Pregnant

I snapped a picture sitting on the side of my bed with the test on my lap and text it to CWB knowing he’d just be arriving for his shift at work. The response was immediate.

“Get your ass to the dr.”

Luckily, my obgyn's office was open that frosty Friday morning. I had to wait till 8 am to call and because they know me (I used to work there doing what else…urine drug/pregnancy screenings) I was in before the office was actually opened for business. By 9 am I had yet another positive urine test and two blood tests drawn. One to be completed by the in house lab in a rush and one sent off by the lab in my dr's office. I paid out of pocket for the rush job one down stairs. It two was positive.  I also had my first sonogram…the first of a billion.  There was nothing on the image.  No egg floating anywhere.  No follicles, diminishing or otherwise. Nothing. But still all signs pointed to go. I followed up the next Monday with another blood test to compare the hormone levels and yes another sonogram that showed nothing but a murky screen.  Tuesday I got the results of the comparison blood work. The hormones had more than quadrupled over the weekend. I was definitely on my way to pregnancy but technically not exactly pregnant.  You aren’t pregnant till the egg is in the womb. That didn’t happen for me until the following Friday when at yet another sonogram there it was: a swirly little wisp of white matter just tucked to the inside of my uterus.  My own little scientific visual of a BIG FAT POSITIVE.

I called CWB on the drive home and we cried. Then The Roomie went shopping with me to plan the announcement that CWB insisted we do quickly (something in all our years of near misses and losses we’d never done before).

The rest, as they say, is HIStory.