The last couple days have gone by in a blur.
On Monday afternoon I had my blood drawn. On Tuesday afternoon I found out what my numbers were; they were not stellar. My HcG was 430 and my Progesterone was 16. Not good. According to my calculations my HcG should have been roughly 6,880. A “normal” pregnancy range for Progesterone is 12-84. I’m on the low side of average. After talking to the nurse, she said, “I know it’s discouraging, but we won’t know anything until the second draw.” She called me back about 20 minutes later and said the doctor wanted me to double my progesterone. They’re doing everything they can to help me.
I was at physical therapy for my shoulder when I received the news. It took everything in my power to not start crying right then and there. The second I got in my car, I lost it. Thankfully, I only had a four mile drive home. I walked in the house and my husband could immediately tell something was wrong. I couldn’t get the words out. I just started to cry on his shoulder. He apologized over and over… but I am the one who is sorry. I can’t give him baby.
I cried and cried that night. I fell asleep in my husband’s arms. I needed that.
Now, I know that it’s very possible I ovulated a week later than I thought. It’s possible that I’m a week behind what I thought I was. But that’s what we thought last time. Last time, the same scenario happened. I thought I was X amount of weeks but my numbers were low, so we assumed that maybe I just ovulated a week later than I thought… and we were wrong.
I’m still holding onto a shred of hope here. I doubled my progesterone (I don’t know how that helps, all I do is leak the stuff all day and all night…) and I’m still on heparin. My stomach is a purple, blue, green, yellow splotchy mess. I will hopefully have the results of yesterday’s blood work in a few hours.
I told my husband last night that us getting pregnant is a lot like buying a lotto ticket. You hold onto that ticket for a couple of days fantasizing about what you would do with the money. I would form the largest no-kill animal shelter in the country, do all I could for women in our situation and pay off student loans and a modest home. I want a farm with pigs, goats, horses and chickens. Cows and ducks would be fun too. But it’s a dream.
Right now we’re holding our lottery ticket waiting for the numbers to come in. We’re fantasizing about the future… The clothes, the pictures, the nursery, the baby smells.
Not everyone can win the jackpot, but it’s sure fun to fantasize.
Poult… you know how all those crazy pregnant women name their baby? “My Little Bean”, “My Peanut” or whatever else the ultrasound picture looks like… Well, we named ours Poult. (And no, we don’t have an ultrasound yet.) Why Poult? Well, I’ve always called my husband “Pumpkin” and he’s always called me “Turkey.” Weird, I know, but it’s cute… He calls me his Turkey (can’t remember how that started, I think something to do with pumpkins, turkey’s, Thanksgiving, etc.) So I asked him this morning what a baby turkey was called. He didn’t know, so I looked it up. They’re called Poults. So now we have a baby Poult (like the word poultry.) I think it’s cute–I didn’t want to go with the non-original “bean” or “peanut.”
So here’s hoping my Poult pulls through… I keep looking at the clock waiting until I can call. The numbers have to at least doubled for this to be a positive thing. Here’s hoping and praying!