Pregnancy, or trying to conceive, has officially invaded every aspect of my life.

I have an endoscopy scheduled for next Tuesday due to some generalized “meh”ness having to do with eating.  I’m not sure if it’s related to my acid reflux, food sensitivities, or if it’s all psychosomatic.  I try to be a flexible dining companion, but lately I wonder if the food I put in my body is going to rebel. 

My breakfast options have dwindled down to cereal, soy milk, and orange juice (low acid!).  I cannot eat a bagel or pancakes, let alone anything with eggs, before noon.  My stomach just cannot handle it.  It’s at the point where I fear breakfast now.  I’m like Margaret Atwood’s “Edible Woman” who waits for her body to reject the remaining foods it currently allows.  One morning I had my usual breakfast, and I began to feel the onset of nausea, and I thought, “That’s it.”  So I headed off to my doctor.

My SIL put me in touch with a very nice GI, who listened patiently to my incoherent, disorganized complaints.  He scheduled blood work (all negative), and an endoscopy.

The lovely paperwork I am supposed to fill out and send/bring in asks for a medical history, by system.  They want the typical family history of stroke, diabetes, and any drug allergies, as well as the obligatory, “Are you pregnant?  Is there any chance you could be?” questions, followed by, “If you might be, we’ll do a test.” 

And if I am, will you cancel the procedure?  I’m supposed to stop taking all vitamins 5 days before the procedure.  If I were pregnant, I’d be making frantic phone calls before stopping prenatal vitamins.  Spina bifida is serious shit, bitches.  Even though my fertility monitor didn’t show that I even ovulated this month, I’m on day 35 of an endless cycle, wondering if the machine is broken, or if I am. 

Knowing that I have to a) fill out the stupid forms, and b) stop taking my vitamins, I finally peed on a stick this morning.  Negative.  Of course.  I was weighing all the possibilities in my head as I fitfully slept last night.  Is my machine broken?  Did I use it improperly? Did I not get a big enough sample on the day I ovulated?  Why am I 35 days into a cycle?  Where is my period?  Have I not ovulated since my miscarriage?  Did the miscarriage affect my cycles?  Have I wasted the last year counting useless cycles, tracking inconsistent basal body temperature, counting meaningless 14 day intervals?  When, exactly, do I call my OB/GYN and freak out?  Do I have the strength/energy/time/money to go through infertility testing and/or treatment?  Am I broken or was this month an eggless glitch?  Where is my period?

As I found out this morning about yet another friend who is pregnant, as I see some peers starting on (and producing) baby number 2, as my friend from high school nears her due date, and as I see videos and photo albums of baby A., baby H., baby R., and baby D. ad nauseum, it might further my resolve and my determination to do something, or else send me into yet another bout of apathetic pessimistic depression.

Thank you for listening, as my non-pregnancy continues to overrun even my blog.

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