Damn. My birthday’s over.
And now after an action packed week, it’s back to work. With a cold.
I’ve got the Monday blues and it’s Tuesday.
Other than my thumping, stuffy head and my absentminded boss, there is really no reason for my malaise. Maybe the fact that I now need to wait 360 more days until my next birthday is what’s getting me down.
Did I mention what a great party I had? Now I have had some stellar birthdays – hiking in
My favorite local band played for me at my favorite local club. Tons of people were there. Some were casual acquaintances. Others, friends I have known since adolescence. Not counting me and hubby, only two other guests know about our little adventure.
In MY mind, it was my last hurrah before potential (hopefully, maybe) motherhood. And I partied like a rock star. From the pictures, it looks as though lots of other people did as well. I had such a great time I feel almost obligated to give birth to something.
It was so hard for me not to share the news with my other close friends. Especially seeing that they came out to be with me, for me, on a midweek night. That is some love. They’ve got jobs, classes, other things they need to be doing on a Wednesday night, yet they came to spend a little time with us. I was incredibly touched and maybe feeling a little emotional anyway and all I wanted to do was blurt out in the middle of this smoky punk rock bar, “Hey, guess what? I’m gonna try to have a BAY-BEE!”
But I held it in. Kept it in check. Got ready for my solo.
My poor hubby. While he had a great time too, I know his mind was elsewhere. Specifically, focused on the semen analysis he’d have to give two days later. After a day of recovery on Thursday, we hopped in the car early Friday morning for another round of tests and consultations at our clinic, the “skeet skeet test” as we like to call it being one of them.
Now, ladies, I tried to be supportive. I am sure that this is a very stressful thing for a boy to undergo. But forgive me if I’m not too sympathetic because he needed to get it up and go in a cup. In case he’d forgotten or misplaced the pages and pages of instructions and lists of medication, this here body will be undergoing some significant discomfort over the next few months. If I am gearing up for a parade of needles in my ass, the least he can do is skeet, skeet, skeet. Right?
So, with that over and done with, we headed to our genetic counseling appointment. This is where you meet with a counselor; they draw your family tree and tell you things you already know. My family tree, as always, is branchless. A stump. Hubby’s takes up the whole damn page. It was nice to sit in a medical consult where hubby has to do all the talking because the opposite is usually the case. It was not so nice to arrive after battling an outrageous amount of traffic and torrential rain only to find that the counselor was completely unprepared to see us, didn’t have our charts or the chart of our donor and in fact, wasn’t quite sure she had the right donor number as a reference. I was furious. Especially after it became obvious that the entire conversation could have easily occurred over the phone.
Whatever. Shake it off. Check that task off your list. Genetic counseling? Done. What’s next?
All other blood work and lab results have come back normal. Hey hubby, guess what? I don’t have the Clap! Yes! Side note: I love my gynecologist. In order to have my insurance pay for the extra tests I needed done during my last annual exam, they had to do some “creative coding.” This seems to be the case with just about any procedure related to infertility. My nurse was so concerned that I would be upset if she coded the lab work for “risky sexual behavior.” I just thought it was funny. The riskiest we have gotten lately is getting a little too close to a lit candle in the bedroom. Look out! You’re taking unnecessary risks!
But the nurse’s concern was unfounded. My fabulous doctor came in with another creative coding suggestion that was far less illicit. All was well.
So that was a quick summary of birthday week 2007. I wonder what next year’s celebration will look like.