I'm back from Georgia and I'm infertile. I know, I knew this before, but now I definitely qualify as a member of the Barren Bitches Brigade. First of all, for those of you who were anxiously holding your breath (and thank you for your concern), the Clomid didn't work. We screwed on schedule, every 48 hours for ten days (more on that nightmare later), but my temperature never went up, so despite the fact that I can't have my cycle day 21 test until CD 23 because the stupid lab is closed for Columbus Day, I'm pretty sure it didn't fucking work. Goddamnit.
On top of that, I finally got the comment infertile women everywhere hate: "You just need to relax." My sister-in-law, who is sweet but not the most tactful person on earth, picked us up at the airport in Atlanta and the first thing she said was, "So, do you have any big news yet?" while leering at my stomach. I slitted my eyes at her and said, "No," through clenched teeth. The King pretended to be busy getting our bags into the car so he didn't have to answer. She then gave me the sad, sympathetic eyes and the "Oh, I'm sure you just need to relax" line.
And she should know better. She suffered from secondary infertility to the tune of four miscarriages and nearly died giving birth to the second child she so desperately wanted. After she finally managed to have a second baby, her OBGYN told her if she continued getting pregnant, she would quite likely die, and he could not in good conscience continue to be her doctor if she didn't stop. So she had a complete hysterectomy at 33 years of age. She should be a member of the barren bitches brigade for sure, but she's not. Instead she asks me why we don't just take a vacation and accidentally calls me Patricia, which is the name of the King's first wife. It was a long vacation.
It actually wasn't that bad, except for the King's family's constant questions about why we don't have a baby yet. His very-fertile cousin, who doesn't wear pants because Christian women shouldn't, asked while bouncing her new baby son on her knee and feeding her two-year-old daughter with the other hand.
As for the Clomid, I took it and guzzled gallons of green tea, and the King and I made up a strict schedule for screwing to make sure we wouldn't miss the big ovulation day. Gosh, that was fun sex. (Can you hear the sarcasm? 'Cause I can.) The worst was Day 13. We needed to have sex, because Clomid is supposed to make you ovulate around Day 14. It started out great--we were actually necking and giggling like teenagers. Having to be really quiet because we're at his mom's house always seems to make the King randy. Odd, I know, but it works for him, so whatever.
But then we got down to serious business, and it stopped working. My poor husband was panting and thrusting and doing his thing for ages, and he couldn't reach orgasm. Now, he's 36 years old (I'm 27), so he sometimes has a bit of trouble under normal circumstances, and this time we had the whole Clomid pressure to deal with. It was not a good thing. It got worse and worse, until he finally collapsed, furious and cursing, and I cried with frustration and the unfairness of it all. We lay there in the dark for a long time, trying to make each other feel better, and the King kept trying to make his erection stick around, but nothing was working. It was awful.
"Think about Shania Twain and Claudia Schiffer," I said.
"I have been. It's not working. I'm afraid to try again," he said, laying next to me.
"Maybe you need to think about something new," I suggested. "Like a Corvette. Or a new Porsche. Or a Corvette and a Porsche having sex." We laughed, a much-needed break from the tension. "Or maybe you need to think about having sex with my armpits!" I giggled.
"What?" he asked.
"No, I'm seriously, I've seen Internet porn about it--some guys like to screw women's armpits!" He started laughing, and so did I, and I added, "And sometimes they do it with women who don't even shave!"
That did it--he rolled over, slipped into me, and came in a wonderful release.
Hairy armpits and laughter. Who knew?