Day 10: Great, more bad sex
"You know, everything that can go wrong with you does," my doctor just said on the phone.
That's right, friends: I ovulated.
My estrogen had increased slightly, but what was really telling was my progesterone level, which was at 4.5. Anything above 1 is apparently a reliable indicator of ovulation.
As soon as I heard his voice on the phone I knew it couldn't be good news. His recommendation was that we have sex tonight and hope that I can "pull a rabbit out of my hat" as I've done before. (You know, "pull a miracle out of thin air." Or perhaps, in my current mood of misplaced rage, "pull the poor blameless UPS delivery man's spine out through his rectum.")
I asked my doctor if he would recommend a different course of action on a future cycle — closer monitoring, a change in protocol, anything. He said he'd want to check my progesterone throughout the cycle, which isn't normally done at my clinic, but didn't offer any other thoughts about how we could keep this from occurring again. "It's just one of those things," he said.
One of those $2,000-in-drugs, crush-my-hopes-up-but-good things.
There's no point in even bothering to do an IUI at this point. We're not likely to have more than one egg in play for this cycle, even if Paul's rather immotile sperm can get to it. I can't even talk about how disgusted and angry I am, at my body and at the world.