Move along people, nothing to see here. We may have a possible beta (202) from last Friday's blood draw - 14dp3dt - but then again, it could just be part of a phone number, a random lab tech's favourite digits, or a blood sample categorisation number. Who knows? I know the woman at the GP's office doesn't.
I phoned up the GP on Tuesday to see if my results were in yet. Herein is the abridged transcript:
Me: Hi, this is Ms Pru, I'm calling to check on results of my blood test.
Ignorant bitchslut from hell: What kind of blood test?
Her: Uh...yeah. Let me look...oh. Oh. Hmmm...yeah, it's uh, positive for pregnancy.
Me: Oooook...is there a number included?
Her: :::incredulously:::: What kind of number?
Me: I don't know, that's why I'm asking. Hopefully a high one, a beta.
Her: I don't know what that is, but there is a 202 or something on the form.
Me: Do you think that could be it?
Her: I have absolutely no idea. Does that sound like what you're looking for?
Me: Uh, maybe.
Her: So anyway, it's positive for pregnancy. Is that everything?
Me: It appears that way, yes. Thank you.
It's so easy in their world, isn't it? You pee on some sticks that say you're pregnant, a blood test says you're pregnant and that's it. I'm a freak for wanting to get a rough idea of viability.
After this debacle, I called WHYBAML's office. I spoke to his lovely practice nurse, who in comparison to IBSFH was an absolute dream despite not telling me what I wanted to hear. I was hoping to squeeze a scan in before I left for the States on Sunday, as we will then be away until 2 January. If this whole thing is to be believed, I am 5w5d today, which I know is a push for a scan which would be at the very latest, 6 weeks, but I thought I'd try. No dice. I would have to wait until I get back, and probably wouldn't get one until 4 or 5 January at the very earliest. That didn't go down well in Pruland because it is hard enough being in limbo now, let alone all the way to 8 weeks and some days without a scan.
This is where it gets tricky. I have had to draft in my Mom, which means I had to make with the "pregnancy" announcement last night on the phone. My Mom never takes no for an answer, so I thought she'd be the perfect person to try and get me a scan while I'm in the States, despite not being a patient of any local clinic. I feel evil getting my Mom to do my dirty work, but she seems content given the circumstances. I hope it works out in our favour. I can't imagine not being able to see anything until 8 1/2 weeks. Does anyone happen to know if my plan is feasible? I have attempted to block out all memories of the US healthcare system, so I have no idea if I'm asking for the moon on a stick (I have no idea what that means, but I like it).
Meanwhile, in a world consumed with doubt and self-pity, I'm trying to keep The Dude from being too optimistic. I have explained to him that this could all go tits up in a moment's notice, but he's just too damn excited. It makes me sad really, knowing how desperately he has wanted this to happen. I'm hopeful that either Bertrand or Enid (this is the non-slow embryo) hang on and develop into one of those real live baby things I've heard so much about. If it does, I'll have to tell him to stop calling it Embryo Fred, because Bertrand and Enid are far more fetching names for embryos.
Moving right along, I want to thank everyone for all the fantastic and supporting comments you have left lately. When I say that I don't know what I'd do without all of you, I mean it from the very bottom of my selfish, canary-loving heart. I would certainly lose my way without the infertile brethren contingent. That said, I would like to apologise for not commenting on many blogs as of late, or for that matter, much ever. I'm a really dull commenter and feel tremendously inadequate when so many of you are beautifully eloquent and say such heartfelt things. I can generally only muster a, "Uhh...durrr...I'm....duhhh...sorry to hear you're upset." before shuffling off to read more blogs. Rest assured I am reading, and often many posts make me cry like the poor excuse for a bitter cynic that I am.