Have you ever seen an episode of a sitcom in which one character dreams that his or her (usually her, it seems) spouse did something bad, and then takes it out on the spouse the next day, in real life?
So, you know how I’ve said repeatedly that we’re confident that things will go smoothly at our hearing tomorrow, and that it should just be a formality, and that we’re not worried about it and yada yada yada?
Well, I’m evidently more worried about it than I knew, because I had a dream about it last night.
It wasn’t an actual court hearing, but a meeting of probably six or eight people, each of whom was judging us in their specific area of expertise, to decide if we were worthy of both being Peeper’s legal parents.
One had even had our cars inspected and told us that we had to put antifreeze in there before we could move forward.
Evidently people who don’t put antifreeze in their cars are not responsible enough to be parents?
Around six o’clock this morning, I was sleeping peacefully, when I suddenly heard Shrike not mumble, not shout, but state emphatically, “I’m mad, God damn it.”
My first thought (after “Did I dream that?”) was “What did I do?” then I wondered if BigGaloot had done something to her, then I realized that she was sound asleep.
I had to know.
So, I asked, “Honey, what’s wrong. Who are you mad at? What happened?”
Sometimes, I will get answers that also come from the depths of her subconsious, before she wakes enough to start making sense.
This time, silence. Then a giggle, as she woke up and realized what she’d done.
It seems she’d been dreaming that we were at the beach with her extended family and they all decided to leave and come home without telling us.
Evidently, she wasn’t happy about it.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had this recurring dream – well, I have a variety of recurring dreams, but I’m only talking about one right now.
In these dreams, I need to pee, but can’t find an acceptable place to do so.
Every bathroom that I find either has insufficient privacy, or it’s all gross, or it’s occupied or something else is wrong with it.
Invariably, when I wake up, I realize that I really do have to pee.
I figure it’s my subconscious mind’s way of reacting to the sensation of needing to pee, but then putting on the brakes because, even subconsiously, it knows it can’t let me actually pee in the bed.
So, why in the hell would I be telling all the interwebs about these crazy dreams?
(Although, they’re not so crazy, are they? I mean, doesn’t everybody have these dreams?)
Anyway, the reason I’m oversharing is that I just had to write about the novel variation on this theme that I experienced this morning.
In this dream, I did need to pee, but instead of being unable to find an acceptable toilet, I kept being thwarted, in one way or another, from doing a home pregnancy test.
First, I dreamed that I took a test that developed three lines instead of two, so I wasn’t sure if that was a positive or not, and I wanted to retest to confirm.
I don’t remember all the specifics, it being a dream and all, but one thing after another kept stopping me from doing the second test.
Man, if my waking obsession with baby making is going to intrude my dreams, couldn’t it be something more fun, like that one I had last cycle, about feeding the cute little baby boy that I hadn’t had yet?
When I stopped at my RE’s office this morning to have my blood drawn for the “official” pregnancy test, I ‘fessed up to the girl taking it that I’d “cheated” and done a home test yesterday, which was negative.
When my nurse finally called, around 3 pm, with the results, I asked her “Did the girl who stuck me rat me out?” and proceeded to tell her that I’d already tested, “So, I guess you’re just calling to confirm what I already know.”
“Well,” she said, “The thing is . . . .”
It seems that my HCG level is “really, really low” (14.5, I believe, is what she said) but still technically in the positive range (above 5) – but too low to have had enough in my urine for the pee stick to pick up.
According to Dr. Google, “At 15 DPO, the average HCG level is 59 mIU/ml, with a typical range of 17-147 mIU/ml.”
I asked if it was possible that it was remnants of the triggering shot and she said that it would not still be around at this point (16 days after the shot).
Of course, my next questions was, “What are the chances that this ends well?”
She said “It’s been known to happen. Occassionally numbers that start that low end up as a viable pregnancy. But not usually.”
So, the verdict (such as it is) is that little Zippy the Zygote evidently did get made, and evidently did implant (Dr. Google also tells me that the HCG doesn’t start being produced until implantation), but either something has gone wrong or is in the process of going wrong.
(Most likely, of course, because something was very wrong with Zippy to begin with.)
So, I will have another blood test on Monday, to find out if the number goes up or down – and how much. What we’d like very much to see is for it to at least double by then (and continue to double every couple of days), but no one is expecting that.
If it goes down, we know that it’s over and if it only goes up a bit, well, hell, I don’t know exactly what that means, but it’s definitely not a good sign.
In the meantime, she said to be “cautiously optimistic,” but I’m a lot more cautious than I am optimistic. I’m going on the assumption that we’re just delaying the confirmation of the “no.”
She also said to continue to “behave as if” until we know otherwise, for sure.
“So,” I asked, “In other words, I can’t go out and get drunk tonight, like I’d planned?”
“That’s right. And keep taking the prometrium.”
At some point in the conversation, she said, “Leave it to me to give you half-assed answer.”
To which I replied, “And leave it to me to have a million more questions.”
While I certainly hope that we’ll be very pleasantly surprised on Monday, I’m really not holding out any hope that we will. If that distinction makes sense.
It’s all a
wierd weird kind of feeling, which I’m still trying to process.
First, I’m still glad that we tested yesterday, because Shrike and I were able to be together, and because I was able to be “present” at work today, which I really needed to do.
Also, because having already seen the negative test, this “non-news” was actually better news than I’d expected, rather than just being bad news.
Mostly, I’m really, really, really glad that the pee stick didn’t pick up that tiny bit of HCG, though. Today’s call would have been totally different if it had come on the heels of a positive home test, rather than a negative one.
And, if something had to go wrong, I’m so glad that it happened before I found out that anything was going right, not after or – God forbid – well after.
As to what I’m feeling now, while there’s still the teeny-tiny glimmer of hope, it’s awful teeny-tiny and it’s awful dim, and I’m going on the assumption that Zippy is no more, and my HCG levels are on their way back down to the “negative” range.
On the one hand, the thought that Zippy actually was for a few days, and now isn’t is kind of sadder than the thought that Zippy was a figment of my imagination all along, but on the other hand, I’m taking it as a good sign that we were able to make a Zippy at all.
Regardless of how this cycle turns out (and we’re pretty sure we know how it turns out), the fact is that – on our first attempt – I did conceive and, however briefly, I was pregnant.
(Albeit, mostly like a “chemical pregnancy” – one that makes it far enough for a positive test, but not far enough to confirm “clinically” with an ultrasound.)
That’s a little freaky to think about, given how surreal and hypothetical is all seems.
Mostly, though, it gives me hope of being able to do it again, with a better outcome.
On a somewhat related note, I had a really vivid dream this morning in which I was feeding and playing with a baby who, evidently, was ours.
It was a boy, somewhere in the six-month-old range, with dark hair and that “Gerber Baby” look about him. He was a very happy little guy, sitting in a highchair and giggling while I fed him. Several unidentified friends were there, and they were passing him around and playing with him, too.
Later, I was in a hospital bed. I wasn’t sick or anything, but we were talking about what it would be like later, when I was in labor because, although I was holding the baby, and he was several months old, I hadn’t actually had him yet. That was wierd.
I certainly don’t think there was any “meaning” to it, other than the fact that I’m thinking about babies alot, but I thought I’d share, because it really struck me how vivid it was and how I could see exactly what he looked like and everything. And because the ending was kind of bizarre.