If today weren't Sunday, I'd know already. They're having me tested 12dp3dt, even though the Cornell standard seems to be 11.
Beaker saw some old friends of ours while I was still in New York. He told them where I was, and why. "Have you considered adoption?" the female half asked blithely, and explained that adoption will give her a few extra years before she really needs to worry about the kids thing. I'm so glad I wasn't there.
I went to see Nanna the day before my transfer and told her more about what we were doing—I had to, to explain why I was still in New York. She didn't ask about what the Pope would have thought, and she said she'd pray for us.
I've never done an HPT. Ever. Not even once. I have one in the cupboard now, that came free in a box of OPKs—somehow I missed the big blue "bonus" stickers. I'm not going to use it.
I've spent the day shivering and reading bad novels. Yesterday we went Christmas shopping, mostly for my young nephews. Malls are not good for Beaker's asthma this time of year, and this one somehow had three candle shops and a Bath & Body Works—their stuff chokes even me.
A friend who used her little ovulation detector for a total of 3 cycles on the way to having her two kids pushed hard for me to test myself. "It's always worked for me!"
I've been getting bloodwork done at our tiny local hospital, close enough to walk to and probably about to go bankrupt (hey, at least I don't have to wait in line). Their phlebotomists have left horrible bruises.
Two of my friends are midway through pregnancies that, given their medical circumstances and ages, would have to be described as "miracles." They both have been profoundly kind.
Annajane's birthday was the day after Christmas (Beaker and I always saw his family at Christmas to avoid the associated psychodrama; I was cruel because I wanted to be happy). Nanna has declared that Christmas is cancelled this year. Beaker's family will be celebrating on the 28th, so I may try to get to Weatherwood for the 25th or 26th.
I keep chanting my axioms to myself. It doesn't help. Nor does remembering how dead, how grey, how flat my body and my soul felt after our earlier failures.
It's time to charge the cellphone.