12: percent of women of childbearing age that struggle with infertility.
5-10: percent of women of childbearing age with polycystic ovarian syndrome.
40+: my progesterone level from this last cycle, very supportive, and showing that I ovulated.
3: beautiful, mature follicles visualized in my last ultrasound before triggering.
10: days since my IUI.
4: pregnancy tests I have taken this cycle even though I knew better.
15-25: estimated percent chance of this cycle resulting in a pregnancy.
7: medicated cycles.
250: milligrams of Clomid.
87.5: milligrams of Femara.
31: approximate number of injections I’ve given myself.
2: cycles I’ve actually been able to trigger.
5: conversations we’ve had with our RE, Dr. D.
452: days since we started trying to conceive.
270: days since I was diagnosed with PCOS.
6: bright red blood drops that I’m pretty sure indicate the beginning of menses today.
8: tears that slipped down my cheeks in silence as I tried not to cry.
Infinite: Seemingly, the number of prayers I’ve prayed to be pregnant. The number of guilty thoughts because I can’t give my husband the baby he so much wants. The number of times my husband has had to reassure me that he loves me and that this isn’t my fault. The supply of tears I have to cry over infertility. The number of disappointments. The cracks in my heart.
0: successful pregnancies, ever.
Even staring at all these numbers, there is only a sense of disbelief. This was supposed to be the cycle. Everything looked so perfect. I had the IUI. I knew that the odds were against me, but I was so hopeful, so sure it would work this time. I can’t bring myself to call the RE’s office, since part of me still wants to think, oh, maybe it’s implantation bleeding, maybe, even though I know deep down this is denial, a coping mechanism. Again, though, I am sitting, numb, too shocked yet to really feel the pain I know is coming when everything really starts, probably later today, and I become at that point 100% certain that this cycle failed.