LISTEN TO THE ARTICLE
I’m 5 weeks as of today, which I think is patently ridiculous. My embryo transfer was March 1, so with our blastocyst being 3 days old when transferred, I know for a fact that this little sesame seed is exactly 24 days or ~3 weeks old. Regardless, every app and site I’m testing out puts me at 5 weeks pregnant, because the medical community gauges from your last missed period. What's neat, though, is that I can manually count 266 days (38 weeks) from February 26, the hypothetical date our little dew drop was conceived, or I can fill out Due Date Trackers and all invariably come out to a due date of November 19, 2023.
My husband, Chris, was on his way to Asda, the grocery store, the other day and checked to see if I wanted anything. I asked him to pick up a pregnancy test, to which he replied, "Why? We already know you're pregnant." And sure, after deliberately implanting our embryo into my uterus and having my blood tested for the specific Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (hCG) levels that would confirm my status, I still wanted to pee on a stick. Luckily, I recalled that I had a test in one of the bathroom storage boxes we'd brought over from America.
After probably no less than one hundred single blue lines, clear bubbles, and Not Pregnants, this was incredibly affirming and cathartic to see:
So far, I haven’t had much in the way of symptoms or morning sickness, apart from random, bone-crushing fatigue. Some of that may be due to being a little anemic, which I’m combatting with mega-doses of iron. And then… everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked. I woke up to our three dogs barking their heads off, which isn’t unusual, but I could have straight defenestrated those little bastards this morning. I’ve always suffered from PMS, and can get very moody, but this was that times 100! These were actual texts I sent to my sweet husband:
One of my best friends, the Good Dr. O, lives in Dalian, China, so he’s usually awake when I want to chat. So, here I am, downstairs in my office justa bitching about these fucking dogs when in walks my beautiful daughter and husband with armfuls of gifts for me. “Happy Mother’s Day!” they exclaim, one hugging me tightly, the other squeezing my thighs. The UK police could not have de-escalated a person so quickly.
I didn’t even realize that it was British Mother’s Day! After the unavoidable tears subsided, I apologized to Chris and told him all about how I was feeling. Growing up, when I would invariably become testy or ornery around that time of the month, my parents and two brothers would immediately wave off whatever I was upset about with a swift, “Oh, you must be on your period.” I love my husband for never once doing this. Just because I’m more vocal or even angry about a situation, doesn’t mean it suddenly loses its validity because I’m bleeding from my vagina. The same held true in this extreme instance.
Later that day, we discussed the sources of my frustration and bought humane, vibrating anti-barking collars for the dogs. Let me tell you, it is already a night and day difference in our home. I am so incredibly lucky to have love in my life that is supportive, attentive, and kind. It would be very easy for him to be dismissive given the state of my hormones, but that’s never been his style, and I'm honored to be able to perpetuate this through our adopted daughter and the new tiny human we're building.