Leaving the fertility clinic was another awkward experience to add to the list. I was leaving a little sticky (thanks for all the extra lube!), and with an entire Sunday stretched out in front of me, and two weeks after that. Two weeks sounds like nothing after waiting years to begin really trying to become a mother, but felt like an eon when I was staring it down, waiting to see if two weeks was going to change my life or not.

Breakfast with my parents following my IUI (intrauterine insemination) was nothing short of hilarious. Imagine sitting at a table with the two individuals that gave you life. If you’re married, people entertain vague thoughts about what you’ve done to try and get pregnant (in TTC lingo people even call it “baby dancing,” which is cute, but doesn’t sound nearly naked enough considering what it is). It’s known, it’s assumed, but no one talks about it.

When you’re single, and you’ve just had another woman between your legs with a speculum, catheter and purchased sperm, there is nothing vague or mysterious about what’s just happened.

“I have sperm inside of me right now. This is so weird.”

“Should I give them a pep talk? Swim like Michael Phelps, boys!”

“What if I’m getting pregnant right now? Am I going to have to tell the baby they were conceived somewhere between the doctor’s office and pancakes at Perkins?”

Then there’s the tried and true… “How do you want your eggs? Fertilized.” (This didn’t happen – I don’t like eggs, but I read that joke and wished that I had at the time, because I love a terrible pun, even now.)

I spent the rest of Sunday relaxing, convinced that too much walking around or activity would have gravity pulling all of my expensive sperm off course and away from their mission. The first week at work was relatively simple, and I tried to keep myself busy thinking about anything other than the waiting game. After all, no one gets pregnant after their first IUI. I would wait, take a test, get my period, and soldier on to the next month.

The start of the second week was a different story. After a lightheaded spell on a particularly warm Wisconsin Saturday at our local farmer’s market, my mother was convinced I was pregnant. I laughed it off, and told her she was crazy, but it made the next few days difficult, and I had a hard time fo using on anything else. Dr. Google and search terms around IUI success symptoms, PMS symptoms during IUI and the like filled most of my hours.

Then the cramping started, the tell-tale ache that for my entire life had meant shark week was upon me. I was convinced my period was coming, that the first IUI was going to be for practice, writing it off completely. Even with Clomid (which I’d taken because I didn’t have a measurable ovulation the month before – although in hind sight I think I just tested late and missed it), it was going to be a bust, and I was happy that I’d purchased three vials of sperm at the same time.

After a few restless nights, I finally caved 11 days post-IUI. I couldn’t sleep, I was having cramps, and my birthday was two days later. I wanted to take a test, confirm that it was negative so that I could take a deep breath and prepare for the next month. I wanted to have a rare, celebratory drink on my birthday, and I wanted to relax over the weekend. It was going to be negative.

I grabbed one of the pregnant tests I’d purchased in anticipation, and then waited. Taking the first pregnancy test I’d ever taken in my life, setting the timer on my phone and yawning, wanting to try and go back to sleep before work, since my anxiety would be gone.

After all, no one gets pregnant after their first IUI.

Thursday, September 21st, just before 4:00 a.m.