I thought about putting an inspirational infertility quote here, but instead I'll share that once I got out of a moving vehicle while on Clomid. I was hormonal, enraged and hulking out. I was a lurched animal in a cage.  Once I escaped, I walked for blocks while my husband slowly drove next to me. Eventually I cried it out, calmed down, and finally got back in the car. He never mentioned it again.

Pavlov's Wife

I’m ugly crying in public.

Seriously I’m in tears, on the verge of hyperventilating, in a coffee shop, and one hundred percent making the people around me feel extremely uncomfortable. I just looked up and made full-blown eye contact with a dude as I wiped my nose on my hoodie sleeve.

I have my hood up, trying to keep my head down. I’m working hard at not looking at the innocent bystanders who just witnessed me aggressively whisper-yell at my husband for 20 minutes.

Let me rewind a bit and give you the back story to this public meltdown.

I have no room left in my ass for these progesterone and oil injections. I NEVER thought in a million years I’d say that my butt isn’t big enough, but in this case, it isn’t. No matter what I do; ice, heating pad, lunges, squats, massage, nothing is breaking up these oil knots. The oil is getting trapped in my muscle and building up into these painful masses. They’re like small boulders, topped with sexy black bruises, making it difficult to sleep or sit comfortably.

The actual needle, despite being an inch and a half long, hasn’t been the painful part. Michael always finds the best spot and counts down from three. I take a deep breath and then breathe out slowly while he pushes the oil into my muscle, and we’re done.

Well, now that my ass has decided to start a rock collection, the needle itself is incredibly painful. And, thanks to the bruising, I’m now a bleeder. These pathetic little Hello Kitty bandaids we thought were so cute, are no longer doing the job. We’re now jamming gauze onto the injection site, but blood and oil are still running down my leg.

As much as I don’t want to blame my husband for inflicting this pain on me; the resentment is creeping in. Rationally I know that I agreed to this. He in no way pushed me to do IVF or progesterone injections. And, I physically can’t do the shots myself. He literally has no choice. He has to give them to me every night between 9pm and 10pm.

Because the shots have become increasingly painful, I’m now obsessively worrying about them all day. I used to put Mickey to bed around 8:00 and enjoy my time alone, watching some bullshit reality tv or scrolling through Instagram before Michael gets home. Now when I put her to bed, it means it’s getting closer and closer to the time I dread all day long.

I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, expect I’m not salivating, I’m trembling. When I hear Michael’s car pull into the driveway, my palms start to sweat. I have been conditioned to feel panic when I see my husband’s face at the end of the day. That can’t be ideal for our relationship.

So as much as I try to fight this classical conditioning, I was now dreading seeing my husband.

I’ve communicated none of this to him, so he’s completely in the dark when it comes to my emotional outbursts and erratic behavior. Dude is just trying to get through the day without stepping on a landmine. Little does he know, him just being in my presence, IS the landmine.

I’m bloated, sick to my stomach, throwing up at almost every smell, cranky, hormonal, and now my ass hurts. So Michael is literally walking on egg shells 24 hours a day. This brings me to my pubic meltdown.

I told him I was going to go write at The Abbey, a coffee shop two blocks from our shop. I was mid blog post about struggling to bond with my daughter, when all of the sudden, with no warning, I was face to face with own personal neutral stimulus; Michael. My conditioned response is panic, so immediately my adrenaline started to rush and I became extremely hostile.

He had a cancellation, and thought it would be nice to stop by for a coffee and some conversation with his wife. Unfortunately, he wasn’t met with the same sentiment. I was angry. I felt attacked. Why would he surprise me? What was his ulterior motive? Something was up.

I started interrogating him like a fucking 1920’s gumshoe. I needed to know why he was there, how long he was planning on staying, if he expected me to stop writing, if he thought I was going to talk to him the entire time, etc.

He stared at me, afraid to move. “I just wanted to come see you.”

This is when the water works began. What was I doing? I was making him feel bad for wanting to spend time with me. Why was I such a bitch? He got up, slowly, and made his way to the counter to place his order; to-go. When he returned to the table, to say goodbye, I begged him to stay. I felt horrible. I told him 20 times that I was hormonal and really didn’t hate him. To which of course, he replied that it was all okay.

It dawned on me that I was taking all of my shit out on him because he’s the only person who would take it. I never thought to ask him how he’s doing or how he’s feeling. Yes, my body and mind are the ones that are highjacked at the moment, but I'm sure this isn’t easy on him either. How could I be such a selfish partner? It was time for me to turn things around.

I told him to stay and that I wanted to spend time with him. In fact, I missed him.I could see the relief on his face. For a moment, he saw a glimpse of the kind and caring best friend who loves him so much.

And then he opened one of the stinkiest foods, a fucking yogurt.

I dramatically jumped up from the table, dry heaved and gritted my teeth, “You need to leave. Now. I will puke on you and everyone in here. LEAVE.”

Unlike Pavlov’s dogs, hopefully it will only take Michael one time to be conditioned to never open a yogurt in the presence of a t-rex, ever again.


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PSA

An entire bag of hot sauce pretzels was consumed during the making of this blog.