Friday, 30 November 2012

Myrtle's Shower

Two weeks after our RE appointment I was on a red eye flight to attend Myrtle’s baby shower. I couldn’t sleep well as my bladder felt like it was about to burst, but I had to hold it to preserve the concentration of my first morning urine. Finally, I made it off the plane, peed on the stick and waited eight minutes for my fertility monitor to inform me that I was at my peak fertility -four days earlier than previous cycles. I'm convinced my ovaries are sadistic little bitches. Maybe they've felt under-appreciated for so many years, and now they're getting their revenge by fucking with me. We had a quickie literally right before I left for the airport last night -it is amazing how the procreation process just kills all romance. Was that close enough? Will it be too late when I get back tomorrow? I can't help to wonder why my cycles seem to be centred on when one of us is travelling. It seems as if my hypopituitary axis has been copied into our Google calendar. Maybe this really is a bad idea any my brain is actually acting in a protective capacity. I barely had enough time to consider these questions as a queue of angry women were waiting for the stall and I was holding up Myrtle’s husband who was gracious to pick me up at 7 AM.

Myrtle greeted me at the door when we arrived and annoyingly looked fantastic nearly eight months pregnant. I was secretly hoping she would be ginormus and I would have at least one reason to feel satisfied about not being pregnant. I adopted the delusional notion that my athletic frame and frequent exercise would allow me to look great while pregnant, while Myrtle was already slightly frumpy and had already gained all her recommended pregnancy weight and yet looked amazing. Again, if I weren’t jealous enough already. It was satisfying to hear Myrtle tell me that I was looking thinner after recently running a half marathon, but I was reminded that she can loose her bump and look like me, but I may never look like her. The conversation shifted to our plight and upcoming voyage to the homeland. "So are you going to try to conceive in England?" she pressed once again. I started screaming inside my head, yet again. "Actually Myrtle, I'm due to ovulate tonight." "That's great!" she replied to my astonishment "You have five days to try!" How the fuck did she get pregnant when she knows nothing! I asked myself whilst answering at the same time. "No Myrtle. I have 24 hours." She offered the sexual services of her husband. I laughed, as it seemed like she was finally starting to understand.

I filled her in on the details of my visit with Dr. Somebody I Used to Know and his recommendations. "I still think you'll conceive on your own" she told me based on some type of logic that is unknown to me. I know she was just trying to be helpful and optimistic, but I couldn’t help read into her blind faith. Is it somehow implying that spontaneous conception is superior to an assisted pregnancy? Well, it is cheaper, much more private and more natural, so I would agree on that one, but does it give such pregnancy an asterisk? Would I still carry the feelings of failure if I couldn’t do it on my own?

Spending the weekend with Myrtle and her husband has called my jealousy into check and reminded me that the grass is not always greener on the other side. Myrtle expressed her concerns about balancing motherhood and work and her partner’s readiness to embrace the roles and responsibilities of parenting. I got the impression that while not wanting to go through the infertility uncertainty that we are facing, he wouldn’t have minded if it took them longer to conceive. For the first time, I started to appreciate what I have gained during this process, and I could even feel a little smug; my husband is willing to wank in a cup so we can have a child, how’s THAT for commitment! My mission was accomplished as Myrtle judged her shower to be a success. "I know in my heart that I'll be throwing such an event for you soon" she told me as I left for the airport. I started to protest that I don't want a shower, but I know it’s not worth wasting any energy on a hypothetical situation. I know she is only trying to be positive, but it’s actually annoying when she keeps insisting that I will get pregnant. They are only words, and they don’t mean anything.

"You Don't Have a Diagnosis..."

A month later, Husband repeats his semen analysis to see if maybe he was just having a bad sperm day. The concentration was a little higher at 16 million and his volume was enough to evaluate for morphology, which unfortunately showed only 1% normal types. His results place him in the category of having moderate male factor infertility. The urologist tells him spontaneous conception is possible, but given our ages, we shouldn't wait too long before seeking assistance. It makes me now realise that it will take longer to happen, may require assistance or may not happen at all.

Against my better judgement, I decided to share this information by texting Myrtle. Her response was astonishing. "Fuck not wanting to conceive at your in-laws and have sex in England." I don't think I can begin to explain how infuriating this message was to read. I know it's had to find the right words to say in this situation. I didn’t quite know how to console my partner who was likely feeling responsible and a bit emasculated. She completely dismissed the fact that we have a significant obstacle in our path to parenthood and annoyingly is still insisting that a change of venue will have an impact. As if it were really that easy. That a get-away can fix our flawed gametes and unlock our fertility potential. I didn't respond to her, as I really wanted to write: 'Do you know what that the reality is Myrtle? You got lucky. For someone your age to conceive so quickly and have a healthy pregnancy on the first try is really the exception rather than the norm, so please do not think that you have any wisdom to share with me.'

We decided to seek advice from someone with such wisdom and met with a reproductive specialist, who bears a striking resemblance to a guy I once dated. As if the process of discussing your menstrual cycles and sex life with a stranger who is transvaginally ultrasounding you isn't awkward enough. He's optimistic and tells us that we actually don't have a diagnosis of infertility just yet, but offers the conflicting options of continuing on our own, trying intrauterine insemination, or starting the process for IVF. The latter, he thinks we have a good shot at, "forty percent" he quotes. I start to wonder if there is any other situation where a 60% failure rate is considered 'good'.

Wednesday, 28 November 2012


“Let’s be honest. Sometimes there is nothing harder in life than being happy for somebody else. Like lottery winners, or extremely successful people who are twenty-seven. Then there’s that hell on earth that only your closest friends can inflict on you. The Baby Shower” Carrie Bradshaw's narration opens one of my all time favourite episodes of Sex and the City. “The Baby Shower” aired near the end of the first season. This episode masterfully captured the way many women feel about attending baby showers, many women’s conflicting feelings about embracing motherhood while fearing they are loosing their own identity, and an unusual take on a childhood fairytale. Miranda: “Maybe it’s the wisdom of age, but the witch in Hansel and Gretel is very misunderstood. I mean, the woman builds her dream house in the forest and these brats come by and start eating it..."

I’ve never been a fan of bridal or baby showers. When I got married 6 years ago the feminist in me was outraged at the idea of putting together a registry. I was a successful thirty year old woman with her own furnished apartment. Why was I now eligible for a toaster or blender just because I was getting married? We asked for contributions to our honeymoon in Australia instead. While we did have a fabulous trip Down Under, I now look at the fact that I still have the same pots and pans that I used when I was in college, and sometimes wish that I registered for a few upgrades. I refused to have a bridal shower and even if I do ever get pregnant, I have no intention of letting anyone plan a baby shower. As noted above, I don’t want to subject anyone to that hell, most especially, myself. I do understand that for women who have planned, hosted and attended many bridal or baby showers, they’ve been looking forward to that time when it’s their turn to be the guest of honour. It's viewed as a quid-pro-quo.

Myrtle was one of those women. However, one of the disadvantages of marrying at and older age, is that many friends are too busy with their small children to be able to host a shower. She was fretting that she had no one local to her that she could ask to host a shower. I knew it was important to Myrtle to have this event, so I offered to plan it for her –from the other side of the country. One of her college friends offered to hold the shower at her sizable house. I had to coordinate the invites, games, guest book and favours. In all honesty, I was happy to do this for her, and I do confess I was hoping it would earn me some karma points, even though I know that was pretty ridiculous. I had to plan the shower around our England trip, so I argued to have it before I left, when Myrtle was only 32 weeks pregnant and would still feel fairly comfortable. I received an odd response from her mother “I don’t think it matters if we do it later, Myrtle is only going to get chubbier” Um, who refers to a pregnant woman as being chubby? Chubby is someone who indulged too much around the holidays. Chubby happens when you let your gym membership lapse. The girl who goes off to college and gains the ‘Freshman 15’ gets called chubby, not a pregnant woman! I can only hope that she didn’t say this comment directly to the pre-pregnancy self conscious Myrtle. I made a note never to let Myrtle’s mother see me if I ever get pregnant. No one is ever going to refer to me as ‘chubby’.

Tuesday, 27 November 2012

Moving Target and Limited Bullets

After the disappointment following my third Clomid cycle, it was an easy decision to stop it for a while. It's not working anyway, and I was curious to see what my ovaries would do on their own. It was now May, about to be six months since we 'officially' started trying, the call to action point for women over the age of 35. I went back to the ritual of POASing every morning and was surprised when I got my happy face on day 11. Wow, the Clomid may have jump kicked my ovaries into action. Somewhat skeptical of these results, I continued to test and had another happy face on day 15, which was consistent with my Clomid cycles. I figured the first result must have been a fluke, a weird false positive.

Meanwhile, Husband and I had successful coitus on both nights, but also allowed ourselves to be spontaneous. We had sex on the night of my birthday and the night before I left for a trip to Toronto, as that's what we would do if we weren't TTC. It felt like our best efforts to date. Still curious about these multiple happy face results, I had bloodwork done to check my progesterone level one week after each result. The first was on a Friday night, just before I boarded my flight to Toronto and the second was on Tuesday, when I returned. I saw both results at the same time. Friday was 0.4 (indicating no recent ovulation) and Tuesday's result was 6.9, indicating that I ovulated in Toronto. When I was away from my husband. It feels like the Universe is telling us "Hey, you're failing at this already, might as well take you out of the game completely!"

We soon learn that it may not have mattered too much as Husband received his semen analysis and there seems to be a few issues. The volume was low, as was the concentration (14 million). Motility and progression were okay, morphology could not be analyzed. In a weird way, it feels a little comforting to have some kind of explanation, even though this is not the information we wanted to hear. If I could have made a deal with the Universe, I would have asked to not have Husband be the cause. Maybe as women bear so much of the burden with the process of procreation, it seems natural that we want to accept responsibility for infertility. It's easy to look at me and attribute the cause due to my age.

One of my favourite comments about men and fertility comes from a TV show in the early 90s called Homefront. The show followed several WWII veterans who returned home in the 1940s. One goes to the doctor to discuss that his wife is barren, after all, "we've been married six months, and she's not pregnant." Little did the GI know that his English war bride was secretly using a diaphragm. The doctor was not seen on camera, but his voice asked follow up questions regarding the former soldier's performance. "I do my part" he said defensively. "I'm not talking about successful intercourse" explained the doctor, "I'm talking about successful impregnation." "Do you know what sperm are?" He earnestly asked, "Yes! Of course!" sneered the vet, insulted to even be asked such a question. "Good." said the doctor "Then you won't make the mistake of confusing sperm and masculinity. I told this story to Husband, and then asked "would you think that I am less of a woman if I didn't have any eggs?" Yes, he replied. "Seriously?" No, he informed me "I had to say something to counter you as you made a really good point." I remind him that he's not alone in this situation and my irregular cycles aren't helping our situation. Yes, he summarized "Your ovulation is a moving target and I've got a limited supply of bullets..."

Saturday, 24 November 2012

Sometimes, a cramp is just a cramp....

The two week wait has to be one of the greatest mindfucks ever. In the early optimistic months, I would grow excited each day, believing that I would soon discover that I was pregnant. As time progressed, I adapted more of a defensive pessimistic approach, I would prepare for a negative result, hoping to be pleasantly surprised with a BFP. I even tried to tempt fate buying nearly $200 of competitive swimsuits, thinking I wouldn’t be able to wear them for very long. They are now stretched out and faded by chlorine. Even when you anticipate negative results, the sense of hope is still present until the confirmation with a BFN or arrival of AF. I would later discover that the two week wait is much easier when there is no chance of pregnancy, but AF can still find ways to mess with you.

April was our final Clomid cycle and everything seemed to be on track. Smiley faces showed up on the OPKs as scheduled and coitus was successful. Now it was time to wait. Nine days after ovulation I started feeling some mild cramping, which I knew could be signs of implantation. Husband did a google search and found a source that noted for women who don’t usually have any menstrual cramps, (which I don’t) cramping at this time was a strong indicator of implantation and impending pregnancy. It was enough to get us both excited at the possibility that this was going to be it. Our time had come! I almost shared this news with Myrtle, thinking that our pregnancies would overlap. 

At last it was the day of AF’s expected arrival. I was tempted to POAS, but I wanted to wait until I was at least a day or two late and would be more certain to have a positive result. I felt nervous every time I went to the bathroom. I started staring at the toilet tissue, searching for any evidence of spotting. Husband was texting me for updates all day long. I had made it to the end of my workday with no sign of AF! I went back to the bathroom to change for yoga class. This time there was no need to examine toilet tissue. There was no mistaking AF’s arrival. I started to drive to yoga but the tears were rolling down my face by the time I arrived, so I continued driving until I got home. Husband heard my car pull into the driveway and his heart sank. He know exactly what had transpired and why I was home. I hated the fact that I was bearing such disappointing news for him too. I felt so foolish for getting encouraged over cramping. By the time I saw him I was bawling my eyes out. I decided never to go through the drama of waiting for AF again and would start to POAS each morning of AF’s expected arrival. However, I think it was the sight of me as a sobering crying mess that motivated Husband to get himself checked out.

Myrtle's visit

I think that other than running into an ex and his new girlfriend (or possibly wife), the dynamic between a pregnant woman and her infertile friend has to be one of the most awkward. Let’s be honest about what both are feeling (although I only know one side of the relationship) The pregnant woman feels badly for her friend, and wants to find the right words to comfort her; but secretly, she’s relieved that she dodged the infertility bullet. The infertile friend does her best to be supportive, but deep down feels jealous and even a little resentful, especially if her friend conceived very easily or if the pregnancy was unplanned.

Myrtle was coming to visit for a long weekend. We grew up together and since I moved to the other side of the country five years ago, I cherish the time we spend with each other, but I knew this visit would be a bit difficult. I didn’t want to tell her about my situation. I didn’t want to burden her joy or make her feel uncomfortable about sharing details during her special time. She arrived and to remind me once more that life is unfair, looked absolutely great. She had that glow about her and wasn’t even showing and nearly eighteen weeks. As if I wasn’t jealous enough. When the collective conversation turned to us having children, I replied, “I don’t see it happening” which I thought was a succinct answer that would end the conversation. “Why not?” she pressed. Husband came to my support “Well, we’re just so busy right now, we barely have time to ourselves” She wasn’t picking up on any hints “Well, we’re busy and I have a bun in the oven!” she countered. She went on to describe on she was barely paying attention to where she was in her cycle and it didn’t even dawn on her that she could be pregnant until she noticed she was five days late. I was screaming so loudly inside my head, I thought it might explode.

For me, one of the most humbling aspect of infertility was accepting that my experience working in women’s health held no advantages, and I had to get past feeling like a failure on a professional level. So it was all the more infuriating to me that she could get pregnant so quickly and be so seemingly unaware about it. I soon learnt that you can keep any secret from a friend who has known you for thirty plus years. As soon as we were alone, Myrtle shared her observation that I seemed “distant” when she talks about her pregnancy. I divulged my secret and felt an instant sense of relief as I no longer had to conceal my angst. Myrtle was actually a pretty good listener and was very supportive, but then she went to the words that make all infertile women cringe. "Why don't you two take a vacation together? It always seems that babies are conceived from vacation sex" As if a beautiful exotic location has magical powers to enhance fertility. "Well, that's really antidotal and it is really more coincidental that you happen to be ovulating during your trip." I respond with facts that are oblivious to her. She presses on, "It makes sense to conceive on vacation, because you're so relaxed" 

The Relaxation Theory. The mother idea to the vacation notion; this is truly the worst suggestion to give to an infertile couple. Firstly it implies that we are doing something wrong and are some how to blame. That our calculating and ovulation predicting are some how the problem rather that the solution. I can almost feel that I am being mocked, for taking a scientific approach, rather that the 'just let it happen' method, but when you are already failing the Advanced Placed version of conception, it doesn't make sense to go old school. Secondly, it's flawed. It's not as if once you're on a beach with a Mai Tai in hand that your LH surge is triggered and your fallopian tubes open wider and the uterus is any more ready to implant a fertilised egg. "Relaxation isn't really a factor; it has to do with the fact that you are probably having more sex on vacation." I continue to defeat her argument by reminding her that our holiday this year will be going to England to visit with both our parents. Living on the other side of the world means not only no available grandparents for babysitting a potential grandchild, but vacations are consumed with obligatory visits. There will be no relaxation nor sex. I continue to find non-scientific reasons just to defeat her suggestion. "I really wouldn't want to conceive our child in the same house where my husband was conceived. That's kind of creepy."

Friday, 23 November 2012

Friends and Family

Among the many things I’ve learned during this process is that it is much harder to cope with the pregnancy of a close friend or family member than a co-worker, aquaintance or facebook friend. It strikes you in such a different way. Your first response is to be genuinely happy for her, but on the most primitive level, jealousy is an instinctive reaction, she has something you want. For me, Myrtle’s possible pregnancy was the motivation to shift the science into a higher gear. I got one of the doctors I work with to write me a prescription for Clomid. I switched to the easy to read digital ‘smiley face’ OPKs, and had coitus on both days of the positive response –I was back in the game!

I never followed up with Myrtle after her phone call, I figured she would tell me when she was ready. Sure enough a few weeks later I received a text “8 weeks pregnant, saw baby’s heartbeat, feels so surreal!” ‘It sure does!’ was all I could think to write back, adding a note of congratulations. I got a bigger surprise during my two week wait when I met up with my cousin for lunch and she disclosed that she was pregnant. My 41 year old cousin had dealt with infertility for a few years and required IVF to conceive her son, who was born a year and a half ago. Shortly after her son’s first birthday, she had told me that they had decided not to defrost any of their frozen embryos to have a second baby. She explained that although her gynaecologist warned her about the potential for pregnancy after infertility and advised her to use birth control, “we were in Hawaii, and we were so relaxed…” At the time, I wanted to say ‘no, you were just lax about using birth control!’ but now I’m really annoyed that someone who struggled with infertility would pull the “we were relaxed…” line.

As I was thinking that I could potentially be pregnant at that time, I felt bitter with this false sense of entitlement: this was supposed to be my news! As jealous as I was, it pained me to know that this jealousy was shared by my parents. My parents have been desparate for their only child to give them at least one grandchild (they’ve informed me that cats don’t count). A few years back I told them that I wasn’t interested in having children (which was true for that time). I havn’t revealed that I’ve changed my mind for the purposes that I don’t want any additional pressure on us, and I want to give them the surprise of their life if we are able to announce such news. If we come up short at the end of this fertility journey, I can also tell them about our struggles and make them feel guilty for badgering for so many years. Emotional blackmail works both ways! As it turns out, the silver lining after my first failed Clomid cycle was being able to drink wine when my parents were visitng for a week (I had actually gone as far as to get some white grape juice to see if it could pass for wine, as we wouldn’t have been ready to tell my parents as I would have been all of five minutes pregnant). However, my parents changed the details of their trip at the last minute, and decided to visit right during my fertile time. Husband can attest that nothing kills the libido faster than the idea of fornicating with your in-laws in the next room. It was a waste of a Clomid cycle and the last opportunity to have a baby born in 2012, but I was starting to see how insignificant that would be…

And we're off... to a slow start!

Two weeks after the Plan B incident I  Pee On A Stick (POAS) and get a Big Fat Negative (BFN). Little do I know this will become my routine for the next year and beyond. There was a sense of relief, but I wouldn’t have been disappointed if had been positive. Even at that time I had the perpective to know what is important. Yes, seeing the Olympics in your home country is a once in a life time opportunity, but I also know that pregnancy could be as well. It seems that the Plan B was successful in blocking ovulation as Aunt Flo (AF) didn’t arrive for two months. I began to panic that my ovaries weren’t functioning and the day I was scheduled to go in for bloodwork AF arrived. I had the giddiness of an adolescent girl who got her first period. Finally, I felt like we were cleared for takeoff.

It seemed like such a simple plan, have sex every other night during my fertile time and within a few months be pregnant. I should mention that that I am involved in women’s healthcare, although most of my exeperience has been helping women not get pregnant, hence I thought I had this upper hand in this procreation process. I also remembered my mentor telling me how she got pregnant on the first time she tried as she bragged that she knew “exactly what she was doing.” I felt like I had to live up to her record to prove what I had learned from her and had become a successful practitioner in my own right. So we began, night one of bang week –success! Then two nights later I came home and tried to engage Husband. “Okay” he replied, excited about the idea. He then informed me, “it may take a while, I had a wank today”. “WHAT?” I exclaimed! Was I being too sublte by drawing little astricks on our calendar to let him know this was bang week? “You can’t wank during bang week!” Husband claimed ignorance, although he is a scientist, he couldn’t figure out that you shouldn’t waste your emissions when you’re trying to conceive.

As it turned out, we quickly learned that we’re not as young as we were when we met, and the frequent coitus was taking a toll on both of us. (yes, the term ‘coitus’ and phrase ‘bang week’ is a reference to The Big Bang Theory) So ovulation predictor kits seemed to be the next logical step. I was initially resistent to use them, as I always felt it could add more pressure to the act, but now it was seeming like a neccessity. Like any woman who doesn’t know she has fertility problems, I bought the cheap version of the OPK. The simple two lines, one is darker that the other test. Howevere, deciphering the shades of darkness turned out to be more difficult that I thought. I felt like I was at my eye doctor and had to judge ‘better one or better two’. I wasn’t sure if I ever got a positive result.

Meanwhile, one day at work, I get a call from my best friend Myrtle. “How do you read a home pregnancy test?” she asked without any greeting. A bit befuddled, I tried walking her through identifying the control versus the test line. She wasn’t understanding my directions and blurted out “Oh great, so I don’t know if I’m pregnant or not!” Oh boy, are you going to be fun if you are! I suggested she go to her doctor for a blood draw or try a digital home test, but I already knew the results. I knew she was positive. I figured she manipulated her pills to avoid having her period during her honeymoon and conceived on her first or second try. I was immediately happy for her, but I could feel the jealousy start to brew…

Thursday, 22 November 2012


Oh-no…. Daniel Craig was to blame.. So I suppose it seems a little unusal to start an infertility blog with a tale about a pregnancy scare, but that’s how our story began…when I was nieve and thought fertility was mine to command. It was the first time in my career as a sexually active female that I had unprotected sex. I always knew that if I wanted to have children, it would be when I was older and I took precautions right away. Without a boyfriend in high school, I went to the prom solo and looked forward to going off to college with the hope of losing my virginity. I had a sumer job working as a file clerk in a medical office and the week before I left for school I asked the gynaecologist for a prescription for birth control pills. I told him that I had a boyfriend and we had decided we were ready to have sex and that I wanted to be prepared. I’m sure he knew this was a “boyfriend in Canada” situation, as he told me to “make sure he was the right one”. In other words, don’t become a hussy, just because you’re on the pill. As it turned out, I couldn’t give it away. Actually, I’ll revise that, I had a few less than tempting offers. No one I wanted to give it to was interested in receiving.

I faithfully took my pill each day even though there was no reason, and I began to feel a bit pathetic. My roommates also weren’t buying the boyfriend in Canada, so I said I was taking them for my irregular periods. That rouse was provided to me by the college health center nurse practitioner, after I confessed that I was really a hopeful virgin. Oh, the irony that I was lying about having irregular cycles at that time. In many ways taking prenatal vitamins when you’re not pregnant seems like taking birth control pills when you’re not sexually active. When I purchased my first bottle, the clerk at Target exclaimed “Oh, you’re pregnant! Congratulations!” I just smiled and nodded, it felt easier than telling her I was merely trying to conceive. Not usually one who can make small talk with strangers, I quickly changed the subject to the store’s holiday hours before she could ask me any details. I made a note to myself to start using the self-check out or to buy online. When my pregnant best friend Fertile Myrtle (more on her later) visited, she chastised me for not reminding her to take her prenatal vitamin, which made me feel ridiculous that I took mine earlier that day… I am digressing from the real start to this story.

So back when I thought I had it all figured out…I would wait until my friend Myrtle’s wedding before removing my IUD. She had asked me to be a bridesmaid, and I didn't want to have to alter my dress to accomodate a baby bump. Oh, the details I thought were important at that time. There was another logistical issue after Myrtle’s wedding. We had a trip planned to go to England for the Olympics, so we needed to wait a few months so that I wouldn't be in the third trimester and unable to travel at that time. Thus, we would go back to “life in plastic –it’s fantastic!” for a few months, which would also give me opportunity to track my cycles, which had been irregular due to the hormonal effects of my IUD.

Then on day 14 of my first IUD removed cycle, we were sitting at home on a Saturday night with no particular plans. Husband started scrolling through channels and quickly came to Casino Royale. It’s a movie we’ve seen many times, but always feel compelled to watch whenever it is on. Although not one to have any celebrity crushes, I’ve always admired the way Daniel Craig transformed the role of James Bond. So after watching the opening scene, Husband leans over and says in the romantic way you proposition your partner after fifteen years “Wanna do it?” Well, it wasn’t Daniel Craig, but another blond Englishman… so why not. We joked about remembering how to use condoms, or how old they might be (not to worry, I had bought some recently) and minutes later, for the first time in my life, I was dealing with the situation of a broken condom and a possible mistimed pregnancy. I quickly plugged the numbers into my iphone app –the projected due date if we were to conceive would be the date we had booked our flights to England. “Do we chance it or use emergency contraception?” I asked my husband, who quickly agreed to the latter. I concured, but in truth I think I worried a little more what it would mean if we didn’t conceive after having unprotected sex during the peak of my fertile time. So off we went to find a 24 hour pharmacy to purchase a box of Plan B. After procuring the emergency contraception, we caught the late happy hour at a local Mexican restaurant. I quickly ordered us some Margaritas. “Regular or Grande?” asked the perky waitress. “Grande honey, Grande” I replied. Husband cut in, “are you sure it’s okay to drink after taking the meds?” “Oh yes, it makes it work better.” I ad-libbed. We sipped the Margaritas in silence for a few minutes before Husband finally interjected, “We should have just kept watching the movie….” Damn you Daniel Craig.