The beginning of this inane tale can be found here.
OK, so there we are, bouncing around the back roads of coastal Maine. Mr Kish was doing his best to look all concerned and serious about the fate of our last chance, EVER, at reproduction. I, on the other hand, was spiraling deeper and deeper into a clomid-induced hysteria.
Plus, I was starting to bloat. A lot. Clomid sucked.
In a stroke of genius fueled by a combination of massive hormonal overload and the pain of my bionic ovulation, I screamed: "PULL OVER. WE NEED TO HAVE SEX RIGHT NOW."
Now, bear in mind, this was NOT the amorous purring of a loving newlywed. My request had all the romance of a hostage negotiation. And, quite frankly, I think Mr Kish was too scared of me and my hormones to do anything but obey.
While we were now a safe distance from The Boss and The Really Small Cabin, we still had some logistical challenges to overcome. Our car was a flashy, but small, Acura Integra with an almost non-existent backseat. Under normal circumstances, the backseat might have presented a kinky acrobatic exercise. I was in no mood for kinky though, and my rapidly expanding abdomen needed the delicate touch one usually reserves for hothouse flowers or neurosurgery. The backseat was out.
We kept driving and eventually stumbled onto one of those tourist-trap towns that coastal Maine is famous for. Brimming with seafood restaurants, outlet stores, and motels.
MOTELS!!
The next phase of Operation BB was now underway.
Mr Kish pulled a Dukes-of Hazard-worthy u-turn and screeched to a stop in the gravel parking lot of the first motel we passed. For some reason, the only part of my brain that was not completely hijacked by thoughts of reproduction was the part the was always trying to save a buck.
"Ask if they have hourly rates", I screamed out the window to Mr Kish as he was walking toward the motel office.
Ed. note: Mr. Kish just now told me that he never really asked that question. Chicken!
He emerged a moment later informing me that they did not have hourly rates (stinkin' liar!!), but that the daily rate was $60. Still thinking we could find a better deal (we only needed 20-minutes for christ's sake. 15 if I didn't take my clothes off) I insisted we try someplace else. Off we went. The cycle was repeated at the next 2 motels until Mr Kish finally put his foot down and came out with a room key and a receipt for a full-night's stay.
In we went, leaving everything but my purse locked in the car. As soon as I set my purse down on the nightstand, I remembered about the egg whites.
Yes. Egg whites.
I'll spare you the graphic details -- you can click here if you're interested.
For those of you too afraid to click, the long and the short of it is that clomid has some unfortunate side-effects. One of those side effects is very counter-productive to its stated goal of enhancing one's fertility. After spending some time trolling around on infertility message boards, I learned that egg whites are an effective substitute for what is frequently, um, dried up, following clomid use.
Oh dear God. Yes, I put egg whites in my vagina. Before sex. OK? But I swear, I am not the lone freak to try this. Everyone on clomid does it. Really. Google it.
As weird as it seemed, I was determined to do anything to get pregnant and avoid another round of clomid. Fortunately, I remembered about the egg whites before my shoes were even off. I grabbed my purse and we headed out to find a supermarket.
Thank goodness we weren't paying the hourly rates.
So there we were in the dairy section of a supermarket in Maine. Trying to decide which brand of eggs was best-suited for our little project. Now, aside from the sheer weirdness of putting raw eggs in the entirely wrong end of my body, I was also worried about contracting salmonella. Imagine my delight then, when I saw the carton of pasteurized egg whites!! It was like winning a jackpot: salmonella-free AND pre-separated.
It was all the aphrodisiac I needed.
We practically skipped back to our motel, giggling at our good-fortune. Pre-separated, pasteurized egg whites!! Whoop! Once we were back at the hotel, Mr Kish got busy pulling back the bed spread and I opened the carton 'o fertile goodness.
My delight came to a screeching halt as soon as I touched the egg whites.
They were not slimy or gooey the way real egg whites are supposed to be. They were watery and felt entirely UN-fertile. I cried, once again panicking about the looming demise of my egg, and sent Mr Kish back to the grocery store for real eggs. Salmonella be damned. I was NOT taking clomid again.
I watched the Drew Carey Show while I waited for Mr Kish to come back with the goods. To this day, I still get a little wistful when someone mentions Cleveland.
Mr Kish arrived back with a dozen eggs and watched, bemused, as I frantically began separating them into the plastic-wrapped, disposable cups provided by the motel. It took a few tries, but I got a cup full of egg whites and we finally, you know, did it!! We weren't paying by the hour (Mr Kish is such a liar!) so we hung out for a while with my legs in the air, hoping to give the little swimmers every possible advantage.
The rest, as they say, is history. And, for the record, I only took 12 pregnancy tests that time.
I will forever wonder what the motel staff thought when they entered that room the next day and saw a carton of pasteurized egg whites, 8 untouched eggs, and a garbage can full of egg shells.
