Mystery of the Missing Menses

In a nutshell, my reproductive history can be likened to a piece of string:

* Tied the knot

* Learnt the ropes (twice)

* Got horribly tangled up

* Snipped the strings (courtesy of Mr Me)

If you follow, you'll understand that I am not a candidate for contraception. Be that as it may, I have been treating PCOS with the pill for about 2 years. Three months ago, I changed pills to one with a lower dose hormone as there is a history of breast cancer in my family, and lower estrogen intake is recommended in that regard.

My first cycle on the new pill was quite exciting. The PMS that arrived two days before my period was sent to test my resolve. More accurately, it was sent to test how much resolve I had NOT to actually act on the impulse to gouge out my husband's eyeballs with a rusty teaspoon, hammer chillies into his nostrils or shove a pineapple into an intimate orifice of his. (I was mulling these things over a salad, apparently). Apart from a few demon hours were my hair caught on fire and I danced naked around a bubbling cauldron for a bit, the first cycle was uneventful.

Cycle two was earmarked with lower back pain out of the middle ages - you know the kind that the donkeys got from drawing the carts laden with dead bodies through the muddy alleys (yes, I know, too much Monty Python). But it too was less than remarkable.

And cycle three? Well. Cycle three wasn't. My week came and went. No period. Period.

So, I hear what you're saying - you're saying "Couldn't you be? Just maybe? Just a little bit?"

I say "No."

Thing is, for me to be pregnant, it would have to be by immaculate conception (why is The Immaculate Conception even called that? Was it a neat and tidy incident?). The sperm, for one, would have to be completely phenomenal. For a start, it would have to have a titanium helmet with an all-purpose drill bit attached to the top to get out of his sealed off nursery. Then he'd have to be able to bungy jump the vast chasm of missing vas deferens to enter a viable propulsion chamber. After ejaculation, that mighty sperm amongst sperm would need to be smeared with anti-cervical plug lubricant as well as be equipped with elusive ovum detecting abilities. In fact, the latter would have to be so good that that little Wonder Sperm would need to find a non-existant egg to fertilise. Furthermore, that dedicated bit of flagellated DNA would need to defy the laws of nature that require suitable womb-lining for implantation, and bury its sweet prize in rock hard, dry endometrium.

All of this would, of course, be a bit like an inmate escaping Alcatraz with only a teaspoon and a packet of Cup-A-Soup, gate-crashing a party at Hugh Heffner's place, only to find out that the guests have already gone, and that all they left behind was a blow-up doll which our stalwart escapee persuades to take him home home to meet her parents, sleep with him and make him a full English breakfast the next morning. Unlikely.

So really, if I were pregnant after all that, the child I carried would have to be named Jesus (gender irrelevant) out of some reverence but mostly surprise. We would probably use the handy abbreviation: OMG! when labeling lunch-boxes and sports clobber (exclamation mark optional).

PS. I did a home pregnancy test at about 2pm this afternoon - just to make sure that the second coming was not going to happen on my watch. Results were negative, as I had suspected. But just to be on the safe side I have gone back to check it every hour or so hence.

PPS. While part of me thinks that being the mother of God could have some awesome kick-backs, the other part of me is grateful for the one line apparent in that test kit window.

PPPS. Note to self: Phone doctor at earliest convenience to find out what in heaven's name is going on with my girl bits.