Today, I hit a
wall. What was once a pronouncement of my emotional stability, foresight and
some apparent measure of self-care – “I will take a beak! I am going on
vacation!” – is now a possibility that fills me with terror.
In
the car with C this morning, on our way to the RE’s office for a
what’s-next-if-I’m-not-pregnant appointment, I found myself asking C about
adoption – leap frogging, without explanation, right over two more medicated
IUI cycles and who-knows-what IVF. Soon, C was sputtering, admitting that he’s
not yet ready to confront the possibility that the prospect of having a child
might be put off by years and tangled up in bureaucracy and money we don’t
have. And then, meeting with the RE, there was C, conceding that he also has a
psychological block when it comes to IVF – he’s just not there yet. Which led
him to casually suggest that hey, why not DO
AS MANY CYCLES OF IUI AS POSSIBLE FOREVER
AND EVER, AMEN. To which the RE kindly read my mind replied, THE LADY WILL HAVE NONE OF THAT PLEASE AND THANK YOU. And I, possibly,
maybe, just barely, gave sweet C one of those half-smile-trying-to-look-unfazed
looks like, don’t you think we could have discussed this earlier? Ahem.
Here’s
the thing: we usually emerge from the RE’s office plan-in-hand. Despite the
possibility that plan foretells – still not
pregnant – having it in my possession is deceptively empowering. Because I’m a controlling
maniac sort-of-Type-A person, I embrace structure and certainty – or at least
as much as I can get in the world of unpredictable infertility.
And
yet, despite my ostensible insight into my own needs, we didn’t make a decision
today. We didn’t plan the next cycle. We told the nurse of our vacation plans
and we vaguely considered the dear-god-spare-me number of days of birth control
that could keep things at bay while we’re hiking and gallivanting with friends across
California next month. But despite my best intentions; despite my stoic
affirmations and belief that having said it out loud would make it easier to
do, I sit here having neither chosen to barrel ahead nor having given in to
taking a break. In fact, I feel rather paralyzed; incredulous that we are here.
In our fourth medicated cycle. More than ten years after we first started
dating. More than one year after we first started trying.
But
here we are, and here I am, weighed down with apprehension and insecurity. I’m
not exactly sure what I want. I couldn’t be happier that we’re getting away,
seeing close friends who we adore, and spending time outside instead of
handcuffed to a keyboard. But at the same time, I’m deeply aware of the
possibility that another needs-to-be-timed-for-right-now IUI cycle could have me resenting this adventure. I don’t
want that. But I also don’t want this feeling. This uneasy in between, the
foreboding and anxiety that has me biting my cuticles to the quick. I may just
crawl into a cocoon until my beta next Friday. Please excuse me.
