Because they are awesome.
That’s what I’m doing tonight.
Ten to 14 days past ovulation is always an emotionally wearing time. Probably because I’ve already tested, and I know I’m not pregnant. This cycle isn’t any different. It burns every fucking time, and we weren’t even “trying” this cycle. It still fucking burns. I guess I was hoping for a miracle or a lucky break. That’s a laughable notion.
I was going to take another cycle off, and by off I mean try without meds, but I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to delay. I wanted to be pregnant and due in October. I wanted to be pregnant and due in January. Now I just want to be pregnant again. No more delays. No more miscarriages. So, I will take 100 mg of Clomid on cycle days 3-7 while I’m in Nebraska visiting family over the Fourth of July. I will try not to snap at small children and elderly adults, alike. I will try not to abuse alcohol and wallow in an enormous pool of Clomid-induced depression and despair. I will try not to revert to my immature and narcissistic teenage self. I will try to smile and put on a brave face while confronting the fecundity of middle America and fielding intrusive and insensitive questions. I will try.
It is probably going to be a disaster.
But tonight I’m busy wallowing in self-pity that a cycle that I wasn’t even trying for is bust. Another fucking 36 days down the drain. Awesome.
Still no baby. Still no job.
Here’s what I’m up to:
Today is a wash. I’ll try to do better tomorrow.
“Now the flesh arranges itself differently. I’m a cloud, congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am and glows red within its translucent wrapping. Inside it is a space, huge as the sky at night and dark and curved like that, though black-red rather than black. Pinpoints of light swell, sparkle, burst and shrivel within it, countless as stars. Every month there is a moon, gigantic, round heavy, an omen. It transits, pauses, continues on and passes out of sight, and I see despair coming towards me like famine. To feel that empty, again, again. I listen to my heart, wave upon wave, salty and red, continuing on and on, marking time.”
Margaret Atwood, A Handmaid’s Tale