Can't Get it Right

Here I sit in the glow of the laptop on a dreary Friday morning. I'm listening to the gentle rain on the tree outside and wondering just exactly what my place is in this world. It doesn't seem to me that "Mother" is one of the hats I will wear this time around.

I realize I should probably write entries that are shorter but more up-to-the-minute on my medical situation. Thing is, I keep hoping against hope that there will eventually be some good news to report at the end of it all. So I wait for a day, then another, then it's just half a day before I get the blood results and talk with my caseworker then before you know it it's Friday and everyone suspects I'm dead or have fled to Rio to escape my barren womb. Yes I know I cannot escape an actual part of my body, it was metaphorical, doofus.

You can also add to the above the fact that I could play for the Olympic Standing There Team and you basically have the wonder that is Me. Sorry.

Allow me to recap: One week ago today, I was merrily living my life as a woman who may or may not be pregnant. I was taking my folic acid, resting, no heavy lifting etc. And I was busy trying to find things to eat and drink that didn't run in direct opposition to my rampant nausea. The biggest worry I had one week ago was whether I was having one, two or three children.

Then came Saturday morning.

Blood clots, calls to the infertility department (who don't answer the damn phone on the weekends because they have a skeleton staff and I place the blame for my infirm mental state squarely on the shoulders of governments past and present) and early preparations for travel to the hospital. Again. Eventually Melanie called back and vagued up the situation in that way nurses do when they're only returning a call so I don't call back on Monday and rat out the weekend staff. The one thing she allowed me to do was move up the date of my blood test two days to last Tuesday. Yay. At that point I was pretty much resigned to what the results would be even though my Mom gets an award for being all peppy and optimistic about the outcome.

Mom popped by on Monday to drop off steaks and strawberry-rhubarb pie from my BIL's missed birthday party the day before. It also gave us time to chat over tea and sweets; lots of stories about women who came before and their bleeding spells and the babies they ultimately had. She was so earnest about her belief in the success of the cycle, it was like all this positive energy washing over me; it even served to change my mind the tiniest bit.

Sadly, I was right all along.

And now I'm being pushed to 'talk to someone'. Everyone seems to think I need to be counseled or allowed to vent or...something. I can't imagine what I would say to be honest. The only thing I want to hear now is why my useless body won't do the one thing for which it was apparently created. I want science, biology, endocrinology. I want a job to distract me until it's time to start another cycle in June. I want local friends who will offer me literal shoulders (even though the virtual aid I've been getting from my many touchstones has been invaluable. I thank you all for your comments and your support, it means the world to me).

I would also like to know why, almost a week later, I'm still nauseous. I still feel pregnant. I want to retest, to sit still and most of all to prove all the medical types wrong.

So. June.

Posted at 10:09 a.m.