Friday, June 11, 2004

Little Miss Pess (5/24)

I spend much of my time fruitlessly contemplating infertility. Most of my time, actually. It plays a little bass riff in the back of my head, day in and day out, and occasionally--say on 10 DPO, for example--it brings out the guitar and drums for a special, ear-splitting private concert. Strange, since I spent the first two decades of my supposedly fertile years without giving it a single thought. I didn't even hear the occasional warble of a flute. Nothing. In fact, through the advanced age of thirty-two, my only thoughts about fertility were of how little use I had for it.

And then one day when I was thirty-three, my period was late, and I was scared, and I thought, Shit, How did this happen?, and, Shit, what will I do?, and almost immediately I thought, I will be pregnant and have a baby. And I'll like it. And then the next day my period arrived. And I was, somehow, utterly heartbroken.

So I decided to try. Threw out the condoms, gave up my morning coffee and dove right in.

As a dyed-in-the-wool pessimist (as attested by my childhood nickname, "The Pess"), the moment my period arrived after our first TTC attempt, I felt sure I was permanently, incurably infertile. Our subsequent TTC futility has done nothing to assuage me, but that sense of certain failure somehow does not drown out the distracting din, which, I have come to believe, is actually fueled by some un-purgable, uninvited optimism. I wouldn't still be thinking about it all the time if there wasn't some small part of me that keeps on hoping, right? And optimism is part and parcel of hope, isn't it? Sheesh. Me, a closet optimist!

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