This cycle is drawing to a close with a small-voiced whimper. Nothing unusual there; the story doesn't change much from month to month to month. Sometimes the agony is drawn out--the extra long luteal phase, with obsessively analyzed symptoms that prove nothing more than hopeful fancy. And there are those few short LP's that catch me mercilessly unaware; over before I even have a chance to prepare myself, to gird myself with the knowledge that failure is on the way.
Today, though, is the beginning of an ever-shrinking window in each cycle, a now-grimy window that lets in the brown light of muddy, percolating hope; hope that knows itself to be false but belches up anyway, uninvited. What used to be weeks of excited anticipation--almost certainty--is now a few short days of uncomfortable grudging optimism, of thinking, This cycle still has a chance to be the one, doesn't it? My temps are still high enough, my breasts ache a little...couldn't this maybe, possibly, be it?
The unsurprising answer has always been, "no". My temps are no higher than last month; my breasts ache no more than last month; I am no more than last month.
And perhaps I am less, as self-pitying as that sounds. I have fewer eggs, and one less ticket in the monthly lottery. I have less hope: the window gets more and more obfuscated by the accumulated dirt, but I continue to press my nose to it against my better reason, and against my better instincts for self-preservation. I have less forebearance: this is harder each time, I am angrier each time, feel more betrayed by my body each time.
But for today, and probably tomorrow, I can still wish, and dream, and hope. I can allow myself to imagine a life inside of me, adhering, dividing, growing. And in a couple of days when my temperatures are tumbling and I know that this month's dream is over, the blinds will be drawn on that little window and I will wonder at ever having seen anything through it.
We have done the same thing over and over and over and over, and the results have been the same. How could I expect anything else? Perhaps something new--the longed-for December IUI?--will wipe down a pane next cycle and let in a few rays of clean, shiny, hopeful light.