My own personal pity party
As I went into this cycle, that niggling Pollyanna beast told me that, surely, lots of needles and progesterone and monitoring would be just what I needed. You'll see, she said. Even you can't be pessimistic this time. When I responded with my usual assurance that, Oh, fuck yeah, I could so be pessimistic, just watch me, she saw that one corner of my mouth was turned up in a grudging little smile as I spoke, and she gloated. She knew she was right. The novelty of the process had seduced me into hopefulness.
When the FSH injections left me feeling so ripe and fertile, overflowing like an Easter basket, there she was with a little told-you-so grin. When the sperm wash came back looking so supergollyswell, she jumped up and down, whooping. And when I started to feel weird--feel pregnant?--a few days ago, she danced in wild circles and screamed with delight.
And I'll tell you this: Two days ago, when I woke up suddenly feeling so very un-pregnant that I couldn't even conjure up the vaguest hallucination of a symptom, I remembered why pessimism is my very best friend, and why Pollyanna is to be shot on sight with a large-bore rifle.
Wanna play the Glad Game with me? Here goes: I'm glad because, even though in my heart of hearts I don't think I'll ever be pregnant again, I am unemployed and can spend all of my waking hours wallowing in my infertility.
That is how the Glad Game is played, isn't it?