Red Tide at Night
(All apologies to The Fixx.)
Last night, eight months to the day after Olivia's arrival, I had a dream in which I was giving birth in my living room. I was pushing hard and my water broke, then the faceless woman standing over me said that the baby was coming and that it wouldn't hurt at all. I'm sure you can guess where I'm going with this.
The return of my period has hit me like a stray Nerf ball to the head: painlessly, and with almost nostalgic connotations. I've actually spent a fair amount of time lately thinking about my period. Thinking, specifically, of the fact that it would have to return well in advance of my next IVF attempt. "Worrying" would be the better word, I suppose. You've got to have a cycle to do a cycle, after all, and I've read that the first several are usually whacked out, frequently anovulatory and often have luteal phase defects. And that I might not get one for another six months--clearly not ideal when you're hoping to spend this coming April planting tomatoes and injecting enormous quantities of gonadotropins. So this is probably a good thing.
In a way, though, it's also a stressful thing. Because, try as I might to pretend I'm resigned, there's still this tiny, warbling voice in my ear that wants me to believe we might just be able to reproduce au naturale. I keep hearing these stories--the latest one coming from my OB's office, where an IVF couple had b/g twins and then went on to have another set of b/g twins without any intervention--that prevents me from embracing reality with both arms. And, with that tiny splinter of hope comes an obligation to try. And if we're trying, I will doubtless be disappointed when it doesn't work. Even though I should know better.
I really, really should know better.