On giving up
I've spent the last six months trying hard to give up. Every day of every cycle, I remind myself that I'm old, that I'm infertile, and that I have no right to expect success. And yet I've still been disappointed, over and over, to find myself not pregnant.
Most months, it has been just that--disappointment. Not a crushing blow, not a soul-sucking misery, just garden-variety disappointment, with a wistful acknowledgement that the sands are running out. This month, though? This month was different. This month I felt different. This month I felt pregnant.
On Wednesday, I found myself sensitive to certain smells. On Thursday, I felt a familiar lightheadedness. Friday, my period was due; Saturday, I checked obsessively for blood and felt a buzz of excitement when there wasn't any. By Sunday, I was queasy and amped up on hope; by Monday morning, hope had escalated to expectation. By Monday evening, I was virtually certain I would see two solid lines. And when I got up to test, still-wrapped EPT in hand, I was absolutely stunned to feel my period arrive.
And here I am, a working Tuesday, cramping and sore in a hotel room, feeling something beyond disappointment--feeling enervated and cold, drained and beaten and limp. What I am not feeling, though, is desperation, because desperate people take action, and all I want to do is lie down and finally accept that this process is over. There will be no more pregnancies, no third child, unless some door opens up that does not rely on my tired, tired eggs.
In short: I think I'm done.