I had my first monitoring appointment with Dr. Salsa yesterday and he was pleased. My right ovary is putting on quite a show.
The left, not so much. He wasn’t too concerned, though. He told me in his delicious accent, “Your ovaries are telling me that they are young, my friend!” They were telling me that he was jabbing just a little too hard, but hey. Later, I asked not to be told what my E2 level was. It is just fodder for unnecessary angst. All I wanted to know was whether it was good and if I should continue on my current dose of Follistim. The answer to both questions was yes, with a follow up in two days.
So, why can’t I shake this feeling of fatalism? That no matter what we do, it won’t ever work? I can’t stop thinking that because it is me, me of the long sordid saga of infertility treatments that nothing in the fertility realm could possibly ever work out for me, including growing good eggs.
I think it all goes back to one little word: hubris.
I’ve come to realize that even now, I feel as if my first miscarriage was a punishment of sorts for my hubris in thinking that because I was pregnant, I would have a baby. I felt entitled to have that baby. I had given enough, wanted it badly enough, and damnit, I had finally gotten the elusive BFP so I was going to take that thing out on the road. I started to look at baby names and thinknig about how I would take a few months off of work after the birth. I made plans. And then, wham. And with my second one, I got excited, used lots of exclamation points, and then again, wham. The result is that I am conditioning myself to not get excited about anything fertility-related because that will result in whatever gains being taken away. The minute I publish that exclamation point, it’s all over.
To me, hope has become hubris. Having any amount of hope feels like a set up for the inevitable smack down. The two have become so intertwined that I don’t know if I can separate them.