The quiet of early morning, interrupted by the staccato pounding of my feet on pavement. I am possessed by manic energy, desperate to calm my racing thoughts and this crazy drive for the type of speed foreign to my old and broken body. Despite my daily fistfull of pills, I am on an upswing. Seeking peace, I will teach my body how to run free.
Cycle day eight and I am approaching ovulation. In three days I will turn 39 and my mission will be that much more futile. I turn towards my husband, cupping his face in my hands, a gentle kiss to wake him. This is our 24th cycle trying for our elusive dreams of family–we’ve been at it for two years since our sweet Molly passed. A lifetime has passed since I last felt her move inside of me. And I am bitter in knowing I will never be that happy again.
How cruel it is to be both bipolar and infertile! The war is between me, damaged yet inexorable, and my crooked mind, my irascible body and each month is another battle lost, a deepening sense of hostility and soul-sickness like cancer and my dear readers, I thank you for each brief moment of meaningful connection because in the end I could be here all alone. It’s a unique sort of theater, my sanity hangs in the balance. I go through the motions because I cannot think of a better plan.
And again, the sunrise finds me sleepless and again I pull my husband close feeling his sinewy muscle through the thin cloth of his Pogues t-shirt and we soldier on with the world stacked against us and we will continue to clash with the odds because if the miracle happens all this suffering will be worth it in the end.
Please, I beg you, pray for me; God doesn’t answer my prayers.