I only seem to get pregnant when my health is poor. Eight days past my ovulation, if my admittedly lax tracking can be matched with my instinct to pinpoint the elusive event. I generally have no ovulation symptoms like middleschmertz so it sometimes boils down to hunch, albeit a hunch informed by years of careful tracking. I’m feeling particularly robust this cycle, so I’m positive my period will show on schedule in five days. And three days later, I will start my first round of letrozole.
My psychiatrist was uninterested in my concerns about mood swings while on fertility meds. I sort of thought she might be, but I really wish she had mentioned that she’d be in Hawaii for three weeks while I’m moving forward with my plans. Sigh, I can’t blame her…I’m a difficult and high maintenance patient, although I never was until I started ttc. I try to channel my frayed nerves by exercising and eating well, but the 100 degree heat this week sure makes it hard to cook healthy meals and get out exercising. I’m two pounds away from my target weight, a magic number I’ve crowned ideal because it’s what I weighed when we conceived Molly. Failed pregnancies, medication changes and stress and depression make it difficult to maintain consistency with my weight, but I have to confess my vanity and say I feel pretty confident when I can fit back into my size 27 jeans.
But really, someone shoot my unicorn. After years of disappointment and heartache, even a sliver of hope is dangerous–there’s only that one sliver but when it’s dashed it’ll really fucking sting.
So, Universe, keep me safe from potential pharmaceutical mayhem and help me sleep a little more regularly so my BBT charts are accurate and if you could kind of make sure I actually ovulate, give me a chance to catch that egg (eggs?). This is the closest thing to prayer that I can possibly pull off while so bitter and jaded, and I know it’s not a lot but maybe after all I’ve been through you could maybe throw me a bone?