Listening to old Liz Phair recordings from back when she delivered her lyrics in that wonderful deadpan voice, my little cat clamoring for his breakfast, and my temazepam flooding my bloodstream after my daily panic attack (this one came about from a sudden irrational thought that I may never have another period again and am full blown menopausal — I confirmed ovulation per BBT, I have to get a period, right?). I sip on coconut water with pineapple and contemplate my white-as-the-driven-snow home pregnancy test from this morning at 13dpo and feel hate bubbling through the chemically induced calm as I stretch out on the couch and let bitterness settle over me. I imagine, with horror, my uterus all stuck together on the inside from scarring and I’m pretty sure Medicare will cover neither an SIS nor a hysteroscopy to see if this source of extreme anxiety is justified and even if they did cover, I would have to struggle to get money together for the copay. I guess today will just be a fretful day and this morning I feel upset for no good reason and completely inconsolable.
I have to pull myself together. I am dropping the ball on quitting caffeine and reducing my intake of carbohydrates (noodles being my favorite food group), I drank a couple of soy based protein smoothies and I’m pretty sure soy is bad for my infertility. But if there’s scarring in my uterus, does it even make sense to try? The clock is spinning wildly, time moves rapidly to my fortieth birthday and I feel all of this is an exercise in futility.
You’ll have to pardon me — spring season is rough on me, and I’m already preparing for the resultant chaos that gets me as soon as I flip my Edward Gorey calendar to April. April 4 will be the one year anniversary of my second miscarriage, followed by April 7, the three year anniversary of the day Molly died. And, incidentally, the majority if my mental hospitalizations have been in April (change in light is sometimes rough on us bipolar folk), although these preceded my attempts to ttc.
May offers no relief, as we pulled life support on my little sister on May 10, 1996 and then all this is concluded with the acutely dreary advent of Mother’s day, the most depressingly saccharine day of the year. Dates and anniversaries and the like used to mean nothing to me, but have swelled in impact since I started this path of infertility and RPL. And I know not why.
I feel an impulse to go hog wild. I dreamed last night that I broke almost 14 years of sobriety by smoking pot — in all my dreams of relapsing into chemical dependence, my drug of choice is always marijuana despite the fact that I never really liked it and favored my much more dangerous vices. I sometimes think of turning back to addiction if this whole baby thing doesn’t work out but the memories I have of my abbreviated pregnancies are so wondrous, those memories of fleeting happiness upon seeing a heartbeat on ultrasound so precious, that I know a night alternating between coke and oxycontin is no comparison, not even as a sloppy second option. No, I’m still committed to sobriety, still determined to cultivate empathy although I do regularly encounter folks I feel don’t deserve it.
A big part of me has given up on a biological child, and when Geoff brings up fostering in hopes of adopting, I feel nothing but panic. It’s a horrible place to be.
I hate when people say, “if I’m not pregnant this cycle…” I just assume I won’t be.