Friday, October 7, 2011

CD3 strike

October 7, 2011

I keep going back to the puppy dog face the doctor gave me, the way she said, "Mawww, I'm sorrrry," and how I wanted to kick her energetic, fake-tanned head.

Going in to see the doctor wasn't my idea, but I was sure treated as if it was. Instead of having a real discussion, I got a pat on the head like a little girl whose only problem is lack of patience. I'm ignorant of some things, but fertility isn't one of them.

Pointless. It'll probably cost me a small fortune for a trip that served no purpose, a trip that I didn't ask for.

It gives me something outside of myself, my failed body, to be angry about, but more anger isn't helpful.

My favorite part is when I'm told that nothing can be holding me back, because I already have a beautiful healthy boy, and then I'm told not to try to conceive until next month. Guess what, if I took your advice? I wouldn't have my beautiful healthy boy.

I have to strike while the fertility iron is hot.

1 out of 3. My body has contained more death than life. Or so it feels as I walk this walk again.

On repeat. "Nocturne" by The Marquis. Instrumental.

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