Thanks, AF, for jerking me around, you stupid cow.
This morning: bbt drops from a steady 97.7 to an unmistakable 97.3. I go to the bathroom and see red. I sit down and start feeling cramps. Six days overdue. Unmistakably here.
I don’t know why I even had hope… I must have read too many fairy tales as a kid. I kept thinking how poetic, how romantic it would be to get knocked up in Bolivia, where T and I met. Going back to a place that holds magic for me in my memory. We walked again through the park where we once kissed until dawn. We walked past the room where he first said “I love you.” And yet, going back there also made me feel so old… in some ways the poignancy of the memories made the intervening years feel all the longer and heavier… the contrast between then and now – then, when I felt inflamed with passion, and now, when when the anxiety for perfect timing turns lovemaking into a high-pressure chore. So that’s the specific loss I am grieving right now: loss of a lovely story. It might seem like it’s not a “real” loss; what could be more ephemeral and unreal than a story? But stories are what life is made of. Or into. Both, I guess.
Anyway, I decided not to call my clinic. This semester I teach on Monday mornings, and I feel like the pressure of trying to do an IUI between 10:30 and 12:00 on a Monday morning would just about kill me. Hopefully I’ll O on or near cd18, which will be a Friday. But really, why should I think that either strategy will work anyway?
*Just had long phone confab with T, who said “if you don’t shoot, you can’t score”: he wants to go for the IUI. So calling the clinic tomorrow. He said he liked Matthew’s post (though I know it stirred some controversy).