Landmines and pit-falls

     Just when I think I have overcome all of the perils in the life of an infertile, a new one appears or an old wound re-opens. Yesterday at work a co-worker who is a proud new grandma, brought her precious granddaughter in to visit. She was just born last week. According to the gossip around the office, the new grandma was none too happy when her 20 year old daughter came to her and said she was expecting. I guess my co-worker was hoping her daughter would be a little bit older when she had her first baby. This sounds like the mythical “accidental” pregnancy. Sometimes, I forget such things exist and file them mentally with Big Foot, Nessie, la Chupacabra,  and a balanced national budget – in others words, there is great doubt as to their legitimacy.
     So, a friend of mine saw new grandma and sweet precious baby in the hallway, gasped and went running giddily to see the baby. She called over her should to me, “The baby is here!” I pretended I was very busy staring at my computer screen as a wave of despair washed over me. Perhaps it is hubris that has lead me to believe I have become stronger since last month’s melt-down. Not unlike Icarus, I soared on my man-made wings above all the pain and hopelessness, feeling I was safe from the mental anguish and harmful heartbreak. And yesterday, my wings melted away, dissolved by the soft breath of a newborn baby girl. Initially, I stayed at my desk, mentally willing my co-worker to move on and take the baby with her. But, my friend came back to my desk and said, “Don’t you want to see the baby?” And there I was, staring down the rabbit hole that I thought I had recently escaped. Did I want to see the baby? Someone else’s baby, so haphazardly conceived, triumphantly paraded into our office as a living breathing token of someone else’s fertility success. No, I did not want to see the baby. I want my own dammit. Taking a deep, calming breath, I carefully arranged my features into a blissfully happy face, oo-ing and ahh-ing over the tiny wonder. Under the carefully articulated surface I was crumbling, slipping, and falling into the anger, unfairness, and sheer pain of infertility. I did not touch the baby, fearing her tiny adorable fingers would undo me, cut through my collapsing façade and push me to spill my pain onto unsuspecting co-workers. And after our encounter, I escaped to the ladies room to compose myself, angry that I was “doing” this and chastising myself for being such a pathetic ninny. I got over myself pretty quickly, but the whole (brief) ordeal has left me thinking about when the next minefield will pop up and how I might navigate it. I don’t suppose there is really anyway to prepare myself, other than to stay as positive as I can. I thought I had successfully shelved my hopes for a pregnancy this month, but I discovered yesterday that this desire is stronger than I suspected.
     I spent the rest of the afternoon mentally envisioning the baby in my arms as I told doting co-workers just how perfect she was. I was startled to discover that deep in the dusty cob-webs of my sub-conscience thought, I knew that this week begins the dreaded two week wait. I didn’t even need my calendar, knowing when my body is supposed to be doing something has already become ingrained into my mind. I should have ovulated last week (if my ovaries felt like ovulating that is) and therefore, this week and next week is when egg and sperm could be meeting inside my newly opened fallopian tubes. If such a thing happens to the fertility challenged. I was supposed to forget all about conception this month. We are not doing any special treatment and therefore we should not expect any outcome other than the same thing that has happened the last 26 months. At some point at or around day 30, Aunt Flo will arrive bringing cramps, bloating, an irritability with her. But, thanks to the chance encounter with a beautiful newborn, I am now wondering “what if . . . ?” Even as I type this, I am mentally screaming at myself to “knock it off!!” Sure, the doctor at the hospital told you he opened your fallopian tubes with dye. But, the infertility clinic made no mention of this occurrence; they simply stated that my fallopian tubes and uterus looked “fine.” (For the record, I think “fine” is my least favorite word in the English language – I mean, does it really describe anything?) But, even if the dye opened my tubes, my body still does not ovulate regularly on it’s own accord. It’s a hit or miss kind of operation down there. My evil devil twin on my shoulder whispers, “Yes, but perhaps the metaformin is working already and regulating your hormonal cycle so that you do ovulate more regularly. This could be it!” I turn to my more reasonable angle twin and she tells me, “Look, your mom told you it could take three months for your body to adjust with the metaformin, so chances are you might not ovulate on your own just yet. Give it some time. Stick with your plan.” She is right, of course. So, although it might be as hard as shoving an over sized parachute back into a sandwich bag, I stuff my feelings of hope back into the depths of my being and plop something heavy on top so they cannot escape again.