When you're going through Hell, keep on goin'

 I am tired. Just to-the-bone-dead-dog tired. Of everything. I am sitting at the bottom of the pit of despair and all I can see is all that is wrong in my life. I can’t point to one simple thing and say, “There! That is the one thing that is going right in my life. The one thing that doesn’t want to make me rip all my hair out, put on a hair shirt, and lock myself away from the world.” I try not to think about it too much, but the sad reality is I am not happy with where I am right now in my life. I want more than this daily up-hill struggle. I want to be happy.
     In terms of infertility, I think I am trying to distance myself emotionally because for so long I was living in the unhealthy cycle of hope and despair. I have not given up, mostly because I don’t think I can completely give up the tiniest sliver of hope that we might become parents, but it is not my primary focus. I don’t know if my singular tenacity to this infertility battle is what proved to be the catalyst in our big relationship blow-out, yet I can’t assume it was not part of the issue. So, I am shifting my focus. Now the infertility battle is more a peripheral issue, with my marriage (and thus my husband) being my primary focal point.
     This past month, after the catastrophe, Flaco refused to use the rubbers. I was bewildered, thinking we had agreed this was not the time to be getting pregnant – not until we cleared things up between the two of us. Using my clever interrogation skills, I finally got as close to the point as I was going to get with the evasive Flaco. He said he never really agreed that we should stop trying and he never said he didn’t want to have a baby. In other words, he was holding on to the hope that we might still get pregnant unaided. Prior to the Big Bang, Flaco had declared he did not want to spend any more money on treatments, which I took to mean he was giving up. I guess not.
     I decided after seeing the infertility doctor and feeling so pressured to do IVF, that we would give the metformin three months to whip my ovaries into shape. This is month three. My ovaries are as stubbornly encased in cysts as ever and the spotting I have right now will soon turn into my period (as it does month after month). So, the next step is for us to see the doctor where my mom works, who has agreed to try some alternative methods with us. I just need to get my medical chart sent over to him. I suppose I should do that this week, since Aunt Flo is immanent.
     We are trying to save for some other treatments with the infertility office, but I don’t really love this office. After the hsg we got a hefty bill from the hospital. I called the doctors office for some help and the woman in the billing department was so disdainful so curt with me, she made me feel like we shouldn’t even bother because we weren’t wealthy enough for their office. Maybe it’s just me, but shouldn’t EVERYONE who works in an infertility clinic be sensitive to the suffering of the couples they are dealing with – including the dam billing people? So, I am not chopping at the bit to get back to that office. I did like the doctor and a few of the nurses, but I also do not feel like constantly explaining why IVF is not an option for us at the moment. This whole thing is hard enough, must they make it more difficult by slathering on the guilt and rubbing our noses in our financial deficits?
     I wish I could see an end in sight for this ordeal. I wish I knew how our story ends. But I cannot see and I do not know. At this point I can only trudge on, putting one tired foot in front of the other. Slowly marking the passing of time and hoping I don’t lose my mind before I see the results that I want. I long to be one of those bright and bubbly creatures; one who can truly take the lemons of life and stir up a delicious pitcher of lemonade. But, I just don’t know how. My only hope is simply to endure.