I started my FET calendar on Thursday. I have been trying to get into an appropriate spirit of measured optimism, but I haven’t managed to rally any spirit at all, unless you count a powerful longing for crusty baguettes and Humboldt Fog unearthed by my super restrictive anti-inflammatory diet. Even when my last stim cycle ended in sobering defeat two Saturdays ago, with all five embryos arresting in the lab by day 6, I just sort of laid on the couch in a morose stupor and watched a Sex and the City marathon. Here’s the countdown to the outcome, which I know will announce itself on a quiet morning in my bathroom in the window of a plastic pee-stick: ‘pregnant’ or ‘not.’ Doesn’t it seem sort of anticlimactic after all this time, effort, money, and heartache? Like there should be a parade or a ticker in Times Square or something? Nope. One foot in front of the other through the rigamarole of my presently very hectic life, and no amount of worrying, wishing, talking or dragging my heels will mean a damn thing at the end when the coin settles on one side or the other.
Today, mostly, I’m just grateful for a natural peanut butter that doesn’t taste like wet sand.