When you become incensed at a Chinese take-out fortune cookie, you know that the battle to conceive and birth a live baby is slowly stealing your sanity.
I’m just really glad I was home alone and that my poor husband didn’t have to witness my silly but maniacal explosion (Are you fucking kidding me?) and this irrational pouting over vegetable lo mein that my little psychic treat was being so cavalier about six long years of patience. In truth, it was a brief tantrum, but it made me think of the medium I saw over the summer, who divined that he didn’t “see this dragging out” (pfffttt!) and urged me to try naturally with my diminished ovaries and one tube “every other month.” (Truly sage advice for hopping on the fast-track back to a normal life…) Can you feel my eyes rolling?
What a quest for God this crisis unearths, whether He felt central to life before infertility struck or not. When an atheist rages at a mass-produced prophecy that strikes too close to home, you know there’s a serious non sequitur at play.
(Apologies to all the people whom WordPress emailed over the weekend with notification of my very first blog post as if it were a new material. Weird. Computers have a mind of their own sometimes.)