Bitter but better
Today I am better.
Yesterday was a bad day. All at once I felt every one of the accumulated disappointments of the last several months not just the cancellation of this cycle, but the fiasco that was January's and the failure of November's. Most keenly and most surprisingly, I felt the grief of August's miscarriage, a sadness that had, I thought, receded. Not so, not so, particularly as we enter March, when I would have been due.
All of those defeats combined to knock me flat for most of the day. All those things I've lost. I cried in the car. I cried in the shower. I cried for a long time in bed. And this morning, like my friend, I got up.
Despite my fears about moving farther down the path, closer to the end, this isn't over for me yet. I won't get pregnant this month, but I probably wouldn't have, anyway. I won't get pregnant next month, but that was going to be a rest cycle, anyway. And in May, who knows what will happen? Even then, pregnant or not, I'm not out of options.
They aren't what I wished for, but none of this is. I have to work with what's at hand.
In January I had a cyst, too, though it was smaller and diminishing on cycle day 2. We went ahead with no apparent difficulty (at least not from the cyst). This one's different. This cyst is big. I can feel it. It hurts. Although I suppose I could have asked to have it aspirated, and I could have urged my doctor to do the bloodwork on the off chance that the cyst wasn't producing estrogen, I decided against it. I don't see the point of that. I choose to believe that my body is trying to tell me something important.
I can't believe it would work out well to try to overcome my body's objections this month. I don't put a lot of faith in the notion that things are or are not meant to be. If I did, I'd have been able to take my infertility with much more grace and behold the staggering irony would likely be a mother now through adoption. But I do believe this: you can only fight your body so hard. I know. I fight it every month. Most of the time it wins.
Instead I'll give it another month to rest. Perhaps I can lull it into an illusory sense of comfort you know, fatten it up, soothe it with expensive unguents, deck it with shiny trinkets so that when I mount my assault in May it'll surrender peaceably, with a minimum of rebellion, and a golden age of civilization will flourish thoughout my pelvis.
If not, I'm calling in reinforcements.