Yesterday I got that anxious, out-of-control feeling.
I hate that feeling.
What’s worse is I got a nice break from it last week because I went home to see my family. Certain places and atmospheres and people just take my mind off everything. Yes, infertility = everything. But—ever faithful—“it” crept up again yesterday.
What if I don’t get my period right away and can’t start everything on time? My nurse says if I ovulated and my estrogen is low I can start stims. Was I supposed to ovulate on Provera? I DON’T OVULATE! What if I didn’t ovulate? I thought ovulation preceded the luteal phase which was the crucial phase for this protocol, but Provera gave me a luteal phase. So I don’t need to ovulate, right? What if my body doesn’t cooperate? Even worse, what if I freak out over every little thing for no reason … no reason because maybe it won’t even work …?
So here I am wishing my days away again. On the brink of Friday, I started wishing the weekend were over with already. Because, who cares? What’s the point of Friday or the weekend anyway? It’s not like any exhilarating weekend activity can be that good … because I wouldn’t be sharing it with my whole family. The family I’m supposed to have.
And seeing a youthful, cute woman today at Panera Bread with her one- and two-year-old sons didn’t completely rip my heart out or anything. That’s supposed to be me. I’m supposed to be buying a yummy bagel for breakfast because I can actually eat carbs because my eggs don’t suck. I’m supposed to be holding my one-year-old son and looking after my toddler while he explores. I’m supposed to be talking about fire trucks with my toddler son. THAT’S SUPPOSED TO BE ME, GOD! WHAT THE F*** DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?!
Today sucks. Infertility sucks. My body sucks. I hate my life.
And now I’m crying at work.