I hate infertility.

Yep, Mo, I’m right there with you.

I’m hating all sorts of things about myself and my body these days, and I hate that, too.

In fact, I hate hating infertility.  I’ve always rather liked being a girl.  Except for a minor departure from form in High School, I’ve always rather liked my body – stocky and sturdy & therefore completely unfashionable though it is.

But now?  I’m tired of feeling betrayed by my body.  Of being thwarted in something so basic by my own innards.  I’m tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Again.  And again.  Just lob the whole damned closetful at me, will ya?  Let’s get it over with! 

I know it’s not the end of the world.  It’s just a setback.  Just like infertility is just a setback.  Just like IVF; and missed miscarriages that eat up six months of my rapidly-dwindling, so-called fertile lifespan; and fucking ectopic doomed pregnancies; and poor responder-ness; and every other goddamned thing is just a setback.  I know that.  But right now, my cysty-ovaries and I are wallowing.

*deep breath*

I’m tired of wallowing, too.  So here goes – my non-wallowy post for the afternoon: 

It’s been snowing all day, big fluffy flakes that aren’t sticking, but are driving the temperature down enough that it’s pleasant to be inside with an overactive furnace.   I love snow.  I wish it snowed more in Brooklyn.   My folks – in Arizona, no less – have been snowed in for a couple of weeks at this point.  Granted, they live at close to 8000 feet, so they deserve it, but I am very jealous.  Very, very jealous.  I miss my woodstove.

Ok, other good things – I went to a new place in the neighborhood for lunch – Burek Pizza, and I’m still not sure if Burek is the name of the owner, or a description of the ‘pizza’.  There were no signs, no menus, and a little old tottery woman brought out a piece of whatever-it-was, wrapped it to go, and took my money.  ”Yugoslavian pizza” she said, though I thought it tasted more like a meat tart than a pizza.  Delicious, whatever it was.  I’ll be going back.  This is one of the things I LOVE about NYC – weird little food places.  I love eating interesting food, even if I don’t know what to call it. 

My favorite crazy guy at the library, who claims to have a direct line to God, came up to me today to let me know that he has renewed his prayerful efforts on my behalf.  I’m torn between tolerating him only because he is a gentle and pleasant crazy guy, and being spooked by his perception.  When I was pregnant the first time, but before I even knew it, he told me he would pray that the angel he could see hovering over me would stay with me forever.  He apologized a month later – while I was waiting to miscarry - because he said he obviously had not been able to pray hard enough.  Equally obviously, the crazy-man was not privy to my IVF situation, he’s just perceptive.  Either that or, you know, he might have a direct line to God.  So anyway, today when he offered me prayers for health and happiness, which, I admit (though not to him) that I could use a bit more of both these days, I simply said ‘thank you’, and told him he’d be in my prayers too.  He and I might not mean the same thing when we talk about praying, but I do wish him well. 

My husband, when he heard the news about the new setback, wondered aloud if we should just jump directly to a donor egg cycle to try to spare my body any more hormonal manipulation.  This is a sweet thing for him to offer, since he’s been sort of freaked out by this idea in the past.  Unless my doctor orders it, we won’t do this – we’ll exhaust every option in its own time and not skip ahead, but it was a supportive thing for him to say.   He got it right today.

I am also going to tell you about the conversation I just overheard between my annoying Russian co-worker and his family in Russia.  Full of tears and recriminations (I am assuming, by the tone of his voice, since it was – obviously – in Russian.)  This guy is really aggravating, and he knows it, and he knows that we are not friends, but he and I were alone in the office and on his way into the kitchen to eat his borsht after this conversation, he said quietly without even turning around, “I’m all alone on New Year’s Eve and it’s all my fault.”  And my heart broke for him just a little bit, even though he still irritates the hell out of me. 

But now I’ve written enough for today.  I’m going to finish up my shift, then go home and get gently and weepily drunk on good wine.  Hope y’all have a good new year – we deserve it, each & every one of us.