Not doing so good.

Which, I suppose is obvious.

I really don’t want to go in to this appointment tomorrow.  Not: “I’m not looking forward to it,” but rather: “I’m trying to find an excuse so that I cannot physically be there.”

I don’t want to cry in front of these people.  Again. Not that they haven’t seen me crying (and raging, and helplessly weepy, and giddily happy) before, but I’m tired of being the emotional basket-case that I am, and I’m tired of these near-strangers having access to my most emotional moments. I just am. They have access to all my most vulnerable physical bits, I’m sick of granting them access to my most vulnerable emotional bits as well, but at the moment, I haven’t the strength to keep them out, and I know I’ll dissolve into weepiness at the first sign of sympathy. Yuck.

I don’t want to ask my stupid questions about “isn’t it possible – even a teeny weeny bit – that this might still turn out to be viable?”  I know the answer is “no”, but I cannot fathom taking the poison-shot tomorrow without asking it out loud of my doctor.  I mean, my mother had heavy periods all through both pregnancies – as did my gram.  Maybe it’s genetic?  She also had no morning sickness or other ‘symptoms’ – so maybe I’m just a low hCG producer and this baby’s just tucked away somewhere and happily growing?  Please? Why not? Please?

And obviously, I know that’s not the case here, and I know that. I do.  But I want it so badly, and it just feels like there’s someone I ought to be able to appeal this stupid verdict to.  Like if I want it badly enough, then I’ll deserve it and my wish will be granted?  Like if I make a really good, logical case for why this ought to have worked out differently, the fates will take pity on me and change things around to suit me?  It’s like part of me is thinking if I can come up with a really good reason why things could be the way they are and still be okay, that, well, everything would be okay.

And it’s not.  And it won’t be.  And tomorrow I should be finding out how long a hiatus between conception attempts this is going to be.  (Remember that fortune about “a sense of urgency”? Hah. I’ll show you sense of urgency. Just check in here say, about February. Make it my first due date. I’ll show you urgency…) Anyway, Dr. Google has mandated anywhere from 2 weeks to 6 months between ‘tries’.  Apparently the half-life of methotrexate is measured in hours, but it somehow sucks all the folic acid out of your body?  I’m not really completely 100% sure on this, but it seems to be a risk of neural tube defects if you get pregnant too soon afterwards. And yes, that would suck. A lot.

So am I seriously going to have to use birth control for what might be the last half-year in which I might possibly ever get pregnant on my own?  I might just perish from the irony.

Not to mention, I think my head might explode, at the idea of having to wait 6 months to begin trying again.  To begin trying to trick fate, to pull the wool over the eyes of the asshole fairy godmother who hates me. It’s not like I’m getting to being trying to have a baby, it’s more that I feel I’m going to have to wait to PROVE that I can’t get a baby past, say, 10 weeks gestation. I’m waiting to prove it can’t be done so that I can focus on something that has an actual chance of resulting in a baby like, say, turning over every cabbage leaf in the garden. Or maybe taking up stork-hunting as a hobby.

I’m feeling a little cursed, right now. truth to tell.  If I knew a neighborhood bruja, I’d be going and asking if she could remove this damned maldición so that I could get on with my life. (Oh yeah, and if she could do anything about this goddamned fucking infertility shit I’m dealing with, I’d totally appreciate it, and light a candle (or 300) to any saint she cared to credit.)

I miss living in Tucson. I’m thinking a visit to a bruja would be pretty damned comforting compared to what tomorrow morning’s going to be like, and I’m thinking I’d feel at least as confident in the reassurance of her answers.

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