Feeling small, weak and out of control, I recognize these sensations. I’ve been here before.
I am at the point during the dreadful two week wait where I turn into someone I know well but don’t like very much.
The hormones I’m taking (progesterone, estrogen and heparin) have had a chance to dig into my system encouraging my mind to go to ugly places, think ugly thoughts and say ugly things.
The night sweats and dry mouth have both started.
This won’t hurt a bit, they say.
Tired, lacking energy and a face breaking out like a sad dateless teenager on prom night.
I try to stay calm, focused and positive but I am raging inside.
I have bruises all along my belly from the twice daily shots of blood thinners and on both hips from the nightly concoction of steroid hormones.
I lash out at my poor husband, an innocent easy target.
Your lining looks perfect, they say.
I am famished, eat all day and gain weight, an average of 5-8 pounds each cycle.
And then there’s the waiting. The waiting is the worst part. For two weeks, life is on hold and I wait, trying not to read into every sign, careful not to get too excited.
Again.
Everything looks really good, they say.
I am ready for disappointment, willing to welcome it even, to just know and end the waiting; to move on, get off the merry-go-round, discuss next steps or give up.
There are more tears.
Another pin prick.
Another appointment.
More waiting.
Your blood work looks great, just keep doing what you’re doing, they say.
All of sudden and always exactly when I need it most, hope appears.
Hope; in waves of joy and tender moments, a deep sigh followed by a full inhale of fresh air.
Hope greets me and gives me strength.
Hope whispers, keep going.
