It’s, like, hard.

Turns out getting pregnant is hard. Like, really hard. There are charts and graphs of basal body temperatures (taken precisely at 6:00 every. single. morning.) and LH surges (whatever LH is). There are specific dosages of medications at specific times of the evening. There are ovulation predictor kits and prenatal vitamins. There are fertility superfood diets and all sorts of supplements. And I’m not even going into all the other things that must be impeccably timed. While I would be the person to organize the hell out of my uterus, it begins to feel like a bit much–even for me and my color coded outlining habits. 

Our official journey began this week with another appointment at the fertility clinic. With Justin standing beside me, we stared at a black and white fuzzy screen as the doctor pointed out my empty uterus. “And this is where we hope to see a baby soon.” 

It was in that moment that everything changed. 

Up until then, I kept telling myself that I have to do this because I would always wonder what could have been if we didn’t give it one last chance. This was a “peace of mind” adventure with a possible fantastic outcome. But in that moment, staring at the back and white screen, this became more than a wish. As he marked and measured a ring of cysts in each ovary, I had a glimpse of what it would be like to have him point out a heartbeat instead. It was then that I realized that all of my eggs are (quite literally) in this basket. 

We left the hospital with drugs, charts, and a list of directions a mile long. But we also left with a whole lot of hope.

(eleven. three. twenty-twenty one.)