Storms

Today we braved another storm. A literal one this time. In the middle of Oklahoma Winter Snowpocalypse 2– and on ice-covered roads– we made our way into OKC so that I could see our fertility doctor to start round five. 

Yes, unfortunately, you read that correctly. Another round. Which means that the last one failed. Again. 

To be quite honest, all of these storms are really beginning to wear me down. Just like every Oklahoman, I am totally sick of winter. And like all Okies, with every new melodramatic meteorology report, I can see seasonal depression, wrapped in her winter scarf, sneaking closer out of the corner of my eye. But, even more so, it’s these damn metaphorical storms that are really taking their toll. And they’re not creeping in…they’re running right at me full speed. 

Failed cycle. After failed cycle. After failed cycle. After failed cycle. 

I think we all need some sunshine. I know I do.

Two days ago, (and despite all the encouragement I heard about being more fertile the month after a miscarriage) I learned that this cycle was unsuccessful. This news came about an hour before I had to present three different Professional Development sessions for teachers at my school. To say I was rattled is an understatement. But I did what I always do–pretend it’s all okay.

I’m getting really good at pretending.

Infertility is changing me infinitely more this time around. I’ve been down this road before…twice, so I’m not exactly sure what makes this trip so different. I think (read: know) a lot of it has to do with my age. Being older, I’ve lost the security blanket of time. I turn 40 in about 5 weeks. I’m well aware of the implications that number has on my eggs (and overall fertility). Unfortunately, my eggs could not care less that I now have a decade’s more worth of wisdom under my belt. They don’t care that I could enter motherhood confident in who I am as a woman and as a human. My eggs just don’t care. The audacity.

In some ways (and possibly most ways), I am proud of the changes that have occurred within me over the last several months. I am stronger. More resilient. Like a wind-worn tree, I have bent but not broken. 

In other ways, though, it makes me sad. I see the strength on the outside, but I also see the version of me that you don’t see. The one that bursts into uncontrollable sobs in the middle of dinner for no apparent reason. When Justin looked over at me with an expression of shock and asked, “What is wrong? What in the world just happened?,” I could only answer: DNA. (For the record, I was watching the Olympics. A human interest story was on (as they often are), and it was talking about some athlete, whom I no longer remember, and how the sport “ran in their blood”. His mother was also an Olympian. All I could think about: My DNA is going to end. No brown-eyed little nerd who reads incessantly or fills up notebooks with rambling sentences. Cue gut-wrenching tears.)

I know I am basically taking the maximum dose of the hormones I have been prescribed. Rationally, I understand that my irrational tears are beyond my control because of this. And I know that makes some of these storms feel bigger than they actually are. 

In recent days, I’ve had a few different friends ask me when I plan on stopping. You may be wondering that too. Every time that question is asked I feel a pang coming from somewhere in my soul. It’s one of stubbornness, not relief. One that tells me, with certainty, that I am nowhere near breaking. Unless forced by my doctors, I’m not quitting anytime soon. 

I know what springtime in Oklahoma means. I know that storm season is just beginning. But, I know if it happens, (and while I may cry into my spaghetti about it later)  I can look any tornado square in the eye.  (Note: This act of bravery applies to metaphorical tornados only. If it’s a real one, I’ll meet you in a storm shelter with a bottle of wine.) 

Tomorrow is day three of cycle five, which, for me, means day one of more drugs. The doc added another hormone to this round (sorry, Justin), so hopefully, it makes the difference. In the meantime, I’m putting on my rainboots and doing the only thing that I have left–hoping against all hopes that 5 is my lucky number.

(two. twenty-three. twenty-two)

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