We officially kick off our IVF cycle tomorrow at 4 o’clock. I am ashamed to admit that I’m feeling very indifferent to it. I’m more excited to be done with birth control pills than I am to be starting IVF. I’m usually pretty good at sorting out my feelings, but I’m struggling with this. I feel like it would be acceptable to say that I’m scared or nervous or anxious—but indifferent? That’s just not right.
Yesterday, Catch and I were trying to plan a visit with her aunt in a couple of weeks, but we were on different pages. I said August, but she thought I said September. So we’re talking and I told her it would be awkward to have to bring the arsenal of injectable meds to her aunt’s house—plus some of it has to be refrigerated. Catch said, “But you’ll be pregnant—won’t we be done with the injectable stuff?”
She said it so casually. There was no uncertainty. No question. I don’t know how she does it. I wish I could be so sure.
The truth is that I cannot see this working. That’s not to say that I see it failing. I just can’t see. I can’t imagine myself pregnant next month any more than I can imagine having to pick up the pieces after a failed cycle. I try to envision something—anything—and all I get is a blank wall.
I feel like something is wrong with me. Like this inability to see a light at the end of the tunnel is setting us up for failure. If I don’t believe in it, how will it happen?
I would like nothing more than to blame the birth control pills and the metformin for this emotional black hole. I know my body has been through the ringer these past months. Clomid, follistim, hcg, progesterone, birth control, metformin—surely that all takes a toll, right? Is it unreasonable to hope that this fog will lift in the days following my last dose of birth control?
There are so many women out there in blog land who are preparing for their IVF cycles with such radiating positivity. I want so badly to be one of them. Instead, I’m pretty much just radiating exhaustion.