This time last year, we were starting our first clomid cycle. It’s been such a long year. Looking back at everything my mind and body have been through over the past 12 months, it’s no wonder I’ve been struggling. Who wouldn’t be?
A year ago, I could not have imagined that we’d be sitting where we are right now. Back then, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea of IVF. I didn’t really think we’d need it, and I couldn’t see how we’d ever afford it even if we did.
In the beginning, clomid felt extreme. At the moment, we have 7 cryopreserved embryos hanging out in a lab and two of them will soon take up residence in my uterus. Now who’s extreme, clomid?
It seems that fertility treatments move you conveyor-belt-style from one “I could/would never” to the next. Suddenly, you realize that in 365 days, you’ve done everything you said you couldn’t or wouldn’t ever do to try to make a baby.
We could never do IVF.
I could never give myself an injection.
I will never get used to this.
So here I sit with an empty savings account and a full sharps container trying to remember when I last felt uncomfortable about spreading my legs for a stranger. March? April? One thing is certain: No one in my RE’s office has EVER asked me if I am a natural redhead.
Happy anniversary, infertility. The traditional first anniversary gift is paper, but all I want is a divorce. You have until next Thursday to sign the papers and get out.