DH and I ate at IHOP this morning. I think that place is disgusting, but I still manage to eat there at least twice a month. We went last Sunday, too... the day of the egg retrieval. The mood today was bright. We had a good conversation, joked a bit... had some great coffee. Last week was different. There was an air of hope, with a little bit of pre-emptive despair in case our hope was premature. I wanted so badly for the egg to be a great one, but I was totally prepared for them to say it wasn't; which, of course, is what happened.
Last week was the culmination of two weeks of almost daily appointments. This past week, none... well, save for the egg retrieval. Something about not being pricked or prodded this week made me feel stagnant. BUT, then there were the stabbing pains near my ovaries: "Am I ovulating on my own?" I wondered. There were also the sore breasts: "This is a sign" I thought. And let's not forget, the EWCM. I never knew what EWCM was before my secondary infertility. I never had a reason to pay attention. But, when I saw it this week, I thought "what an evil body to try to trick me into thinking it's behaving normally!"
Time passes and new wounds heal, but you never forget the hope of the past. And, you think you are betraying yourself if you don't continue to hope. You hope for that surprise BFP one day. You hope that your body will have a momentary lapse in its hatred for you and behave like it should for once. And, if that doesn't happen, there's always science. Science, PLEASE don't fail me...
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