It's easier being infertile in the summer. You see, we have this little pool in the backyard (shaped like a contorted pear, God love it.) The jets are magically positioned so that when you cast off in your float (with drink holder--preferably occupied--and footrest) it meanders around the perimeter of the pool. If you need to get up to say, refresh your drink, you just wait until the rotation lands you near the steps and, exerting as little energy as possible, you scootch over and up. Ahhh. Even when I'm not in it, I like to look at it. It's private and intimate and peaceful. I really have to work at it to be sad in the summer.
Last summer was a time of hope for us. We took care of all the physical things we needed to take care of to prepare for IVF. We fell into the lazy cadence of summer knowing that we were going to try in vitro in November. We had lazy days around the pool, had good friends over and secretly harbored thoughts of "wouldn't it be nice if we just got pregnant, on our own?" It stung, of course, when it didn't happen, but it was summer. And we all look better with a tan.
Now the pool's covered (gray of course) with a blue pump sitting on top. The flowers are gone, the trees are bare and my neighbors just cut down two huge trees, so we're seeing a lot more of our neighbors and their neighbors and so on than before. And it's cold. For me, it doesn't take much effort to muster up the melaniecholy in the winter, but this winter just seems a little grayer and colder than before.
So, we're heading to warmer climes a week from today. I'm desperate to get there, to feel the sun, dear heaven to get some color on this pasty skin. To lift my spirits. To suck it up and tough it out. And to come back. To come back.