I'm going to put Schraft's, A Walgreens Speciality Pharmacy, on speed dial. More Lupron, please. Yes, just use the credit card you have on file. Another Sharps container? Well, yes, I guess I'm going to need that. How many syringes? How many have you got? Oh, an additional 10 will be fine. Do I need anything else? Sister, you have no idea.
The biggest complaint I have about infertility, other than the obvious, is the lack of control. I have no idea how this is going to end up. No idea. And while I wait until ultimately it becomes known to us what the outcome will be, I put a sizable portion of my life on hold. It wasn't clear to me how much until today. A few weeks ago, I thought today was the day I would have my FET. Sure, I recognized that it could change by a couple of days, but I marked it out on my calendar. Told my boss and clients that I was having a "procedure" and planned for a couple of days of emails, Little Debbies, the food network and, dear God, please George Clooney on HBO. Except, it wasn't to be. No "procedure." I'm healed! Hallelujah.
There's no guarantee, I now see, that February will be the magic month. Or April or June or 2008. Can we plan a week get away in May? Dunno. Any number of things could be happening. Cycling. In between cycling. Knocked up, in which case I don't think I'll be going to the beach, thank you very much. New York next week? Sure, let me get my doctor's note so I don't get thrown in the pokey for carrying needles of mass destruction on the plane.
Let me be honest. I've grown accustomed to having some measure of control over my life. I've worked very hard to get where I am. I've stumbled and fallen but also soared. I've had heartbreak that suffocated my soul and crushing, senseless, overwhelming joy. And I've learned from it all. I'm self sufficient. If E were to leave me for a nubile young thing and assuming the authorities never found his stinking decaying corpse and the dagger with my fingerprints impaled through his heart, I could financially and emotionally take care of myself (after much counseling of course)...and a child.
I simply don't have control over this process. I would love to think that something, anything I do will change things, speed things up, affect the outcome. Inhale essence of seaweed? You got it. Sip extract of rhinoceros sweat? Gladly. Insert dung beetle suppository? Ah, let me see the research first. I just don't get to lead this dance.
And if, as an English playwright said, "Grace comes often clad in the dusky robe of desolation." I'm not there yet either.