Its Tuesday, or Turkey Tuesday as our local TV station has dubbed it. And while I want to write something entertaining and pithy or even pithily entertaining about Thanksgiving, my mind is a jumble of things. I met with Dr. Curmudgeon last night and it was really one of the first times that I’ve been with him when I wanted to lay down on his leather love seat and just pour out my head onto the floor and say please fix this and put it back. I did not leave his office revived or with a clear vision of what the days ahead would be like, which is sometimes part of the after-glow of counseling. Instead I left blurred and muddled and a little heavy-hearted. But I think I’ve been heavy –hearted for some time now.
You see, I had my appointment with the gyno-doctor, what they call the Clomid Check. It’s to see if I ovulated and if I developed any cysts. And while all signs look good, it is hard to hold on to hope. I feel like I am hanging on to a balloon and every elevated temp, every fertile looking CM, every indication of ovulation and possible pregnancy inflates that balloon. But by this point in the game, I’m standing here with a ginormous balloon that I am scared will pop at any moment. And I am scared that it’s going to pop and leave me with nothing. So I start to step back the hope. Reel in the prayers. Slowly letting a little bit of air out at a time.
I struggle with letting the balloon continue to grow and rise and float away or that it will become overwhelmed with all this hope and want and desire and wishes that it will explode in a loud burst and leave me as the debris. I never know how to handle this part of the fertility dance. But bottom line, if the balloon float away or if pops; only time will tell. And since it’s that season, give thanks for those I have, have a little faith and believe in the impossible, again.