The Inevitable Funk

Here's what's getting to me: the realization that one bad ultrasound, one bad blood test, has the capacity to knock me out of an otherwise perfectly good mood. I hate that how my days go has everything to do with the state of my ovaries.

I happened to mention to my mother recently that everytime I see Dr. Gorgeous I end up in tears. She said something like, I'm sure she understands you're on a lot of hormones. Umm, yeah, Mom, she does, given that she's the person who prescribes the hormones. But that's not really the point, is it? It's not my hormones that make me cry; it's the situation that necessitates hormone treatment in the first place. I'm infertile. Or sub-fertile. Or something. I'm on the verge of turning 37 which, Dr. Gorgeous has explained time and again, is somewhat akin to Cinderella getting home from the ball before her coach turns back into a pumpkin and her pretty gown dissolves into rags.

I'm tired of everyone telling me that 37 isn't so old, that plenty of people older than me get pregnant and have babies. As Dr. Gorgeous keeps saying, significantly diminished ovarian reserve shouldn't be the case for a woman my age, but IT IS. Welcome back to the reality of infertility treatment.

Please, let all that ovarian fullness mean something good on Monday. I'd really hate to leave LG at daycare at 7:30 in the morning just to be told this cycle is going nowhere. This year has been hard on both of us.