I Don’t Want It

I spent a good part of the weekend at an intense workshop focused on rising after a fall. I missed the first part of my friends 40th birthday party. I arrived drained from the emotional archaeology I’d spent 12 hours on over the course of a day and a half. I had to promptly find a bathroom because it was time to shoot myself up. I wanted to ask a friend to keep me company. I didn’t. It was going to be quick. It wasn’t quick. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. I was supposed to spend the night. I took one look at the air mattress and bailed. I was too drained and too tired and too sober; not to mention, I had to be at the hospital at 7:30 a.m. I would miss the morning recap. I loved the morning recap.

I only got out of bed at the last minute. Enough time to throw clothes on and brush my teeth before leaving the house. I didn’t want to go. It was Sunday. I wanted to sleep in. I wasn’t even sleeping. I just wanted the option. I didn’t want another needle stick. I didn’t want another wand up my hooha. Jason acknowledged I was leaving, “to do my thing” while he lay in our warm bed with our pups.

We’d gone too far. It was too much. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice this time. I drank coffee. I drank alcohol. I was on a low carb diet. I didn’t know if these things would hurt the process, but I was defiantly doing them. Did this make me a bad person? Did I even care? Should I have said no to more? Would I have been left wondering what if? Is the suffering worth the confidence of done?

The lab told me I was in the wrong place. I told them I wasn’t. They said I should have labels. I didn’t. If I’d had a modicum of fight in me I would have said something bitchy. But, I didn’t, so I didn’t. I just stared at them while they looked up my records and reluctantly agreed to treat me. I saw the picture of the technician’s son. I needed her to be kind to me so I asked about him. She said he was her world. His birthday was next month. She’s the best, I could never feel her needle sticks.

The ultrasound tech barely acknowledged I was human. She did her job. She gave me the numbers on the follicles – largest was 2.1, a few 1.8. Translation – there are a few in the range they want. Nothing stellar. I wasn’t sure if this was enough to move me into the trigger phase or if I would be kept in stimming purgatory a few more days.

As I walked out of the hospital I knew I was in it. Face down, eating the dirt. What did I promise at the workshop? I’d feel. What did I feel? Anger. I was angry. My body wasn’t performing well. We went too far. I didn’t want this anymore. I wanted my body back. I wanted my mind back. I couldn’t be whole and participate in this process. I didn’t want this anymore. I was suffocating.   My soul was dying. I didn’t want a workshop on rising to feel mandatory for me. I didn’t want to have to do the work. I didn’t want to miss the winery celebrating my friend’s life. I didn’t want to retreat into the bathroom to stab myself in the stomach. I didn’t want to go through the guilt dialogue I weathered after a glass of wine.

If you wanted a baby bad enough you wouldn’t drink at all.

I’ve done this the right way and it didn’t work, now I’m doing it my way.

You are spending all this time and energy and money and are willing to piss it away for a glass or two of wine.

It isn’t going to make a difference.

How do you know?

I’m too exhausted to care.

If you wanted this badly enough you wouldn’t do it.

Then I don’t want it.

I don’t want the torture of the stages and the waits: Are the eggs good? Do they fertilize properly? Do they live three days? Do they implant? Do they grow? Do they have heartbeats? Do they breathe…?

I’m hormone infused. I’m lonely. I’m scared. I am exhausted. And I am so angry.

And I don’t want it.

Only I do.

With every fiber, every cell, every breath…

And I am so angry that I do.

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