Saturday, January 12, 2008
Infertility makes you question your being, your sense of self. Suddenly equilibrium is beyond reach, a constantly downward shifting goal. If I could only get pregnant, if I could only resolve the pain, if I could only test negative for ovarian cancer, if only it wasn’t stage IV endo, if I could only get through the day without sobbing at the sight of a parent hugging his child. Holding onto the dream when despair cloaks every cell, hormones rage, and I’m an ocean away from support, seems infinitely impossible. The firmer the grasp on the floating dingy, the more I bob about uncontrollably, at the mercy of an endless sea of disappointment.