Tired

My fatigue today is glacial. Maybe from walking so much with my college roommate yesterday, braving the hordes at the Michelangelo show and failing to triumph, so adjourning to David Hockney instead. Maybe it's the hormones sloshing around in my bloodstream. Maybe it's the cold, or the holidays. Maybe I'm just tired.

Today, in about an hour, I will arrive at the doctor's office for an artificial insemination, the consolation prize of this round of IVF. I didn't respond to the drugs. After several dark hours I re-checked Dr. Big Guns' profile on the fertility doctor site, and was heartened to remember that yes, I chose him for a reason, and yes, that reason was that he specializes in aging ovaries belonging to crones such as myself. I felt momentarily better.

The dog doesn't like it when L leaves before me. He's moping by the front door and hasn't asked to go out. But I should take him before I leave. Shouldn't I?

It's hard to let myself feel hope. It's wiser not to. But a certain amount of hope is necessary to power through the truly awful aspects of fertility treatment. So it glimmers there, under my fatigue, and I carry it around in my pocket as I get up from this desk and get underway with my day.