Now What

I just got back from a meeting. A work meeting, Succotash, where we sat in a big conference room with laptops and ordered in lunch. My new editor is lovely. Even more lovely was being in a professional conversation for two hours, talking about character and plot and title and voice and revision strategies and release dates, and being taken seriously as a thinking, competent, professional human being instead of a body that has failed.

I talked to Dr. Big Guns. He claims that he is disappointed too. He suggests we try again, same protocol, only with the added benefit of something called endometrial co-culture, which essentially means that any embryos we come up with will be brewed in me-slime rather than lab-slime. But to make the me-slime they have to - hooray! - scrape out my endometrial lining a few days after I next ovulate.

I will refer you to my entry on female pain, below. That, Succotash, is going to suck. And how.

So I'm back to waiting for my period to start. Once it does, I am to call the nurse and also the Coordinator of Scraping to get on the calendar. So. A month off from shots. A month off from hormones that make me exhausted and insane. By a happy coincidence, this will be the month I'm given revision notes. A month for my mind, instead of my body.

I have already informed your would-be father that I would like to have the maximum amount of sex for fun. I would like to remember that my body can bring me pleasure, too.

I choked up during my call with Dr. Big Guns, which is why I'd insisted on having the appointment via telephone rather than in the office. First, as I told his assistant, I'm pretty done with going to the office, thanks. And second, when I started to cry, as I knew I would, I would be home, and safe, and not sitting in front of the great man's office like a scolded child.

He got off the phone in a hurry. I guess I can't blame him.

Then I took myself out. I got my eyebrows done. I got my bangs trimmed so you could see my well-shaped eyebrows. And then I went to the foot massage place.

I'll tell you, Succotash, I don't know what it is, but something about a young ropey-muscled guy digging with careful attention into different specific points in my feet was completely mind-reorienting. I walked in so tense and anxious I was shaking. Raw, ready to cry again, hateful, bitter. I walked out relaxed, positive, hopeful, and excited to go to a party with some friends. Maybe that's fuel for another blog post, or maybe it's as simple as someone - a stranger - making a gesture of care to my body rather than a gesture of intrusion, or of judging.

My hope has persisted into today. I'm ready.

I'm ready to try again.