Fuck It

I had thought I would take an early test, just to get it over with, but you know what? I know it didn't work.

I just know it. I know it in my entrails. I feel like my period is coming, and nothing else feels different, and my spidey smell went away almost immediately, and I just know for a fact that it didn't work. It just didn't work. Because why would it work? It's never worked before. It didn't work with four embryos, why the hell would it work with one? It wouldn't. It won't.

The good news is, my certainty means that I can happily anticipate not giving myself progesterone shots in my rear after Wednesday morning, I can stop putting progesterone suppositories inside my body Tuesday night, I can spend Wednesday afternoon stoned out of my gourd on the couch if I want to. I can exercise all I want, and I can have as much sex as I want or can stand. I can admire my flat stomach and my full breasts and take pleasure in my body and not worry about it changing, at least not for awhile, and I can go to the BVI for my birthday next month and race fucking yachts and drink rum if I so choose.

These are all superficial pleasures, I realize, but to be honest, they are pleasures that I know, and can understand, and would miss.

Is my certainty a ruse? Am I kidding myself? Am I pretending to already know the answer so that when I learn the answer for real, and the answer is no, I do not lose my fucking mind with grief? I mean, maybe. I have definitely been deep in the grief in the past. But I don't know that I felt this absolute negative certainty going into the end. Maybe I did, I don't know. I guess I could read back in this blog and see.

Today, right now, I am certain it did not work, and I believe myself to be okay with that. I just want it to be over, and soon it will be over.

Soon, this fucking nightmare will be over.