It has been--
Let me start by saying--
See, now this is why I haven't posted in a week. It's been a very full week
. I am not sure where to begin, and mostly I'm not sure I've processed everything the week has been full of, so I've avoided the blog. That is, until yesterday, when I received a comment from Jen on last week's windy Thursday post claiming that the wind must have been so strong that it "blew away all of your words." My, but I do love a smartass.
Let's see if I can give you a brief recap. On Wednesday when I called my doctor to report that, no, I wasn't pregnant, and yes, I was quite positive a new cycle had begun, I told the nurse on duty about the cramps I'd been having since six days past ovulation. Yes, that's right--for over a week before I started my period I had mostly dull but sometimes pinching abdominal cramps. I was convinced they were the result of implantation and all that follows, but alas, no. The nurse scheduled me for an exam on Friday with my regular doctor to make sure my ovaries weren't being invaded by cysts. My appointment was at 4:15; at 4:30 the triage nurse took me to an examining room, gave me the stunning exam ensemble, and told me the doctor would be right in; at 5:00 I was still waiting. Did I mention I was only THREE DAYS INTO A NEW CYCLE? I've never been more uncomfortable on an examination table. While I waited for him I stared at picture after picture of the babies he's delivered in the past year, neatly tacked or taped to a giant bulletin board next to the exam table, while listening to what sounded like a giant bird ruffling its wings coming from the air duct overhead. When he finally arrived at 5:15, apologizing profusely for making me wait so long, he did the exam (oh, the humiliation!) and pronounced my ovaries "normal" in spite of the fact that I'd been having freaky pinching pain on my left side all day. I think my ovaries might have some sort of psychosomatic disorder.
In the days preceding my doctor visit I had been worried about my ability, or lack thereof, to reproduce since try #5 yielded no positive results, and I know the worry is not good for me. It's getting old. So I made the decision that after try #6 I'm taking a break until the spring. I said as much to my doctor, and he was supportive but told me he hoped I wouldn't have to "pull a Ross and Rachel." I asked him if he would mind performing my next insemination in the back of an El Camino, with me stoned or drunk and wearing fishnet stockings and a tube top since that seems to work for a lot of the girls I teach. Without cracking a smile he said, "Does it have to be an El Camino? Because I think a Chevy truck and a turkey baster make a nice combination." I do love my doctor.
He sent me on my way with a prescription for Clomid, and while part of me does not want to publicly announce the details of my next insemination, because I am trying really hard not to worry and obsess, I will tell you (as if you could not figure it out on your own) that it should be around next Monday or Tuesday. Your good vibes and positive energy and prayers are appreciated. I'll let you know if the rabbit dies. Otherwise, we will not speak of this again. Amen.
The weekend progressed uneventfully, and on Monday morning I began my new twice-weekly 6 a.m. exercise regiment. Yes, that's right, I am actually getting up at the ass crack of dawn and hauling myself to the gym. Amazingly enough, I've enjoyed this new routine so far, and I have not been a total zombie on the elliptical machine, and I've gotten to work even earlier than usual. Oh, and MY BODY HURTS.
And now for the biggest, scariest news of all. On Monday while Gayle was doing some work at her church, the secretary, who is a good friend of hers (we'll call her J.), told her the story of a small boy named Corey. It seems that four years ago, J.'s sister's son got a 14 year-old girl pregnant. He was 19 at the time and did not marry her, nor did he play much of a role in the child's life. He has since married and had a daughter with his new wife; the girl he impregnated has since become a crack addict* (like her own mother) and often leaves her now four year-old son with J.'s sister (his paternal grandmother), or J. herself, for days and weeks at a time. He is skittish and timid. He will not get out of bed or up from the dinner table until he is told to do so, even if it means lying awake for hours or wetting himself, so afraid is he of getting into trouble. He has never been to the dentist, and only recently went for his first checkup since age 6 weeks. His father and step-mother do not want him. His mother and maternal grandmother do not take care of him. His paternal grandparents can't take care of him. So J. and her sister have decided that Corey needs a new family. And that new family might be me.
I said here on this very blog that I could never be a foster parent, and I still believe this to be true about myself. If he comes to live here with me it will be for keeps; J. is aware of this and agrees, and she is gathering information and asking all the right questions of all the right people in an effort to make this a reality. Surreal, isn't it? I could be the mother of a 4 year-old this time next week, or at least on the path to motherhood, and the really crazy part is that it feels like the right place to be. When Gayle called to report J.'s story something shifted inside of me, and it wasn't that place that longs to bear a child--that place is still intact, and I won't stop trying. It was something altogether different, and I couldn't explain it if I tried.
I mentioned a few weeks ago that thanks to Joy I am now receiving a daily message from The Universe in my email box. Last Tuesday, when I was still convinced I might be pregnant, The Universe said, "True, not everyone is 'meant to' have their own. For many, even dreaming of such things is virtually impossible. Fortunately, you're not one of those people. Prepare the way." At the time I thought, "yes, this is it, I AM pregnant!" But I wasn't. Then the call came about Corey. Today this message came from The Universe: "H., is it my imagination, or are you being 'tugged at'? You know, by those feelings that tell you either to 'have at it,' with the zeal of a lion... or to finally turn the page - the entire page - not just dog-ear it. You know, 'tugged at'? I thought so. Well then, may I suggest you act on it, as if nothing else mattered?" Whoa.
Just so you know, I don't believe in coincidence. I'm taking a deep breath...I think the winds are changing.
*Corey is NOT a crack baby. As far as we know he is as healthy as he can be under the circumstances.