Can I tell you how much I hate having to listen to the nurse on the other end of the phone, sweetly and sympathetically telling me that my Beta was negative? Today was the sixth time this year that I've called my RE for my blood test results, and I heard yet again that it hadn't worked. The nurses who give me the news are always so nice. I really appreciate that. They are never abrupt or harried. They are always, always kind. But some times that's even harder, you know? Some times, even the slightest tone of empathy or understanding in someone else's voice is enough to crack open the gate that I try so hard to keep tightly closed. Because if I don't keep it shut, I will be rolled over by its iron weight, its inevitability, its massive truth.
Today wasn't as bad as other months though, I must admit. Really, this cycle never seemed quite right. It was always wonky and backwards, so my expectations were rather low. I spent a good 30 minutes staring at the wall with tears in my eyes, and I've been fighting back the odd tear all night. But I'm not my usual basketcase self at the news of yet another negative. I'm ready and chomping at the bit to try again. One more cycle of IUI with Clomid before we move on to injectibles. I'm just hoping I have a nice normal period in a couple of days, and none of the mindfuck spotting that tormented me a few weeks ago.
So you see, I thought I was doing quite well. But a few minutes ago, my husband hugged me, looked at me worriedly, and said he wished I wouldn't get so upset. "We're only at the beginning of medical treatment", he said, and he's concerned that I'm not handling it well. So much for my calm and reasonable response to the negative result. Apparently I'm sending out as many danger signals as usual. I pointed out to him that my feelings aren't weird, and he instantly said "Yes, you're part of this whole group of women now who are struggling with the same things you are ... a whole silent group of women that nobody ever talks about." Um, YES! How did he get to that comment so quickly? Is he reading my blog? Honey, are you reading my blog? Because otherwise, how would he really understand that I know I'm not hopelessly weird because of YOU wonderful women out there who are going through the same shit I am or worse.
Which brings me to the next thing on my mind. I have always been a worst-case scenario kind of gal. What I mean is, whenever I'm going through a challenging time, I think of what the worst-case scenario would be. Because if I can imagine the worst, and can see how I might survive that situation, then getting through the present struggle seems far more manageable. For example, when I went to graduate school ten years ago, during my first year, I was completely over my head. I was blown away by the difficulty of the program, by the brilliance of my peers, by the sheer academic magnitude of what I'd gotten myself into. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I was a neurotic freaked-out mess. And that's when my worst-case-scenario trick kicked in automatically. I thought, what's the worst that could happen? Answer: I could perform miserably, make a fool of myself, show myself to be the intellectual fraud that I feared I was and completely fail out of school. And then? Well, even though it would have sucked, I remember thinking that I could imagine surviving that ... going home to my parents to regroup, thinking up new career plans, making the best of a bad situation, etc.
I've been doing the worst-case-scenario bit lately (completely unintentionally, mind you) as a way of dealing with infertility. I only realized this today, when, after I got my negative result, I was staring blankly out the window. It was late afternoon, and it's still pretty hot here in Texas, so the crickets were beginning to make their symphonic noises. I'm always seduced by that sound, so I let my ears get caught up in its rhythms, and my eyes be lulled by the soft light outside the window. The chirping of crickets almost always reminds me of my own childhood, of late summer nights playing with friends in the street, trying to get one more game in before mom called me home, or getting ready to catch fireflies in glass jars as the sun went down.
All of a sudden I had a vision so clear that it could have been a memory ... but it was a memory of the future, so to speak. My own childhood images morphed instantly and powerfully into pictures of my own daughter and her friends playing in the lawn as the crickets crooned their twilight song. And of me helping the kids gather their things from the lemonade stand that we had set up earlier in the day, counting the dimes and nickels while the late-afternoon sun glowed and the girls chatted merrily. And what I knew without thinking about it was that this girl was an adopted child from China. I couldn't see her clearly, only the vague outlines of black hair and akimbo arms, and I could hear her voice from a distance, giggling with her friends and asking me questions.
And I realized that this beautiful little scene that, like a dream, left an intangible but powerful feeling, was my worst-case scenario. Because if all else fails, if all medical treatments leave me with nothing but a series of negatives, then we will pursue adoption from China. I know that if I were being sensible, it's too early in our treatment to start thinking seriously about adoption. We have many months of cycling left before making that decision. But remember, in times of stress, I need to develop the worst-case scenario. And if the worst that could happen is my lemonade stand girl, then I think maybe I could be a happy, lucky woman. A mother.
