Ranting on the Irony of it All

I've been in a purge mode in the last few months. Cleaning out the spare odd terra cotta pots and saucers on my patio, donating old clothing to the local thrift store, and last week I offloaded off the bulk of my IVF pharmaceutical regalia. Oh, and I now have chickens. Yes, 5 chickens. They were bought in a moment of anti-purge, but I'll write about them another day.

Today, I had a wild hair up my derrière to call two of my RE's just to see where I was on their embryo donation list. I didn't get an answer right away as it was early in the AM.

About 5pm this evening I noticed a voice mail on my cell. It was the last clinic I cycled at. Apparently they move their embryos rather quickly because I'm #9 on the list. Nine. I nearly choked. The embryologist explained that I could expect to do my transfer as early as 3 or 4 months out.

And the irony of this? Last week I sold off my fertility drugs, tomorrow I'm having surgery to remove my abdominal surgery scar that went hypertrophic because I figured I'd never have that c-section my ob/gyn promised me (narrow hips) so why not get rid of it?

But that's not all of it. I've lost 25 pounds in the last year (mostly IVF weight) and haven't done a damned thing that us infertiles tend to do when cycling. I've been eating meat, the occasional dairy, coffee and tea with caffeine, and I haven't done much to stay on top of my vitamins as of late. Wheat grass? What's that? In essence, I'm not physically ready for an embryo donation. I'm also not emotionally ready for an embryo. But how am I supposed to wait? I mean, this is what I was working for the last few years. Things are about to change, shift. Why am I not jumping up and down for the joy of it all?

As for J and I? J and I are still living together but it's more like he's a roommate than a partner these days. Everything turns into an argument. There's barely any affection left between us and let's just say, that had I fallopian tubes left, there would be precisely zero chance of my getting knocked up the old fashioned way. It's sad what infertility led to, but I know we're not the only ones stressed by this.

Life's changed quite a bit since our canceled cycle with Dr. Pompy last March. J and I have drifted apart and I'm sort of seeing someone ("D") who has kids of his own (as well as a vasectomy and little desire to sire more children, although I reckon he might help me out if I begged and promised to not make him responsible for yet one more mouth to feed). He's in a similar predicament as I: he lives in a guest cottage over the garage of his wife's property as his children are young and he needs to be there. I totally get where he's at. But there's no affection between the two of them and she's moved on as well.

So a little tube of embryos on ice somewhere in the Bay Area is earmarked for my uterus. And I don't know what the hell I am going to do. It's quite clear that if I proceed I am signing up to be a single parent because I don't assume that anyone will be on this ride with me. I've started a new job and I can afford a child and a house on my own at long last. My mother, who is 91 and healthy as a horse, lives with me and would make a great nanny. Everything is in order. But apparently my brain is NOT.

*help*