We met with the doctor again on Friday to talk about next steps. I didn't want to talk to him. Honest conversations about odds and statistics make me sad and peevish. Which is exactly what happened.
It went badly from the moment he opened our file folder and showed us the results from the genetic tests. "Female" and "male" next to the numbers. Girls and boys. It made it real and sad, these sons and daughters that were never real, would never become our babies.
He told us not to be discouraged. That it's a numbers game. That he was encouraged by the number of eggs he was able to retrieve and if we try again, maybe odds would be in our favor. At some point, near the end of the month, we'll start again.
"Eat well. Exercise. Be positive," he instructed. As if it's as easy as that, being positive. As if the disappointments and fears are things I can set aside.
I like the article, because I like cake. Obviously.
But also to be reminded that I might not have it all, but I have to be grateful for what I do have. The moments like eating cake. Or baking cake. Or sitting with my husband, cuddled with our dogs, together.
It's not everything we want. It's a crime that my husband is not a father.
But it's what we have, and we have to celebrate the cake we have.
And hope for more cake. Lots and lots and lots of cake.
Our lack of success has made me feel so helpless, like all my hopes and dreams are up in the air.
So I rebelled in small ways.
Cocktails over the long Labor Day weekend. Strawberry margaritas, cold beer, pink silly frothy drinks. I'm not much of a drinker these days, so it felt indulgent.
I stopped taking prenatal vitamins.
And I drank fully caffeinated tea.
I'm back to my old habits now - decaf team, vitamins. But for those few days, it made me feel like I was giving the finger to the world, that I could do what I wanted with my own body, even just a little bit.