For all I'll always hate IF, it has taught me some things. For example: the very slightly beige color on the toilet paper this morning (sorry, TMI, I know) I would have previously dismissed as funny-colored pee, or my imagination. But this morning I took one half-asleep, one-second, sideways glance at it, and thought, "Oh, it's CD1." And so it is.
I'm not complaining that AF is here, because this month she was expected, in the sense of guaranteed (no husband around = no pregnancy. At least, in my household). Oddly, I don't take CD1s as hard as some infertiles (it works out, 'cause I take other things a lot harder than most, I think); but the fact that it's CD1, even if I didn't know, means I am hormonally odd, and so life is harder, in general.
There's also the fact that my email to Dr. L/C proposing I be prescribed femara - sent, I believe, on June 12 - has still received no reply. Not long after 8AM, I made my third follow-up call to the nurses' line, letting them know that today was CD1, that the mails probably weren't fast enough to get me a prescription in time for CD3 if they sent it today, and that my husband would be home this coming cycle - unlike last cycle, and unlike the cycle after this one.
How much of my life do I have to waste waiting for a lousy bottle of pills because a doctor cannot read a one-page email for six weeks? My message also said that if Dr. L/C is too busy, perhaps there is another doctor there who would be able to write me the prescription. I managed to do an overall tone that was sad rather than angry, an achievement for me. But I believe angry would have been fully justified.
Also today, I received an email reminder that donations for my coworker's baby shower* gift (the only other gal attorney here, and my ally; I've mentioned her before. She is the fabulous person who has not shown me ultrasound photos, because I haven't asked) are due today. I had been debating whether to throw money in the pot or buy something (not venturing into BRU, though!), and I decided buying was more personal and a better idea. The girl has an obsession with bags (not handbags, all bags), and I've read that boutique diaper bags are quite the thing among the bourgeois mommy set. So I very bravely ventured onto etsy unassisted, and found something (an over-the-stroller short-trip-sized bag) that I think she won't have, in a fetching print:
I did well, right? So why do I feel like crying my eyes out? It's internet shopping, for goodness' sake. This is what I do.
And speaking of crying my eyes out. I mentioned that I've been reading snippets of Scripture every day, per Father's directive. I've been generally flipping open at random to try to read things I haven't read recently (or at all). I don't go too superstitious on reading what my eyes land on - I'll go back to the start of the chapter or pericope so that the reading makes sense. But last night, wouldn't my eyes land - and stick - on this exact verse (Job 38:29):
"From whose womb has come the ice?"The context is God's reply to Job (Job has been complaining about the nasty curses heaped upon him with God's permission), in which God explains that Job didn't create the entire universe and isn't in a position to tell God what to do. In an amusing earlier passage in the same chapter, helpfully footnoted by the editors of the New American Bible to indicate that it is an example of "divine irony" (these people must not think their readers are very bright), God says:
“Where is the way to the dwelling of light?So, yes, context is key; we're not talking about any actual ice-bearing wombs, as birthing is rather a metaphor for God's creative activity. There's ice in creation; it's some serious stuff; God is pointing out that Job didn't make it. Nothing to do with fertility or bearing children at all. A nice evocative metaphor, even.
And darkness, where is its place,
That you may take it to its territory
And that you may discern the paths to its home?
You know, for you were born then,
And the number of your days is great!"
But I had just got done reading - whose quote was it? Mrs. A's? - that bit about the verses of Scripture being meant for us as well as for the original hearers; and in any case, leaping out at me as it did, I would have assumed that verse meant something particular. Just the fact that it's a question makes it the more striking. It's only rhetorical, as originally intended; but as a present reflection, it disturbingly fails to provide an answer. Can you read it and not think it's directed at you? I can't. The response leaps to the mind of its own power: "Yours, God? No, I know. You're right. It's mine." I can tell from the sound of the words that that's bad. But what does it even mean?
I don't have answers or suggestions or anything helpful. A million things ran through my head, and I lost a good deal of sleep crying and yelling at God. (I don't know how much of that I can attribute to the hormones, and I just realized I probably need makeup under my eyes. Sigh.)
I can say that I've branched out from my conviction that it's the loss of myself, not a child, that I'm mourning. I am more sure than ever that that's true. But I originally thought it was selfish: it would be more generous-hearted to mourn the loss of someone else. But I can see a different position now: mourning the loss of someone who never was could even be acquisitive. But I am. Mourning the loss of the good person I was supposed to be, and maybe at one time was, is sound morally - because the purity of the soul of an actual person who actually is, is an objective good, maybe even an absolute good. It may be more worthy of mourning than the absence of a child I could have had and didn't. Not that they're not both worth mourning, of course...
*Have I mentioned I was volunteered to help throw this shower?