All Right, Here We Go

I can't believe it: tomorrow, they're pulling my eggs. It feels real because (1) I'm a little bloated and uncomfortable, and (2) I just GORGED myself because I can't eat again until it's over, and I don't want to be too hungry. So I pigged out. (And have been trying to calculate how long it will take me to lose the overeating/medicating weight of this cycle, which I have to discount by adding back in the setback of my nightly glasses of red wine. My dear red wine--I DO miss you).

But here I am, ready to do this. And today I was talking to a friend and I said something and suprised myself by realizing it's actually true: getting pregnant no longer bears relation to me being happy. Is that crazy or what? Not to say I won't feel happy about being pregnant, if it happens. But it isn't straightforward, either. I'll have to worry about it not working out in the end, and feel apprehensive about the future and having a baby to take care of, and marvel and fret about being responsible for helping another person find his or her way in this world.

And also, it not working is not a death knoll to happiness either. Sure, I'll probably feel sad. And sure, my ego will be wounded, because try as I might, I am still shallow enough to believe the line of garbage that comes out of smug mothers, about how it's the most meaningful thing you can ever do, and it's what makes you a "woman," even though I already feel like a woman, even though I see a whole, complete person when I look in the mirror, even though I am afraid of that person being swallowed by a giant belly and then a small person with giant demands on my time, my energy, my career, my heart. If doesn't work, there are doors unopened, avenues unexplored--and it's exciting.

So there's a part of me that can hardly wait, just to know, that's bursting with excitement about what comes next, either way. To move beyond this, to feel it is no longer a weight I must carry and feel when I see an old friend with her baby, when I watch another belly grow, when I am asked a question about my child-bearing future that is not meant to injure. Oh sure, I'm obsessed with how many eggs I'll get, and if my lining is just right, and if my estradiol is high enough when last time it was too high. Hours of research say it's all where it's supposed to be, and being type A, that makes me feel "average" instead of blessedly, thankful, wonderfully normal. You can't take the type A out of the girl, ya know? If this is unsuccessful, I'll always care it never worked, but partly just because I think it should because I want it to, because all the conditions were right, because it should. Because I want to control it and can't. But hopefully, I've learned enough to appreciate the things that come with it not working. Not working doesn't mean failing anymore. Not controlling it doesn't mean things aren't exactly as they should be.

So wish me luck. I don't know what tomorrow brings, or the days beyond. But it's a start to something new, something I feel ready for. So here we go.