Stress

I am feeling like I am stretched a little--or maybe a LOT--too thin these days. Suddenly, things are hopping at work again; I'm also ready to move on, despite the giant pile of work on my desk, and deep in a job search--which is super fun and fruitful in this economy, let me tell you; I'm donating a ton of time to a local charity--more than I planned, because people haven't followed through with their own end of things as they had promised, and I don't have it in me to leave things undone; and I have a million things around the house and yard that need to be done, particularly given that we are STILL renovating--and that's kind of the LAST thing I feel like doing these days. Ugh. It's massive craziness here, and nothing feels like it is progressing quickly enough. I'm trying to pick away at my to-do lists a little every day, but the slow pace of my so-called progress is maddening.

And then there's Tuesday's visit with the RE. I am both looking forward to having the appointment, and afraid to go forward to the appointment, afraid of finding out the answers to the questions that I have had for so long. It is somewhat terrifying. I learned last night that an acquaintance who has struggled with both male factor and endo has been told, after several years of trying and tens of thousands of dollars spent, that she will be unable to have her own children. Not surprisingly, she is devestated. Last week, I learned that another acquaintance just had a miscarriage, in what will be her last cycle after multiple failed IVF's. Again, devestation.

You never plan for that to be you, and you can't possibly prepare for that to be you. Truthfully, I don't feel like that will be me. I come from a long line of procreators. It's the one thing the women in my family have really excelled at--they've racked up babies the way I've racked up degrees, frequently in a very unplanned way. (You KNOW the fates are laughing at me for getting said degrees rather than getting knocked up in my twenties.) But by going forward with this appointment this week, I have to confront the fact that it really could be me. Right now, as I sit here, I don't have an official diagnosis (in part, because my old OB saw no reason to run any tests). There isn't anything officially wrong with me. I can still pretend in my head that everything is fine, and that I'm just a little unlucky. As much as I want to make every effort to make sure everything is okay and take every step possible to have a successful and healthy pregnancy, it's kind of nice not knowing whatever the truth is. I kind of don't want to know the news, if it's bad news. Ignorance really is bliss.