I am in the middle of an extended "what's the use"-apalooza right now. Since I've already spent nearly $6000 on designer drugs, occupying their own special shelf in the fridge, I guess I am committed to the next cycle by default. (The few non-refrigerated Rx have their own space in the cupboard, and the giant bags o'needles have a drawer or two. Gee, it's not like infertility has made its fucked up self at home in every corner of my life and my house, right?)
Of the 10 or so bloggers I followed frequently when I started my first cycle of IVF, most are now pregnant; all but one of them are expecting twins. I really wanted to be one of them. Any of them. And I'm not. And it runs through my head at least a dozen times each day, "I might never be." I want to have a baby. And it's not up to me. And I hate that. We turned to IVF because we have severe MFI and were told it would work, that ICSI would solve our babymaking problems. And then the drugs didn't work the way they were supposed to, and my youth and good reproductive health stopped mattering and we got too few, too lousy eggs. Now I am assured that a new protocol will do the trick. Like Mulder, I want to believe. I really do.
One week until we start all over again. I want to be that positive woman who thinks, "It will work this time!" but today, I just can't go there. Here's hoping I get from here to there soon.