It’s been awhile since I’ve posted. R has done a really nice job keeping up with the blog, but I find myself shy to write here sometimes. It’s almost 11:30 on Sunday night. Our house is very quiet. R is curled up next to me reading. She’s fighting off a nasty head cold, so she’s feeling kind of crumby. Our boy cat is using his magical healing properties (equal parts purr and annoyance) to try to help her recovery efforts. I scrubbed the house from top to bottom yesterday in an effort to reclaim our space from the ten or so construction workers who’ve been tramping about all week (we’re having some renovations done). The HEPA filter and the dishwasher are running in the distance creating a very particular, comforting white noise. Right now our house is the epitome of calm and safe.
It’s still so easy, though, to think back to eight weeks ago. To think back to those nights and weeks where nighttime spelled horror, fear, panic, anxiety, and sleeplessness. Nighttime is when we lost Emmett. It’s the ambulance out front at one in the morning. It’s when we couldn’t get a Dr. on the phone. It’s all of the bleeding and medication routines and insomnia and loss. As difficult as the grieving process still is on a daily basis, I am beyond grateful to be through that terror. I am grateful to not be so constantly afraid. There are people in our peripheral world who are walking through terror this week. Amidst all of the global turmoil and devastation following the earthquake/tsunami/nuclear meltdowns in Japan, there have been a number of local heartaches. My cousin lost her life partner this past Wednesday. Also, we have blog friends who are walking through open heart surgery with their infant son. My whole heart goes out to these kind and generous people as they face down massive grief and emotional obstacles. Their stories offer me perspective on my own. I know that it is cliche, but it’s easy for me to forget how connected (through joy, through grief, through fear) all of our individual lives are in this collective, human drama. It’s a humbling prospect, this living thing.
Another humbling prospect is (or isn’t) happening inside of me as I write. We’re now in the second-half of my first TWW. I knew that this experience would be much more muted than when we were getting R pregnant. It is. But I still find myself excited at different times throughout the day. On Tuesday, we have our first consult with a lesbian-friendly fertility clinic on the east side of the state. We were on the fence about keeping the appointment, but I think that there might really be something to having new environs and new faces helping us out. Also, they have a really high success rate with their inseminations, so perhaps it won’t take us as long to get pregnant. I think that would be a boon emotionally and financially. On Tuesday morning I’ll take an early pregnancy test (three days early) just in case we can save ourselves the trip! On the one hand, I know that it’s unlikely that I’m pregnant: it’s only our first try, I’ve only been tracking for two months, our IUI wasn’t as effective as we would have liked. But on the other hand, I think our timing was spot on, our donor has very high fertility, and my fertility should be quite good considering my health and family history. I guess we’ll know one way or another in six short days.
In other news, I finish my graduate degree in six weeks. I’m fervently on the job market at current, which (when combined with the unknowability of the conception front) makes my near-future pretty hard to pin down. I’ve decided that there is a lot of freedom and excitement to be found in these unknowns. At least that is the less-stressed approach I’ve decided to take. R and I have always worked and we’ve always been able to find work when we’ve needed it. I trust that this won’t be a different process. We’ll be sure to update later in the week once we’ve been to the fertility clinic. Until then…it’s time for some sweet sleep.