Coming soon...

Saturday iz mah birfday, actually.

But I probably won't post until after the fact.

I am getting older again, and birthdays are fairly bittersweet for me. 

On one hand, I've managed to live another year.
And my dog Pokey is still here (I got her eleven years ago, on my birthday.) 

But on the other hand, I still don't have a child.
And I certainly don't have one on the way.

I think this year is worse in many ways.
For instance, I am not even pursuing any means of having a child. I mean, we're not preventing. I'm on cycle day twenty something or other. And no, I have not ovulated. I'm just being a whiny bitch and putting off starting my progesterone to bring on a new cycle. (I'll do it sometime soon, I swear.) Anyway, so there's no hope of accidentally (ha ha ha) getting pregnant. No plans on pursuing any treatment anytime soon. And we're a long way off from being able to afford adoption. I have to get a full time job to make that happen, which won't be happening for awhile.

I still have my other carpal tunnel surgery to get over with... one down, one more to go. I don't know how I got to be so lucky as to develop severe carpal tunnel at twenty-one, in both hands no less- but that's the kind of person I am. Apparently. Putting the surgery off for four years probably wasn't smart. But sometimes you do what you have to.

Also, last year's birthday still haunts me. It was a happy birthday. I had friends over, we laughed our asses off, enjoyed a good movie, and lived it up. I didn't think I would ovulate, despite being on a medicated cycle. I was completely carefree, assuming the Clomid would fail like to make me ovulate, as it had so many times before.

I was wrong. And, as some of you remember, I got pregnant. It was part of my birthday wish come true- and while I was hesitant, I had let a small piece of me dare to hope. Part of me thought it might go the distance. It was progressing so beautifully, perfectly in fact.

A month later, I was crushed to find out that despite all that it wasn't meant to be. It was my most successful pregnancy. But it ended like all the rest- except it was more painful, more drawn out, more draining, more haunting. That was number two; we've since had number three, right before Thanksgiving.
 
So, part of me if very much in that place. Still torn every which was about what happened, not knowing what went wrong, remembering the horror of it all. The hope, the crushing devastation. Reliving it all, over and over.

Part of me is here, remembering how another year has passed already. And knowing we're still no closer. Time is still standing still- and yet it isn't.

In case you're wondering... I'm turning twenty-five*.
Happy freakin' birthday to me.

But, like I said. I am still here.
So, I am going to make the best of it.
The best I can.

*I know that this isn't old by many people's standards, but you have to understand- I got married at twenty-one. We've been trying to become parents since I was barely twenty-two. I don't ovulate, and barely respond to fertility treatments. I mean, barely. I've had three miscarriages, and all the loss testing gave me no answers. I can't even make it to a heartbeat. And it will be years before we can come up with the money for adoption. Time is not my friend. Yes, I got diagnosed earlier than some, but it has not helped me. Not at all. I take no comfort in time. Time does not guarantee me that I will become a mother. Hell, time itself isn't even guaranteed.