the weight of it all

So, as I mentioned in my inaugural TGIMFF post, I have an appointment in May with a specialist in NY. This doctor was the first to perform IVF in New York, and now mostly encourages more conservative fertility treatments. He believes that IVF is necessary for some, but way over recommended, and that there are other methods to bring a woman's body into balance. His specialty is - get this - RPL! At worst, his methods could prepare me to be in the best physical condition possible for IVF, if it comes to that.

For a few weeks now, I've been collecting my medical records from the various doctors I've seen since this whole nightmare began just over 5 years ago. I had all of the records sent to me so that I could keep a copy for myself, because I like the self abuse involved in reading through all of them. Anyway, after 8 failed pregnancies I have quite the stack of records. Several trees died to make that happen. (Great. Now I feel guilty for killing trees and babies).

And you know, it's all been weighing on me a bit. This doctor is kind of my last hope for a successful pregnancy. I don't think I have much more trying left in me, unless we can find something else to fix. I'm starting to feel Einsteinially insane, in the whole "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results" kind of way. I want to hope, but I'm afraid to all at the same time.

Anyway, I mailed out the packet at the post office substation in the grocery store across the street from my office. I'm in there a lot, and the workers can be VERY nosy. "Oh, an avocado? I like them but I can't get my husband to eat them..... Oh, a pregnancy test! Which outcome do you want?" And so on.

So of course today, the clerk asked "What the heck is in here? It's so heavy!" My heart trembled because I wanted to tell her off, to let her know that she was holding the weight of eight dead babies in her hands, the weight of a million shattered dreams and more tears than can be counted, but instead I gave her a warning look. She persisted, so I answered "Medical records." "Oh," she said. "Why are you sending your medical records to New York?"

(She read the label, which clearly indicated a fertility clinic, but wanted to grill me anyway.)

So I answered "None of your fucking business" and gave her a sweet smile as I paid.

Fuck nosy people. If you can't help me shoulder this load, you don't deserve a peephole into my heart and all of the weight it's been crushed by. (Present company excluded, of course!)