I lie on my bed, arm over my face so I can’t watch what is about to happen. The man I love grabs a sizable chunk of my stomach fat and jabs a needle into it. I expect pain, but I feel nothing.
This isn’t the first time he has done this to me. It is the seventh, and thankfully the last, day of pin pricks to my abdomen. The third hormone I’ve had pumped into my body, with one goal in mind. All of this leads up to the next two days where the doctors hope to give us a better chance. A chance that most of the population starts with. After 30 months our chances are not what they used to be.
Then comes the waiting. Hopes that this could be it infiltrate my every thought, my dreams, my life. I worry about what I eat, what I do, and the fact that I’m worrying. Too much anxiety will work against me, so I listen to soothing music, meditate, and try to relax.
I can sense it didn’t work before I even know for sure. Confirmation follows with one pink line. The rest of the day is a waste. Still, I read other women’s stories, and start to think there still may be hope. Two days later another pink line, only one, followed by blood that holds no hope. Everyone says they are sorry. I don’t say a word. If I do I won’t be able to stop crying. I would say “thank you” if I could, because it feels like the right thing to say.
Today is better. We have a plan for moving forward. The same plan as before, but we will give it another shot. After that we move onto our last hope, everyone’s last hope.