It occurred to me that my last post could have come off as a bit cocky, or at least overconfident--counting my chickens before their heartbeats hatch, so to speak. I know (as do all of us who read IF blogs regularly, especially anyone who's been around all the heartbreak of the last few months) that everything can go to hell in an instant. A yolk sac and fetal pole are no guarantees of a viable pregnancy--hell, even seeing a heartbeat doesn't guarantee you'll still be pregnant a week later. But I am trying--oh, how I am trying--to just enjoy this, to be optimistic, to assume the best rather than the worst. To speak of seeing the heartbeat, or being released to my OB, as things that will
happen, not things that might
Over the last couple of weeks, one of my coworkers has said to me, more than once, that I look "sad" or "forlorn" and is anything wrong? I thought it was ironic, considering I have had plenty of cause for elation these past weeks. But I guess my mute terror is leaking out onto my face at unexpected moments.
I was looking through my big fat file of infertility-related crap, and I realized that two years ago yesterday, I took my last birth-control pill. (I know this because I immediately embarked on the rollercoaster of charting...ugh.) There's a kind of poetic justice to the fact that exactly two years later, I had my 6w1d ultrasound.