I should be having sex with my husband right now. It’s “that time,” right? Except. He tells me on our walk to the dirt track near our house that he doesn’t feel like it. That he doesn’t want to do it “this way.” Meaning timed intercourse and paying attention to my cycles (which have been jerking me around enough, lately–I don’t need this from him, too). Basically shooting down his former theories of super sperm in favor of the IVF-is-our-only-route-to-having-a-baby option.
Cue me trying my damnedest not to cry in public. Which leads to a headache. Which leads to me sulking the rest of the way. Which leads to Hubby asking me, “You don’t want to talk?” while we’re doing a little pre-workout stretch. Which leads to me wondering whether he means at all or just about this particular topic. Which leads to me shaking my head, just to be on the safe side.
Hubby and I have devised a system where he runs counter-clockwise and I (mostly) walk clockwise around the track so that we meet each other at least twice on each lap. Tonight, the first few times we cross paths, I don’t look at him. I can’t because if I look at him, I’ll cry.
But I’m not just sad. I’m also angry. Which I take out on myself, first by walking. Not a casual stroll or even speed-walk. This is angry-bordering-on-stomping kind of walking. And then I start running. And I am not a runner. But I run, and I feel good. I feel powerful. For about 3/16 of a mile. Then the burning starts. Not just in my lungs, but radiating all the way up my throat. I blame it on the altitude–because I’ve only lived at this altitude for 10 years–but I’m just plain out of shape. Or I have some kind of exercise-induced asthma, which sounds like a much better excuse.
So the burning starts, just as I’m passing Hubby, but I just keep on running, right past him, again without making eye contact. And then I stop. And pant. And try to catch my breath.
I walk/run another lap, and then walk into the middle of the field, past the golden pool cast by the too-fancy-for-a-dirt-track lights, to the edge of darkness. And I sit and wait for Hubby to find me.
And when he does, he asks if I’m okay. He asks what I’m thinking. He is generally good and kind, which makes me feel like shit for being so mad at him. He tries to talk me out of “magical thinking.” Says that when we get a higher sperm count, we can think about really trying. And I tell him, because it is just now occurring to me, that even though I know we have very little chance of conceiving on our own at this point, at least I feel like we’re doing something.
And he reminds me that we are doing something. Three times a week I inject him with two different needles (one for each cheek), and it’s actually starting to work.
I have to admit he’s right, but he also concedes that perhaps this progress doesn’t feel fast enough. Plus, even though I’m the one administering the shots, I’m not feeling the effects. He’s the one having (far fewer now) “hot waves” and marveling at the change in size and shape of his balls. He’s the one feeling the effects of what he claims is an increase in his testosterone levels, as exhibited by more energy, including the energy to run, and an overall better mood. I’m just the bystander. And I hate it.
Do I sound like a broken record yet?
There have been a lot of posts recently about identity, sense of self, hopes and dreams outside of baby-making. About not putting life on hold while in pursuit of a family. I want nothing more than to hop on that bandwagon. To give up this obsession with treatments and timelines and how we’re finally going to make this happen. To just be. I’m not sure I know how to do that anymore, but I feel like I have to try. I need a project. I don’t know what that’s going to be (but I’m open to suggestions).
Next week I’m going on vacation. Without Hubby. I’m getting on a plane next Wednesday and not coming home until the following Monday. Maybe it’ll be good. It’s been a while since I’ve missed him.
Tonight was a bump. But I have to say, if I have to be on this stupid roller-coaster, there’s no one I’d rather be strapped in with. I finished the book he got me for my birthday several days ago. On the last page are the words Mark Twain supposedly said of his own wife:
Wheresoever she was, there was Eden.
~The Diaries of Adam and Eve (p. 199)
I can only hope that in 50 years, Hubby still feels the same way about me.