I hate April Fool’s Day. Hate it. I’m not tricky or clever, and I don’t like it when other people try to be. Don’t get me wrong–it was hilarious when my mom fed my brother chocolate-covered-cubes-of-wax. But any scenario involving me as the butt of the joke? No, thanks. I managed to muddle through yesterday unscathed, practical-joke-wise, but so far, the month is off to a sucktacular start, even without the pranks:
I have a warring fear/desire for sex going on in my body and brain. I’m not exactly “in the mood,” but I don’t want to miss what might be our last opportunity while Hubby still has a few sperm. Apparently, since starting the testosterone injections again, his balls are shrinking (or so he reports to me on a nightly basis). I’m torn between not wanting our last chance for a miracle to slip away and the reality that IVF didn’t work for us–plain ol’ sex probably isn’t going to cut it. I just don’t want to look back and be tortured by what-ifs.
Hubby hasn’t heard about the post-doc yet, but he did have another phone interview yesterday with a non-academic company. (A job for which he’s over-qualified, and if he were to get it, would likely be underpaid, given his skill level.) Until we know what he might be doing job-wise, it seems we can’t even think about what to do baby-making-wise. Too many variables. So we’re in limbo again. Only, this is a much worse limbo than waiting around with money in the bank to start IVF. So. much. worse.
Yesterday, for the first time since learning our IVF/FET didn’t work, I skipped work. It was a miserable day from the moment I got up, and I just didn’t want to be there. One of my families cancelled, so I went ahead and cancelled my only other afternoon appointment and then called into the office “sick” for the rest of the day. Not my usual obliged-to-work-even-when-I-really-don’t-feel-like-it self. Dr. N offered to write me a note to get me out of work a couple of weeks ago. Maybe I should take her up on that…but then I’d just be home wallowing. Not pretty.
Speaking of not pretty, I desperately need a hair cut. I really want to cut it all off super short again, but I hesitate to do that because it would only serve to draw attention to me, and I don’t want anyone paying too much attention. They’ll see that I’m still super sad, even though I try to hide it with a fake smile and a fancy new hairdo.
Which brings me to my latest sad realization. I’m fighting the impulse to be in a good mood. Because if I’m having a good time, that means I’m over it, and I’m not ready to be over it. I know it’s ridiculous. I know I don’t have to be miserable every second of the day to still be affected by what is (still) a huge loss. But I’ve been nothing if not illogical the past couple of weeks.
Oh, yeah. And last night I had a dream I was giving birth. So that’s great.