phone call

Today my ultrasound happened upon one tiny follicle. It was so tiny, in fact, that the doctor avoided talking about it. It's possible he was saving face from his embarrassing three follicle miscalculation the other day. But it's even more possible that its size was too small to ever amount to any significance. It's the estrogen that matters, he said. He'd call me later with the estrogen results.

I go home to a regular day. I rummage cabinets for Carter's picky eating habits. I'm pricked with IVF shots. I search under couches and in bags for a missing Toby the Tram. I assemble cups and pour milks. I finally get the phone call with major medical news about my family's future. I read Carter a book and bargain him into a nap. I tote him to humid playgrounds. Change sogging diapers. Wipe toddler tears when I sip my coke and refuse to share the cup.

At night, sitting in the silence, I can now process my thoughts about that phone call. My estrogen went up a little, but it's still incredibly unresponsive. I was told we have to cancel this cycle.

I am okay. I quietly told myself this, because the doctor didn't seem to care.

Here's where I get complicated. I feel guilty for feeling sad about this fail. When we were devastating ourselves over the need to have Carter, I said repeatedly to the sky above, Please, just let us have one, and I'll never want anything more in my life.

And then I was given my one.

I'm supposed to be putting every fiber of my being into loving and raising him - because I said I would. Worrying about shots and diverting dreams to a little being that isn't Carter has had me tinkering with a kind of awful feeling in the back of my heart. While it's true that I want this sibling to help fulfill Carter's life, I'd be lying if I didn't say I want it for myself, too.

There's still hope; we plan to move forward next month with another IVF cycle or two until we've exhausted our insurance benefits. But for now, my conscience is relieved to shift my focus back into the simplicity and oblivion that radiates around my ever-deserving, miraculous son.

I know, in time, that oblivion will absorb my sadness.