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Maybe I?m just oversensitive. Maybe people are just overly ignorant. Maybe it?s both. But lately, it feels like everyone is saying the wrong thing.
Everyone tells me to just relax. They ask me if I?ve considered adoption. They proclaim that everything happens for a reason. But if they even think about asking me if we?re going to try transferring our embryos soon, it will tip me over the fine edge of hysteria, on which I?m always teetering.
The need to do something extreme is bubbling up inside. Things that used to console me are no longer effective. Wine nights with friends help a little and yoga takes the edge off, but the anger is still stirring. Usually, I write about it, but I can?t bring myself to type a single word. If I were a drinker, I?d go on a binge. If I were a slut, I?d have an affair. If I were a rebel, I?d get a tattoo. Instead, I spend the next three months of winter dodging the one question everyone keeps asking: When are you going to try IVF again"

The embryo-storage bills continue to come and we pay them, but I don?t want to think about those nine little beings. I can?t even look at the red sharps container from my October injections. Just thinking about needles and ultrasound wands makes me shudder.
One April evening, I open my drawer and fish through my camisoles until my fingers grasp the strings of the baby bib I?ve tucked away in there. I bring it to my chest for a hug.
I start thinking about our nine f...