We waited six years after getting married before trying to get pregnant. It was a long time, but I didn’t know what waiting was. Once we started trying, three months went by, then six, then a year, and I learned about a whole different kind of waiting.
Waiting for my temperature to go up.
Waiting half an hour on my back with my knees hugged to my chest.
Waiting 2 minutes, then 3, then 10 for the HPT to change color. Because the problem is just that I haven’t given it enough time, right?
Waiting to see a doctor because there’s not really anything wrong, is there?
Waiting for the answer.
Well, I am tired of waiting. I am too old and too cranky to sit around and wait any more. My husband and I talked several months ago about waiting till he was finished with his degree before pursuing any kind of treatment for IF–but I am starting to think that life is too short for that. I have given eight years to waiting and I just don’t have any more time to waste.
That seems like the kind of statement that I ought to be able to follow up with some kind of manifesto, or scheme, or napkin covered with scribbled plans. I have nothing of the kind. Nonetheless, it felt good to say it.