Inside me, there is a war being waged. And it’s not just a war between all the medications I am on. Seriously, there are 22 daily pills and one daily injection all vying for territory in my bloodstream.
No, the war inside me is a nasty, vicious one with no clear victor in sight and no way of knowing when it will end. It is the war between hope and doubt.
Those two are always duking it out.
Hope makes me think that the months and months of waiting to try again, of doctors visits and medicines and needles and ultrasounds and diet changes and acupuncture have made a difference and that this month, things will be different. Then doubt creeps in to tell me I’m getting all hoped up for nothing. Babies won’t grow in this body.
Hope makes me think that one little twinge holds all the answers. Doubt tells me it’s the broccoli I had at lunch.
Hope tells me to eat pineapple this week for implantation. Then doubt reminds me I’m so freaking far beyond getting help from a piece of fruit.
Doubt makes me think my body will never have the ability to do what it is supposed to do. Then hope swoops in and lets me believe that maybe just maybe the universe will cut us just one tiny little 9-month break.
Stupid hope and awful doubt.
Hope keeps me eager. Doubt keeps me safe. And I don’t know which one is worse.
Such is the hell of yet another two-week wait.