I’ve only recently taken up drinking coffee, and it’s mainly because there was a day when I was out of Diet Mountain Dew and I really needed caffeine. So I loaded it up with powdered creamer and sweeteners, then convinced myself it was drinkable.
I had a little travel mug next to me Saturday afternoon; it was half-full of coffee and I could not lift it. A co-worker brought his baby by my desk to visit while he had some business in the store, so I sent him off and made googly eyes at her for fifteen minutes. There was bouncing and tickling and snuggling, and by the end my arm muscles were shot. Man, though, if you’ve got a three-month-old right on the edge of smiling, you’re going to do what it takes to push her over the edge, whether your biceps are faltering or not. I was successful, but I needed a good nap afterwards.
Heather stopped by and said she hoped that was inspirational. “Maybe we need to stop by some hospitals and look at their babies. It’ll keep us motivated.”
Her particular reason for suggesting the maternity ward creepiness is that we had a fucking blow-out Friday night. I’m not trying to air our dirty laundry, but I feel like this blog is supposed to accurately and honestly reflect what it means to go through… fertility challenges. Wednesday was Nashville, Thursday was back to work and the conclusion we needed occasional quiet time other than the incidental, and Friday was the latest round of nurses' voicemail roulette. Regular readers will know that Friday was a rough day for me, and I was ready to go home, hide out with Gilmore Girls, and think only of Rory and Logan with nary a consideration for AMH. Whatever that is.
We got home Friday after work, then split up-- me to the bedroom with laptop and DVDs, she to the living room with Chico. Around 9:30, she popped in and silently offered me a plate of French toast with a nice glass of milk, then came back half an hour later to pick up the dishes. Perfect.
Around 10:40, she busted in, saying she missed me and couldn't wait all the way till 11. We snuggled up on the bed and made it another ten minutes, till she brought up something about IVF and I begged her to stop. I told her I couldn't stand to think about it and that I really needed a break. She persisted, saying I was exaggerating how much we talked about it, and I started to cry in her arms. This went over poorly, several minutes later resulting in her leaving the room. It wasn't even 11 yet.
I turned all the lights out, turned the TV back on, and curled up in the middle of the bed, because I was so angry that I would not abide by the normal her side/my side system.
At some point she came back in, was incensed that I had blown off the fight and started watching TV again. A solid "Fuck you!" followed, and I followed her back to the living room so we could keep saying awful things to each other. I said I felt that all we did was talk about IVF, etc., and she disputed. I said there was a voicemail on my phone from Therapist Michele that I couldn't bear to play, and that I was haunted by having to make more phone calls Monday. I'd still forgotten about the stockbroker.
"Maybe our relationship can't survive this," she said. "Maybe we should just quit."
There was more to it, and we're still going, but that's what happens. Thank god for Saturday's cute baby. My arms are still tired.
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