So Long at the Fair

It's such a cliche it hurts to type it, but that doesn't make it any less true:  these past few months of IVF, pregnancy and miscarriage have been one hell of a roller coaster ride. There were dizzying ascents and devastating drops. I was thrown for a loop and spun around until I wasn't sure which end was up.

I'm only just beginning to get my equilibrium back.

Six weeks after the miscarriage, my hormones have leveled out and I'm feeling much more steady. It hit me today:  I feel like myself again. I'll always grieve the loss of our little boy (did I mention that last week I found out, entirely by accident and in a manner as casual as this parenthetical digression, that the baby was a boy?) but now that the hormones have stopped turning all my emotions up to eleven, I can deal with it much more gracefully.

Yesterday I told the story of the past 3 months to my hairstylist (she charges about the same as a therapist, AND I get snazzy highlights) and made it all the way to the end without crying or retching.

A co-worker ambushed me in the parking lot and foisted her 2-month-old butterbean on me, squealing "I know you want to hold the baby!" And I cuddled and cooed and breathed in the sweet new-baby scent of his feathery hair without rancor or sorrow, and also without crying or retching.

I don't really hate babies. But I do hate roller coasters. I'm not a thrill-seeker, I don't get off on the "rush."  Sheer panic short-circuits my brain, I freeze in terror, I hurl expletives -- there's nothing amusing about it.  You couldn't pay me to get on one of those contraptions at Six Flags or the State Fair.  No thanks, you all go ahead and have fun with that, I'll be over here tossing rings over milk bottles to win a stuffed frog.

But I've willingly hopped on the IVF roller coaster again and again. I have one ticket left, one final ride before the carnival moves on.  Forget the stuffed frog, I'm going for the big prize - the golden baby - and my only chance of winning it is to brave the Cyclone one last time.

All the paperwork from Dr K's office arrived in the mail this week. We've decided to do the phone consult with him.  Dr S has already sent him all my records and test results. Once I send in my completed medical history form, the ball is in motion. We'll find out what Dr K recommends, and then it's just a matter of time before the wild, final ride will start.

This form is the thing that, so far, has impressed me most about Dr K.  One of the questions asks, "what do you believe is causing the problem?"  I've been waiting for someone to ask that, and take my answer seriously, for a long time.  Of course I don't know what's causing the problem, but I have some ideas and more to say on the subject than will easily fit in the 3 short lines they've allowed me.

But I'm dragging my feet.  I've had the form for several days and have yet to fill in as much as my name.  It's like I'm standing outside the fairgrounds, admission ticket in hand, hesitant to enter the gates and get in line. Maybe I'm not ready to ride again. Maybe I'm scared to use my last ticket. Maybe I just want to wander around and eat cotton candy for a little while, now that I've finally stopped projectile vomiting my emotions all over the place.

The scariest thing about a roller coaster is that once you're in motion, you have no control over what happens next.  There's no steering wheel and no brakes. All you can do is hang on for dear life.

I'm not ready for another white-knuckle ride.  Not yet.