Remember that last post? The one about the fertility clinic?
Right. So we went. We got lots of tests. (By the way, if anyone ever offers to take real-time x-rays while injecting iodine into your uterus - I'd pass. Ouch.)
And, (drum roll please) we're fucked. And not the good kind of fucked - we're screwed (and not the good kind of screwed). The "Houston, we have a problem" type of problem. A LARGE problem.
I'm not going into details but suffice it to say that the odds aren't good. According to our doc, there's a 10% chance we can still get pregnant with medication. There's a 10-20% chance it'll take surgery and IVF. And there's a 70% chance that we'll never, EVER, be able to have a biological child of our own.
And here's the absolute kicker. The odds that we'd be able to adopt are equally grim. Few people/foreign countries would be brave/stupid enough to give me, a thrice committed formerly suicidal, alcoholic borderline, a real-live human child. (Gotta tie everything back to the crazy - this is, after all, a blog about mental illness. Wouldn't want to disappoint.)
[many pages of bitter musings redacted]
So. Here we are. Potentially childless OR facing surgery on tender, unmentionable bits.
Fan. Tastic.
Maybe we'll just buy some more cats.
PS. If you know me in real life, don't call. We're in a bitter/nasty/tragic mood and we're not giving out details. I'll be in touch when we know more.
PPS. Yeah, I know, what did I expect when we moved back to New England... but, COME ON. Is there any freezing rain/ice/sleet left or is it all stuck to my car and my driveway? Dear god, I hate you too. Love, Juniper
