Yes, seriously.

Ok so the boodwork was negative - no surprise. Still no kid anywhere in sight.

And I guess I'm through at least a couple stages of grief by now since I'm no longer angry like I was on Thursday. Well, maybe a still a bit angry at the universe but that's kind of like background radiation at this point. I've either skipped completely over the bargaining stage or am so squarely immersed in it that I can't tell. I'm definitely hitting some of the highlights of the depression stage (why bother, what's the point, ect) but lord knows that's NO country for me to linger in. I would not say I've reached any form of acceptance - though we have made up our minds about what we want to do.

We're going to try again. Husband is very adamant we not give up, GC has said she's ok to go again, and the money - well, that just is what it is. Let's hope we don't owe the IRS too much this year and that we can find a cheap place to take a few days off this July. HOWEVER. I really want to try to make this next round easier.

For starters: I will talk to the clinic about getting their shit together. I want to switch coordinators and get one that will always keep me in the loop and take a lot of this organization off my shoulders. I will also probably talk to my friend, my "GC," about how it's just hard for me to feel like all of this is out of my control. I know she knows this (I've said it before) but it'd probably be good for me to say it because I really don't want her to pick up on my frustration and ever be insulted in any way. I do trust her judgement - it's just hard (for me) to trust anyone with something like this. Lifting some pieces of furniture and driving through a snowstorm is not really considered dangerous if you're a little bit pregnant. I mean, it's not like she was skydiving while drinking a handle of tequila. I'm just hyper-sensitive. And when you spend two weeks hoping and frankly, looking for any kind of a sign that this worked, you get hyper-ultra-crazy-sensitive. So that one's on me.

I read (well, truthfully, devoured) a good book last week called The Baby Chase all about surrogacy. It basically confirmed that we're doing the right things and for the right reasons. It made me feel better about not trying any half measures or adoption and going straight to the most extreme intervention possible. However, it did explain that even when you get all the pieces right, no one really knows why IVF only has a 33-50% chance of working and there are a lot of people who try and try like us with no success - and how galling that can be. It also talked about the expense and how most people cannot do this and wind up going to India or a foreign country where health care is cheaper.

My favorite part of the book was that the woman trying to have a baby (real woman - nonfiction) was ineligible for adoption because of a history of psych issues. And it talked about how parody laws were supposed to cover mental illness but they don't really deal with so many things that I guess some would deem quality of life issues. Yes, in American today, you now can be mentally ill and have some access to care (well, unless you get incarcerated in which case, god help you). She had medicine and was no longer a risk to herself. But most mentally ill suffer daily with a chronic disability that there are no handicapped ramps for. Access to many of the things in life that "regular" people have is out of reach. Like raising a child. Like a career.

Last night, my conversation with my husband turned back to why I can't carry this baby in the first place - my anxiety and the physical symptoms it's spawned. Why AM I so anxious we both wonder sometimes. We have a very nice life these days. Ultimately, I told him, a lot of what frustrates me these days is how small my life has become. I grew up thinking I'd be someone important in my field. Then, when I was extremely sick and trying to get better, I believed that was a noble battle to be fighting and was proud of how better I got after how sick I'd been. But since we left California, and my illness has been "in remission," I haven't really done anything too spectacular: I've kept a house, organized our financial lives, performed well at my job and took great care of our marriage and pets. But none of that comes close to the level of achievement I expected. Perhaps it's foolish and egotistical to dream big. Or, perhaps it's appropriate considering my education. I'll never know.

I do know, however, why I no longer dream big. I assume I cannot do things because I'm disabled. And hunkering down into a little inoffensive ball is making my neck hurt - literally. I want to stand UP.