I’m doing something new this week and writing my first Microblog Mondays post. Head over to Stirrup Queens if you’d like to read more #MicroblogMonday posts.
I’ve been taking a few steps back from the craziness of actively trying to conceive and infertility over the past couple of weeks, letting go just a bit so I can try to climb out of the misery that was taking over my every moment. I’ll dive back in in the future, after I’ve had a chance to regain some of my strength and confidence.
As I’ve been trying to enjoy all the wonderful parts of my life instead of always focusing on this one terribly difficult part, I’ve really been feeling much better most of the time.
But, every once in a while, in an unexpected place, something completely mundane comes up and threatens to knock down the fragile walls I’ve been constructing around my heart. This afternoon, for example, I was completing a health history form in preparation for tomorrow’s dentist appointment when I came across one innocent line of text, crowded in among dozens of other lines asking about illnesses, hospitalizations, medications, diets, etcetera, etcetera, and finally: “Are you pregnant?”
It has never hurt so much to place a checkmark in a plain little box next to a simple little word: “no.”