30 years old, I stagger into therapy. I am preparing to undergo surgery in another month and I’m sure I will not wake up from the anesthesia. Truly positive. I know very few people die during a short routine surgery but I will be one of them. I wake up every morning and move across the sheets to be next to my husband, breathing in the scent of him. I am at T minus 30 days and counting. After that, I will not smell him again. I will not smell anything again.
I have been trying to get pregnant for over three years. I was brought up believing two things absolutely. The first – I can do anything if I want to badly enough. The second – my mother’s voice repeats over and over in my head, “You know better than to feel that way”.
So here I am. I have a laparoscopy scheduled to take a look-see at my girl parts. I want to be pregnant more than anything on earth. And I am wound so tight that I feel like I’m going to launch into space like a rocket and explode into millions of pieces and am totally unable to express this because I have no idea how to. All I know is that I know better than to feel so desperate and unhappy.
And so it begins…