My RE’s office has a very distinctive smell. It’s not bad by any stretch, but it’s potent enough that as soon as I step in the door I’m overwhelmed by feelings of hope and disappointment–two emotions I’ve felt intensely in alternating two-week intervals for the past six months. It’s a sterile smell, but doesn’t remind me of a hospital. I think it’s the combination of brand-new-berber-carpet and too-fresh-paint-smell. It’s so strong that it stays stuck in my nostrils for the remainder of the day, and my mind wanders back to the waiting room at random moments when I inhale too deeply.
I can almost smell the office when the nurse calls this afternoon. We have to skip our IUI for the second time in as many months because I’ve already ovulated. Apparently I’m a lovely anomaly who has such a short LH surge that it’s difficult to be detected by an OPK. “Next month,” she says, “if there is a next month, we’ll bring you in early for your ultrasound and probably trigger you so we can time the IUI.” If there is a next month? Sometimes I feel like my RE’s office has way more faith in my body than I have. Even with perfectly timed intercourse and four follicles last month, I did not become pregnant. Why should it be any different this time?
The truth is, I’ve been trying to have more faith in my body, but it’s difficult when I feel so betrayed month after month. It’s as if I think I’ve figured something out, I’ve got the solution to why I’m not pregnant after two years, and then my body laughs in my face and throws me another curve ball. Another obstacle to surmount. Another piece of this million-piece puzzle that slips through my fingers.
This is where I am today. Overwhelmed by odors before I’m even pregnant, and trying to reconcile my brain with my body. Or my body with my heart. In any case, I really wish they’d all get on the same page already.