I don’t believe everything I read. Just, y’know, most of it. So, to the script inside this fortune cookie I say, “No, really?!” Except of course I mean, “No duh.”
Not for nothing, I peruse travel mags. I keep cut-outs and bulleted lists of destinations I’d visit if only I were loaded and had lots of time and, say, didn’t find myself nursing mild ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome.
I’d check into a premium bungalow at Little Palm Island in the Florida Keys, hit up a lux spa in Sedona (ahem: Enchantment, anyone?), revisit Paris and forego hostels for Hotel le Bristol. As it is though…
Yesterday morning, we underwent IUI: The Third, a mostly unremarkable experience except for how we spent a long time chatting up Nurse Julia about our mounting (hormone-induced?) hopelessness. The Projected Pops’ numbers have improved, my bod appears cooperative, timing has been spot on and yet here we are. Again. Fear not, said Nurse Julia, swapping a speculum for a size more suitable for sleuthing out a sneaky cervix, this could be your month.
Could be. Probably isn’t. But look on the bright side: We’ve got two cycles to go before insurance foots the bill for the more effective IVF.
In the meantime, by body (or some combination of my body hopped up on Gonal F and Ovidrel) have seen that paper fortune materialize into a weekend staycation during the course of which – special thanks to the World Wide Web, Condé Nast and Travel Channel, I’m going places! If only in my wildest imagination.
Godspeed, me. Godspeed.