Today is October 2, 2010. There are 90 days remaining in the year 2010.
You begin the year by saying, "This is it. This is the year I'm going to beat IF." You resolve that this is the year you will get pregnant. This is the year you will end the roller coaster. This may even be the year you bring your baby home.
And then, in the blink of an eye, it's all gone. Another year and still an empty womb.
I remember standing in my mom's kitchen, champagne in hand. I toasted my mom and my husband, and I watched the ball drop in Times Square through misty eyes. This will be the year, I thought.
I tried. I tried to be positive. I tried to be hopeful. I tried surgery. I tried new drugs. I tried a new doctor. I tried to fight.
Then, with nearly half the year under my belt, I boarded a plane to New York and left my hopes and dreams sitting in an airport bathroom at Orlando International Airport. I'd had enough. I threw in the towel. Maybe I was a stupid, fucking quitter. Or maybe this was the step I needed to save my sanity.
Some days, I'm still unsure.
There are 90 days left before the New Year, and though I'm willing to say that this year was a little better than last, I'm still eager to give 2010 to finger - gone are my dreams, gone is part of my breast, and gone is yet another piece of my heart that I fear I'll never recover.
I hope that these next 90 days fly by. The less time spent enduring commercials about baby's first Christmas and another holiday season as the lonely infertile, the better off I will be. Because at the end, on day #90, I can plaster a genuine smile across my face, raise my glass, regain my confidence, and say, "Fuck you, infertility. THIS will be the year I get my miracle."
And maybe this time, I'll be right.