Every time I open the refrigerator, I see it.
Tucked away behind a pane of foggy transparent plastic as the warm air of the kitchen rushes against the cold shelf. The very thing that defined expensive, consecutive, heartbreaking rounds of treatment that led us into our 4th year of trying to conceive. The thing that I was sure would be the result of another baby. The thing that now holds a vial of unusable medication because it has been punctured for 10 months and counting…
The Follistim pen.
It’s still there… and every time I see it, I look past it, grab what I need, and move about my day. I guess I shouldn’t say “every time”, because there are moments where I stop and stare at it until the refrigerator starts beeping at me, as if to say “get it together, woman, you have a life to live.”
10 months. It’s seriously been 10 months since I cried out, “I just need a break. I can’t do this anymore.” Ten months since I thought “we’ll start again in the summer.” Ten months since we entered into the 4th year of trying… and now we’re creeping up on Year 5.