All of the Tomorrows

It is the eve of something I never considered. With the craziness at work and for school this week, tomorrow and the consultation with the RE totally crept up on me. Tomorrow. Seriously. Me. 25 and healthy. Surely just needing a jump start and not a complete overhaul or diagnostic testing. What I mean is that I had a lot more faith than I let on that one of these months (with or without the magic pills) we would just turn up pregnant. We haven’t and I remain puzzled about that. When I did remember that the appointment with the RE was tomorrow, I got really excited because he is going to solve all of our problems and figure out how to get us pregnant. Right? And he’ll surely do it in a clear, honest, empathetic way. But what if he doesn’t figure it out? What if he is a prick that preys on the insecurities and pain that infertile women carry? I’m remembering that I have been taught to never put all of my eggs in one basket, whatever that means. The only realistic solution to this is obvious, to attend my appointment tomorrow. To inform the doctor of my expectations. To be clear and honest. And to hope that he is Dr. Wonderful. I don’t know what to do if he isn’t. All my eggs are in his basket. This infertility thing isn’t disappearing by itself. As evidenced by the need to visit the RE, this infertility thing is real. Not in my head, not in the emotional hormones of the magic pills, not an illusion, just very very real. I refuse to play the how-infertile game. I’m here, I have arrived, and I sure as hell plan on doing something about it.