F'ing Hope

Every month, without fail, I still get sideswiped by hope. A seemingly benign thing to those who have not had crushing painful disappointment—month after month. For those of us who have never see two lines on an HPT, hope is an evil, insidious laugh in your face bitch. The sort of thing that makes you feel like a fool when your period finally comes. Especially after 9 years, when you think I would know better. My uterus and I need to have a little chit chat about this, as it’s the scene of the hope. It knows there has been no action, yet refuses to be as timely as I’d like. I know my cycle is longer than 28 days, sometimes as much as 33 days. I know that this means over the course of about 6-8 months, the approximate time of the month that I’ll actually get my period shifts. Yet I seem to have some sort of amnesia, and when the time I think it’s supposed to come passes, that nasty little thing called hope crawls out. Mocking me, my uterus cramps and bloats and makes me feel like someone else. Lately it’s been worse, something I should probably look into since amazingly, after IUI’s, HSG’s, and even IVF, I’ve never had a lap done. Who knows what’s really going on in there? The only certainty is what is NOT going on. Despite the fact that I’m fairly content without a bio child at this time, I just can’t seem to help myself