We had a lovely long weekend. Our days were filled to the brim with pool time, impromptu ice cream cones, snuggles, and laughter.
But that familiar feeling of doom washed over me last night and I just couldn’t shake it.
As I was prepping for dinner, it slowly crept into my mind and loomed over my entire evening, slowly worsening.
Then, this morning, when I woke, that heavy sadness was displaced by fatigue, crankiness, and impatience.
And now, as I sit down to write, those feelings are accompanied by some dull abdominal cramping.
This cramping, on the heels of the mood swings, is too familiar.
This pattern is never any different.
It’s a well-worn script of disappointment, each month the same.
And each cycle, right around this time, I lose hope and discouragement takes over and clouds my days.
At what point do you give up?
At what point do you have to entertain the idea that it just might not happen?
When you’re 40, each month makes a huge difference.
This was our eighth cycle of trying to conceive.
And I say it every month, but I’m not sure how I’ll regroup for another cycle of trying.