It is very easy to assume, after going through so very much, that you are the only one who gets this. You and the other women who have had the pleasure of enduring shots, and invasive procedures, are the ONLY ones who can truly understand your particular pain. Your loving, but clueless partner has no idea what you really feel like. Right?
We hold names sacred in the infertility community. They are our little secret smirks at fate. They symbolize the victory we’re hoping for. They are precursors to rainbows. A horizon we can barely see, but one we are trying desperately to get a view of.
What have I been up to? Where have I been? Catching up with The Broken Brown Egg.
Let me hip you to something I’ve been keeping silent for a while out of embarrassment, frustration, and a self-destructive need to make sure no one sees the kinks in my armor: I’m tired as hell.
You know how you visit a casino already knowing that the house always wins, but get pissed anyway when you lose? Yeah, that just happened. Finally, an actual infertility diagnosis.
So, it has been a while since I’ve taken the time to actually POST some tidbits here on the site. And it is all your fault. See, most of you follow The Egg on Facebook and we have such great conversations there, that by the time I get over here, I have nothing else to …
