An hour from this moment we rolled into our new corporate temporary digs. Moved to a city I'd visited twice within the previous month. I was 5 days knowingly pregnant and riding the cresting wave of fear. The Mr. was to lose a job if we didn't go, or lose our families and tiny cute house if we did go. Then this barely started pregnancy bloomed. I would do it all again for just this last bit. E.
And like the moon and tides rolling in cycles, we meet back here exactly two years to the day with another set of uncertain times. The endless potential of the Mr.'s big pharma career seems less glossy, my job looks to last until March (if I'm lucky). We are in a high-tide foam of looming change.
Murky bits surround my, well, lady bits, after my follow up with the surgeon today. Thanks for telling my one remaining tube was tortuous with signs of clubbing. Both of which she failed to tell me meant that it's likely my one GOOD tube is actually another bad tube. IVF may be my only hope. Undetectable AMH, twisty tubes, these things make keeping some hope alive for both having eggs left worth fertilizing, and then getting said egg to uterus seems more and more improbable.
I feel like the patron saint of improbable, though. Or at least I owe a small corner of my home to building an alter to that currently undetermined saint. The savior of lost causes, the champion of losers, or the queens of epic failures are all in my court. How am I not telling the story of Sisyphus here? Perhaps these small trials don't warrant a ballad in the grand arc of the universal story, but having moved to the land of Rocky, I am still a sucker for believing whatever slim chance may be left is still a chance to win.