Turns out it was pointless to get my beta drawn today, because I was just informed the earliest I can possibly transfer will be in May because they are moving the clinic in April from Davis to Sacramento [EDIT: not San Diego, sorry, brain fart!] and they’ve already matched everyone up between now and the move. That would have been nice to know before I wasted my time and money.
So, no 2017 baby for me. And here I had my hopes all up since my cycle started early.
Joke’s on me.
Every year — every damn six months, actually — I think, “This is the rec soccer season when I’ll finally be sitting out, cheering my team from the sidelines, watching my belly grow. This is the spring / fall when I’ll have to give up soccer, but something truly magical will happen.”
And each season, I just end up playing soccer again.
But it ain’t a baby.
I know one more delay doesn’t seem like it should be that big a deal in the scheme of things. But 2017 was always my “worst case scenario” year. Seventeen is my lucky number, so I always thought, “If this bullshit takes four years — as if that will happen! — at least I’ll give birth in my lucky number year. That’ll be kinda cool.”
And now I’ve even been robbed of that. It just feels like this is never going to end. Seriously, at this point it seems like something magical, something fantastical. People don’t really grow babies in their bellies, do they? It’s just a story they tell, like Santa Claus. I’m chasing a chimera.
It’s like if Charlie Brown finally figured out that Lucy was always going to pull the football out from under him every single time, and yet he had no choice but to keep going for that football.
And I was doing so good there for a while there, too.