The way in which the last 3 minutes I blogged about ended sent me into a personal crash and burn of sorts. Hopefully this is temporary. For the most part, it always has been. The lowest of lows, the deep self-pity and the howling crying fests that leave me dehydrated stay just long enough to see me through to the next cycle where hope shows up again, though a bit dimmer. Someone (and I'm not sure whom-one of my 50 rss feeds) blogged eloquently about the difference between expectations and hope. My heart and mind tried to desperately clutch to delineating between these two concepts, but it was too late. Not only did I hope this cycle would yield a BFP, I expected it would. Even after 3 other failed cycles and knowing how dangerous that can be, I stepped right into that trap. Silly, silly me. After 4+ years, I know better.
Never since my first IUI, when I naively believed in unmitigated success, did I find myself so crushed by infertility defeat. I was truly surprised by my belief in this one as I've always been able to keep myself at a somewhat protective distance. Why this one? Well, perhaps it was because it fell on the heels of the last one, which was successful, so to speak. So, here I am, getting up and dusting myself off, heading straight into IUI #6. Imagine that. I never thought I would see IUI #6. Not that I ever thought I would have a baby before this point, but that I never thought I would let this many IUIs sneak in the door before chasing IVF down. But there's a good reason for where we are. Mr. S. and I had some more frank financial discussions about IVF funding and the reality is, everything will come out of pocket. Insurance will cover nothing. More roadblocks I suppose (such is the life of IF), but because I would walk to work naked with no food in my stomach to have a baby, I'll make it happen. Damn skippy. I just have to keep remembering, expect the worst, hope for the best.