I was at the end of my TTC rope.
I was ready to give up.
Maybe I would try one more time without drugs with a yet-unidentified fresh donor, but that was it.
I was ready to start begging my straight friends for just a little bit of their husbands’ baby juice.
I was so happy I already had Cakie. Thinking about him being an only child. We could send him to private school. We could buy him fancy things. I could get rid of all those clothes and baby things taking up space in the closet. I was preparing myself to rationalize giving up.
One year ago yesterday, I had an insem with the doctor I didn’t much like. I went alone. My honey was skating on thin employment ice with the amount of time she’d taken off while we were TTC.
I was forced to take the whole day off from work.
I left the doctor’s office and bought some green tea from a coffee truck.
I walked through Central Park drinking my green tea, even though I was wearing new, rather uncomfortable shoes. I walked to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I stared at Gala Eluard. I felt the cramps the whole time. My ovaries had maybe even already released that egg. My last-ever paid-for donor sperm was swimming swimming. Some time during that walk through the museum or the park (at least I prefer to think it happened there, than on the subway) egg did finally meet sperm. Finally.
Maybe only people like us celebrate the anniversary of conception.
I, for one, will never forget it.