My husband and I had a huge fight this morning basically about whether we should try this month or take the month off. This all stems from the fact that I'm viewing sex as something of a chore right now. You know, mop the floors, do the dishes, have some baby-makin' sex. He apparently feels we should be having sex because it's fun. Fun. Huh. I think I've forgotten what that aspect of sex is like.
What really surprised me was my reaction. I honestly had considered taking this month off anyway, so when he told me he wanted to shelve it I surprised both of us by bursting into tears. Ugly, shoulder shaking, gut wrenching tears. The kind where your face sort of folds in on itself and you know you look like hell without even having to see a mirror.
The idea of taking even one month off was giving me the equivalent of a panic attack. I suddenly couldn't STAND the thought of not trying. Odd because I'm also really, really ready to move on. Not from trying for another child, but from this specific type of trying for another child. I don't want anymore breath-held terror, worrying about another loss. I don't want to feel pregnant - even if its just the progesterone fucking with me. I want to move on to whatever we decide will be the next step - IVF, adoption, surrogacy - whatever.
So apparently hope really is the last thing to die, because there must be a very small (and yet very vocal) part of me that isn't ready to give up quite yet.