Despite being persistently infertile, I have always had very regular cycles. I can count on ovulation and my period to come like clockwork. In fact the only time my cycle has really been disrupted was during IVF, when the hormones I was pumping into my body were throwing everything out of whack.
In my 20s, cycle day 27 was the day I would welcome my period as it was a sign that all “down there” was working as it should. I remember distinctly thinking how lucky I was to have a regular, manageable muenstral cycle, when so many of my friends did not. Now, cycle day 27 is the day when I brace myself for disappointment. Her arrival doesn’t sting as much as it used to, but I still steel myself up for it. While she might surprise me a day early, she rarely comes a minute late.
Well, this month she arrived a day late and I’m ashamed to say that it messed with me. Now I know, deep in my core, that my chances of getting pregnant naturally are infinitesimal. After all, we’ve been trying for 5+ years, on our own and with help, and I’ve never seen the elusive plus sign. But I had been feeling especially tired and cranky and bloated, and you can bet that little voice of hope creeped in.
I can’t explain to you how much it pisses me off that after all this time I still go there. I can make all the declarations I want about accepting a life without children – and believe me, I’m ready to move on – but my body apparently has other ideas. It makes me wonder if there will ever be a day when I am surprised by my period, or can really make love to the hubs without wondering in the back of my mind what cycle day it is. And when I won’t let my mind wander when I’m one day late.
Two days forward, one day back. Such is the cycle of life.
[I adapted this from a blog post I wrote on another site over a year ago when I had another late arrival, but it still rings true this month. So much for progress!]