A very special post (meant to be ironic): La Belette is Triste

I am a very sad weasel. The last few posts have been tough for me. All the things that usually inspire interest have lost their luster, even Paris and red shoes and you know that is serious when there is no libido for Louboutins.

I have for the last four years tried to become a pregnant weasel---and yesterday we learned that our last ditch heroic efforts led to naught. Not only is my hair red--my eyes are too. We have endured 5 full IVF cycles and probably 20 IUI's( 16 without meds and 4 with). I made the call this a.m. and told my infertility doctor that we are done and that we are not going to try any longer. We have spent nearly $100,000.00 in an attempt to be fruitful and multiply. We have nothing to show for it but a pile of receipts, pictures of embryos that didn't make it and some left over needles, bottles of progesterone---and broken hearts.

I have cried every time we haven't gotten pregnant. I have cried in between, too--thanks to the massive amounts of hormones I have endured. I have cried over things I would have never have imagined were tear worthy such as dropping a napkin, forgetting to get milk at the store, and I have cried every time I see pregnant women or a mother at the mall pushing a stroller or heard a mother complaining about the challenges of her children.

Now that is over, I can't seem to stop crying. I find myself wondering if I will ever stop crying. Maybe, I will be like that woman who had the hiccups for over a year. Medical science will marvel and the media will pursue me---the woman who can't stop crying. Ann Curry will empathetically ask me what impact has all the crying had on my life. Less sensitive reporters will focus on more objective issues such as the danger of dehydration and what doctors have done to try and stop my tears.

I thought of Elizabeth Gilbert, in the first chapter of "Eat, Pray, Love," when she is in her bathroom crying and praying and she hears an answer from God guiding her to go back to sleep, when I was lying on my bathroom floor this a.m. I decided to try to pray, like Gilbert had, so between animal like cries I would shout out an expletive to the silent creator who has not heard our prayers. No voice met my queries. No voice gave me guidance---not even a practical suggestion like, "blow your nose" or "get off the floor." Instead, there was nothing.