hope

That's it.

I'm calling my doctor. I'm going to be my own advocate. I'm going to demand a change in my protocol.

I need a prescription for hope. 

I need my doctor to pick up his fancy pen and almost illegibly scrawl the word hope on his prescription pad. I need him to pick a dose - the perfect dose for my circumstance, my personality. I need a dose that's big enough to count as positive thinking but small enough that the side effects won't leave me incapacitated if this cycle's a bust. I need to stop by the pharmacy later today, pick up my white paper bag, and undo the single staple to find tiny vials of hope clinking together alongside my femara and ovidrel.     

And if this wasn't a daydream...if it was really, truly real...I would sit down in the driver's seat of my car and plunge that tiny needle through the vial's rubber cap. I'd draw up that perfect dose - the one predetermined by my doctor to lift my spirits without diminishing my ability to be realistic. I'd pinch some fat on my belly, count to three, and with a long exhale and a wince, I'd set that hope formula free in my system and wait for it to kick in.

"It's working," I'd tell my husband as I walked through the door.

"How do you know?"

"I had a vision of us at the hospital, introducing Harriet to her new brother or sister...and I didn't even feel silly," I'd answer.