Sometimes one must eat peanut butter cookies for dinner.

Last week, David and I went to see Skyfall, the new James Bond movie. When they got to the part where the went to Skyfall, James Bond’s childhood home in the Scottish highlands, I thought to myself (and aloud to David), yes, that is exactly where I want to live. I want to live in some drafty Gothic pile set on treeless plains between hills, the kind of place where you always must wear tweeds and knits because it is impossible to be warm otherwise. I want to live with enormous stone fireplaces, a pack of hunting dogs, and gray skies. In this kind of place, you must employ a gamekeeper who always wears breeks. The local children trade rumors about the house being haunted because of the creaky wide-plank floors and its sense of being godforsaken.  This is exactly what I want, to be far away from people lost in a different era.  You don’t have to worry about putting on a good face, because no sees you except the people you choose to admit across its threshold.

That is how I felt last week. And so I didn’t eat anything other than peanut butter cookies for dinner.

This week, I am trying to make it.  I am trying to find a way forward.  To state the obvious, the IVF protocol didn’t work. I didn’t make it past day 5.  We go back to the doctor on Friday to discuss why it failed and what comes next.  The decisions just get harder and harder.  The way forward, though, is not to put anything more about these decisions on this blog. Even though the only people who read it are people who know me quite well, I value the privacy of any future children that David and I might bring into our home by whatever means enough to know that this isn’t something one puts on the world-wide web.  I probably shouldn’t have even put this much, because I knew all along that this was going to be a ward waged with more losses than victories.  It has been a tough week. It has been a tough month. It has been a tough year. I’m not out of it yet, but I have hope that one day I will be.

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