For example, I totally planned to exercise tonight. I packed my gym shoes and my workout clothes and everything. But, inexplicably, I arrived in Denver ahead of my luggage. Delta should deliver it to my hotel by 11pm tonight. I sure hope they do. If not, I will certainly be screwed tomorrow morning.

I needed this trip. It's an easy one, unlike my other Denver trips. One 3 hour presentation tomorrow. Another 3 hour presentation on Tuesday. And then home on Wednesday. No other meetings or deadlines. And no one traveling with me. Thank God.

I desperately needed this alone time.

I have felt like a raw nerve lately. Between trying to process the decision to no longer pursue treatments to have a genetic child and hearing the Jaws theme every time I remember that my 39th birthday (are you shitting me?) is fast approaching, my brain won't shut up and my heart feels like an open sore that I have to protect until it finally scabs over. And just as you start to walk funny when you have a wound that you don't want to get re-injured, I've been emotionally contorting myself in all sorts of strange ways to keep from getting triggered at inopportune times. At some point you start to look and feel ridiculous and I just need some time to breath and cry and find a way to make sense of it all.

I thought I was doing ok enough until I went to the clinic on Friday for my requisite hysteroscopy. I think this was my fourth endometrial biopsy in the last 5 years, the 3rd one with this clinic. The other procedures had been done under anesthesia but since I haven't had any polyps show up since my laproscopy several years ago, my doctor decided it wasn't necessary to put me under. It was physically uncomfortable, much more so than the other unmedicated one I had at a different clinic a year or so ago, but like everything else in this godforsaken journey, it was the emotional discomfort that was harder to deal with.

I got to work early on Friday so I could leave early for the appointment. I finished a deadline, had my one-on-ones with my staff, my one-on-one with my boss, and then made it to the clinic just in time for the procedure. As I waited to be called back into the operating room it suddenly began to dawn on me that the last time I was back on that side of the clinic, I woke up from anesthesia to be told that there were no eggs to retrieve. And the time before that I woke up to hear that we had pushed the medication a day too far and my one and only egg was over-done. But the time before that - well, that was a painfully happy memory. A memory of joking around with my husband in order to distract myself from the discomfort of a much-too-full bladder. Having to relieve myself just a bit in a bedpan on the operating table because the on call doc took his sweet time to arrive to transfer our "beautiful" and "perfect" embryo. And then days later, getting on a plane for a work trip knowing that it had worked. That our beautiful embryo was busy implanting. And then came the deluge of positive pregnancy tests, each one getting darker and darker. There was the joy and the wonder of finally, after all this time, finally something worked. We were cautiously celebrating a pregnancy once again.

But the joy was short lived. The pregnancy did not last. I cried a little. But not too much. I convinced myself it was a good sign. We were finally on the right track. We just needed to try again. And we did. But each try was more and more disappointing.

And then, on Friday, I found myself waiting in the little waiting room where my husband watched the embryo transfer on a screen. And then, later, I found myself on that same operating room table, legs in sterile booties and placed into stirrups, this time to prepare my body for a future embryo transfer. One that will include another "beautiful" and "perfect" embryo. Only this one will be one part my husband, and one part someone else.

I wasn't prepared for the wave of sadness, and anger, and anxiety that came over me. It was a frustrating reminder that no matter how much "work" I do to process and grieve and make sense of all of this, that sadness and anger and anxiety will never fully go away. It will lessen, I'm sure of it. But it will sneak back up on me whenever I hit next steps and new milestones. As much I wish I could have one, good, final cry and then proceed confidently into the future, I know that is unrealistic.

I am encouraged by the stories I read of other women, many of whom have had even longer and more painful journeys than I can even imagine, who have made it successfully to the other side. They describe a deep love and joy and overwhelming gratitude for their post infertility life and their non-traditional family that they fought so hard for. This is what gives me the courage to keep moving forward, despite feeling like a raw nerve. Or an oozing, gaping wound.

I've said it before, I am so grateful to live in a time where this method of family building is even an option. I'm also immensely grateful for the internet and its role in connecting people and sharing of stories.

To bring this long, rambling post to an end:

No, my life did not go as planned.

And I am currently working on the "that's ok" part.