Two years ago tonight I was injecting myself in the stomach for the second time as we started the daily grind of injections-appointments-ultrasounds-blood work that IVF requires. It once seemed like such a huge mountain to climb that we would never fully reach the top, but now all of it (and so much more) is in the distant past. A couple weeks later my swollen, overworked ovaries had produced 27 eggs— far more than the normal one-per-cycle they’re meant to— and, mercifully, one of them became Ross.
We finished that cycle with two boxes of an expensive fertility medication leftover. It would only amount to a measly 2-3 days worth of dosages but they had cost around $300, so I saved them, believing (desperately hoping) that I could use them in the future to have a second egg retrieval, a second child. They’ve sat in the back of our fridge on the top shelf since then. I worried about them through power outages and even the untimely demise of an old appliance. When we moved in August 2015, I carefully packed them in ice for the drive and immediately transferred them to the empty fridge upon our arrival.
I don’t know at what point over the last two years that I realized they would go unused; I guess it’s just that my hope has dwindled as the months have gone by. Lately, each time I open the door I see them sitting unopened in the back and try to fight the lump in my throat at the thought that they will end up being trashed, that time is almost up. Because somehow it’s February 2017 and the expiration date that once seemed so far away is here.
But it’s not the thought of never opening those boxes that makes me want to cry the most; it’s the thought I have no reason to that really hurts.