Summer

I didn't want to work that summer. Once school was out, I really wanted to go home, close the blinds, and wake up pregnant in September. I'd wake myself for my daily dose of Zoloft and my weekly therapy appointment, but other than that, I had big plans to check out of life. My husband, God bless him, discouraged me from this. He was worried, and he thought the distraction would be good. I knew he was right, so I got a job. It paid poorly, but it kept me out of my house and usually, out of my head. My fiend had her baby, a little boy. I couldn't bring myself to go to the hospital. A maternity ward would have sent me over the edge. I visited when they got home. I cried when I left. Summer ended. My vigilant temperature taking every morning and monitoring of my fertility signs proved futile. It was fall again. I was still not pregnant. My doctor and I decided that Clomid was in order. I would fill my prescription, and on day 5 of my next cycle, I'd begin taking the Clomid. I filled it, and placed the bottle right on top of my dresser where I stared at it hopefully and prayed for my period to begin.