I’m in Kingston, Tennessee, population unknown.  It’s about 75 degrees and sunny.  Here in East Tennessee it’s spring, not the subtle, still-cold-and-snowy-but-slightly-less-hellish thing we call spring in the Midwest, but real, live, sexy spring.  The spring I grew up with in Virginia, which as far as I’m concerned is just Summer, Junior.  As in flowers, leaves, and green grass, not to mention shorts weather.  The early adopters of spring here in East Tennessee are the redbud tree, which is actually purple, and the Bradford Pear, which actually doesn’t bear fruit (I know how it feels but we’re trying not to Go There).  They sprinkle the hillsides (another thing we don’t have in the Midwest) with purple and white flowers among the just-greening bare trees.  My husband the wannabe farmer thinks the Bradford Pear is ridiculous but I love them, because they remind me of our first trip here a year ago, when Tennessee seduced our winter-weary hearts with swoony warm weather, nice people, muddy little creeks with actual frogs peeping in them, and hope of a fertile life: not just kids, but grass and yard and garden, and a house with gleaming wood floors and a deep porch and room for more than two of us. 

There are crocuses and daffodils galore, which flowers generally show up by Valentine’s, because Tennessee is just showing off.  My husband is striding the length and breadth of our land, a 127-acre parcel of rotted fallen trees, hills and dales, brambles, deer, probably snakes and God knows what else, known to us simply as The Land.  Hubby loves The Land just a little teeny bit less than he loves me, and is out communing with it while I am (supposedly) working on my thesis which has to get done.

I have a dwindling supply of brownies, a really crappy internet connection, a small gap in the knowledge that I need to get my paper written (hence the alleged research that I am allegedly now doing), and only occasional detours into AMIPREGNANT AMIPREGNANT to occupy me.  I am learning to weather the progesterone, which makes me feel like a boneless chicken for a few hours after my shot.  Since the best restaurant in town is either Hardee’s or Sonic, we have a large cooler full of frozen blocks of Our Food in various shapes and sizes which may help me not to GAIN EVEN MORE WEIGHT. 

What can I say?  I still don’t feel like we have a snowball’s chance of getting pregnant.  I hate it when I try for something that I might not get, and I hate it that you know.  A lot of people know that we might be heartbroken soon and my pride is on the line.  This is weird, and all I can say is it touches a deep fear that God likes you better than me.  Never mind that we’ve got really good chances, that I did 6 weeks of acupuncture which is shown in more than one study to increase our chances by up to 50%, that my uterine lining was an I-don’t-mean-to-brag 12.5 mm on transfer day.  That we transferred two blastocysts which I just learned grew from 4 to 120 cells in about one day before they took that long ride up the catheter, into what we hope will be their new but temporary home In There.  I just don’t feel like having hope, and so I don’t have much hope.  This won’t help; all that hope deferred (which makes the heart sick, they say) will come rushing back if we get bad news. 

Blah.  I need to get outside and try to let some sun shine into the tight fist that is my heart.