Dearest Fertility God & Goddess,

The other day, we drove 238.66 miles to rub your wooden genitalia in the lobby of Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. I want to believe, I really do, but, G, I’m tired. Tired of the pills and injections. Tired of reeling in the hope, the want, the love for my future children in my heart because the perpetual loss and uncertainty hurts too much. Tired of watching easy ways pop out children like bowel movements. Tired of hearing people say, “It’ll all be worth it.” How do they know?!?! Tired of being too tired to respond to people’s thoughtless comments. My heart is saturated by infertility’s hard lessons. I’m spent. An emotional zombie, that’s me.

I don’t know if I believe rubbing your wooden egg… penis… belly button… knee… breast… baby… shoulder… will do anything. I don’t know that it won’t. However, in these few moments of frantic lobby rubbing a tiny piece of me electrifies (probably from the friction of my hand and your wood… wink wink). I feel a faint flicker of fight in me to try again, however, this time I need help. I’m much less Buddhist this time around. So… God of Sperm and Goddess of Egg, God of Hope and Goddess of Love, Help. Me. Believe.


Infertile #3,238,999