Coping with infertility involves being continuously slapped in the face by reality, which is why it is so great to suspend real life for one reassuring, self-deluded moment. Someone clever once described the body as the perfect accountant, what goes in comes out and nothing goes unnoticed. If the body is the perfect accountant then my husband and I are, well, the exact opposite.
In moments of bounding optimism, we egg each other on to cook the books of infertility, and it goes something like this:
Me: I can't believe that we have been trying for a baby for 2 years. That's 24 months of disappointment.
Him: But you didn't ovulate for 6 months after coming off the pill, so we have to discount those, right?
Me: Good point. So really it is only 18 months. Actually, due to my long cycles, I don't have a cycle every month and we should take that into account too. So it is more like 15 months.
Him: Right, exactly! And I was out of the country during the baby making time for 3 months, so we should rule those out too. So it has only really been 12 months, like really. And loads of people try for 12 months.
Me: Yes! 12 months isn't so bad. It happens to lots of people. And in those 12 months there has only been 2 months where I had a regular cycle. Actually only 1 month where I have had an adequate luteal phase. Ovulation took me a bit by surprise that month so we didn't time things very well.
Him: So really, we haven't had a single good month yet. So it's like we haven't started trying yet, not really, properly, right?
Me: Right! So no wonder I'm not pregnant. We'll be really good this month and properly start trying, like properly.
The white lies we tell ourselves to keep the hope alive. But does it matter? Nah...