I want to put something down so that this moment is recorded, just because it seems like it's worth keeping track of the process. Yesterday was Rosh Hashana, the Jewish new year. It was much better than expected. I find that I have been able to get over my anger at God. I'm still sad, and I don't necessarily feel the "everything happens for a reason" part, but I am so much better than I was last year at this time. I shook all the way through temple, whereas this time I felt like my heart was cleansed, just like I usually do. I'm so grateful for that feeling - for God forgiving me for my lack of faith with him. "Turn to him and he will return." The new year is a hard one because both Torah passages are focused on barren women whose husbands still love them and who God helps to conceive. After a day's reflection, I feel like it's there to tell me that I'm not alone in this. My foremothers also knew this pain, and God remembered them. It only just occurred to me that the daughter who my family friends adopted (their first child) is named Hannah. It seems likely that she's named after the woman in the bible who said about her son, "I have asked him of the Lord." So I'm grateful that I feel more at peace and more like I'm part of God's plan. But I'm also still emotional and sad that I think I have to give up on having my own biological children.
Right. So I kind of forgot the key part of the equation. The way that this Clomid cycle worked out, the first day of Rosh Hashana was the day of timed intercourse. So we needed to have sex before going to temple, and then try again that night. Conceiving a baby on your way to synagogue. It's an incredible way to start the new year if it works (and believe me, if it does, this child will be dedicated to the Lord in every way I can find, given that they are going to be whoever they are going to be). But if it doesn't, it seems like the most painful way to begin the new year: with hope that turns out to be unwarranted. So I'm spending today, the second day of Rosh Hashana, researching adoption and trying not to feel disappointed that I don't feel pregnant, nor hopeful that I might be.