Dear Matthew,

I know that it's lame to write you a letter when we live in the same house and brush against each other in the hallway a million times each day. But when I write, I am more apt to think about what I say before I say it and hopefully, avoid that all too common instance of me opening my mouth and inserting my big foot. Just bear with me.I know that you're frustrated. So am I. You're tired. I'm tired. And the LAST thing we want to do some nights is try to fake excitement because some stupid pee stick says that we have to have sex. How romantic! Sex is supposed to fun and spontaneous. But we have a little purple line with the power of Adolph Hitler demanding that we get busy. It's been 8 months now since we decided to begin trying to conceive. December and January were fun. We'd mischievously look at each other, raise eyebrows and dash for the bedroom. We were going to make a baby! But then, the months rolled past. The excitement diminished and was replaced with frustration and doubt. I hate that my body is broken. It doesn't do what it should do when it should do it. The metformin has helped some. But I still spend 4-5 times a week camped out in the bathroom because I ate something stupid. I keep telling myself that it's worth it--I've lost weight, my shedding has slowed down some and at some point, we'll have a beautiful baby. I hate that our health insurance doesn't cover anything related to fertility. There's no way in the world that we can afford thousands of dollars on treatment. Dr. Basham will write a prescription for Clomid, but I can't see her again until January. So we're basically on our own until then. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever be able to become parents. Neither of us is old by far, but I'd like to be young enough to endure those sleepless nights, to play catch in the front yard and to see my future grandchildren. The fear of missing those moments or being too old to enjoy them, terrifies me. Our parents are getting older. I want them to see and hold our children. I want your dad to be around to feed them their first bites of chocolate cake and your mom to spoil them rotten and send them home. I want Lasca to hold my dad's grandchildren in her arms. I want my grandparents to see our children and know that everything is okay. Your craziness is over each month after that last round of "just in case sex", but my worrying has just begun. For the next two weeks, I analyze and over analyze each and every possible symptom of pregnancy. I catch myself groping my boobs at stoplights just to see if they're more tender than usual. Of course, by the end of the two weeks, my boobs just ache because I've been poking and prodding at them a thousand times a day. I pray every night that this will be our month--that the mysterious little blue line will magically appear. Of course, even if that does happen, my fears won't subside. Due to that stupid blood clotting abnormality, I'll most likely be shipped off to a specialist and given a prescription for Lovenox injections. Without treatment, my risk of miscarriage is strong. That terrifies me. After all these months of trying to conceive, I can't imagine losing a baby that we were so close to holding in our arms. I know that I can be a little crazy at times, but know that it's just my fears surfacing. I know that you're going to be a great dad someday. I just hope like hell that we're able to prove that. Know that no matter where this crazy journey takes us, I love you. Please be patient with me. It's really tough.

Originally written 10/1/2008