I've managed to accept that this whole sorry mess is a long sequence of short waiting periods, sewn together.
You wait for the red menace to arrive, for it to sail away, you wait for the 'right' days, and you wait the next two weeks for disappointment. You wait all over again.
You wait for doctors appointments. You wait for scans, you wait for blood tests, you wait for results.
You wait for poking and prodding, both medical and 'romantic'.
You even wait to have a hand shandy into a cup. You wait for the results.
You wait to be told to do all of it all over again.
You wait to be called back, at three, at four, at five. Maybe tomorrow.
'Maybe we should wait and see what happens next month.'
'Perhaps we should wait until we've met with the doctor again.'
'We can't really decide now, you could 6/7/8 months pregnant by then.'
For eighteen months we have waited. For a year and a half we have put things on hold, things that should be done have been left on the back burner.
Two lives, on pause.
We find ourselves still waiting, even now after the eighteenth failed cycle has come and gone.
It's September, we are sitting at home, on our 'vacation'.
Enough is enough, we can't always sit and wait for the life we want to arrive. We have to try and live our lives, even if they are not the ones we hoped for.
There will be enough waiting lying in wait for us in the coming months.
So tomorrow, passports in hand, we are taking some cards and cash, and just going. Going somewhere we had never even thought of going two days ago.
Living, if only for a week.
I'm scrambling for the remote control, pointing it at us, and pressing hard.
Slapping it, and shaking it with frustration until it works.
For once, pressing play.