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This month has been a quiet one in comparison to the mêlée of last month. I didn’t take my Clomid, mainly because ovulation hurt more than anything I have ever experienced and I wanted a rest from that. I’ll take it next month, promise.

Nothing to report again this month, the long weeks of hope, and fun, followed by the usual disappointment as the home pregnancy test laughs in your face.

It’s now a year since I came off the pill, a whole year, and there was a part of me that almost expected this day would come.

I remember at school, we once studied a play by Lorca called “Yerma”, which was the name of the protagonist and also translates to ‘barren’. With a name like that the poor dear didn’t stand a chance and the play is about her going slowly mad as she fails to conceive and ends with her killing her husband. I downloaded the play last year, I suppose as a warning to myself not to get too obsessed with the whole idea of kids, but now it almost seems mockingly prophetic.

Keith’s life is safe, there’s no fear of that, but I do think that every month that goes by, a small part of my hope dies and there’s a part of the 30 year old me who understands that woman’s pain like the 17 year old never could.

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