How Low Can You Go?

People often refer to infertility and adoption as a roller coaster. This makes sense, by and large, because the emotions and moods that surround either tend to fluctuate with no apparent reason. One minute you're flying high, arms up, feeling like you could take on the world, the next you're spiraling down feeling out of control and screaming at the top of your lungs until there's no breath left to expel. Then, before the whiplash has time to sink in, you're clacking slowly back up out of the valley, each ca-chunk jarring you with the effort. But always, even as you fly toward the ground, there's the notion at the back of your mind that what goes down must surely go back up.

Our roller coaster seems to be much more like Space Mountain than any other I've been on. We spend most of our time in the dark, with no idea if we'll be going up or down or sideways or if we raise our arms if they're going to smack into a low hanging beam or a track crossing overhead because it's dark. So dark, in fact, that you can hardly see the seat in front of you, let alone get any idea of your surroundings.

Yet we plunge on.

Though for the last six months or thereabouts it has felt like an unending descent that just keeps spiraling further and further down into the vast darkness.

We just got notified that the social worker we've been working with is leaving. I know turnover for social workers is high - it's got to be a difficult job. But to me it was like finding out that the ride operator has stepped out for a smoke break and you're now stuck on the track with no hope of ever getting off. Sure, we've been assigned to someone else. Someone we don't know and have never met and who has, so far, not returned my calls. It's disheartening.

To think that Space Mountain used to be my favorite ride.