This my thankfulness journal.
My word for 2012 is balance.
Balancing work with personal. Life with exercise. Exercise with food. Healthy food with greasy-yet-yummy food. Balance my wants and needs. Balancing my checkbook. Balancing church with social. Balancing time with my husband with time with my friends.
But one thing that keeps me afloat is the happy things in life. The positive little moments that keep me going.
I’m used to writing as an outlet. The complaint department. My journals throughout the years have been filled with anger, sadness, and some of the really good highlights. But not SUPER happy. So once a day I will sit down and remind myself of the things I am thankful for and hopefully find balance in my mood.
I drink two of these every day at work.
That’s what I got to stare at for 20 minutes while the US Tech photographed the 7x7cm cysts on my ovaries.
I’ve actually been really good. Not overly sad. A little hopefully even as I haven’t had pain since the miscarriage subsided and my body had it’s regular schedule (ovulation, menstruation, and stopping).
But that sign made me weepy. I was supposed to be having happy ultrasounds with heart beats, kicking, fingers & toes. Not ones with things that look like smaller oranges hanging from my ovaries.
And it probably didn’t help that I spent the 45 minutes waiting for the doctor reading a book called Love Wins talking about signs of God caring for you. A deep book about love and how you should think about your place in God’s world. I was already reflective enough.
The cysts aren’t bigger, but they’re not smaller either. I’m back on birth control (free thanks to my awesome doc!) until April. Where I go back for a second ultrasound and cross my fingers they’re smaller. And then DH & I can start planning. Because all I can think about is babies. I’ve seen a million birth/pregnancy announcements in the past couple weeks. I want to be one. I was supposed to be.
I know people have been through worse. I probably will myself.
But right now, especially after just staring at every picture tells a story for a while in silence, all I could think was the picture of my womb was without life. And it’s not the story I want told.
Motivation? I think so.