Rose early this morning-- 5 a.m.-- and was on the bus by 6:20, on the train by 6:30, and at the hospital by 7. This morning was my day three lab work, in anticipation of IVF coming up. Many, many tubes of blood today; it's a pretty comprehensive workup.
Even public transportation is relatively quiet before 7 a.m.. There are fewer riders, and the people that are on the bus or the train are quieter, often still with that just-woke-up look about them despite their neat work clothing. There's less eye contact and little of the casual conversation you'll hear, even between strangers, later in the rush hour.
This morning, the first person who actually spoke to me was the young woman at the doctor's office who gave me my paperwork to take to the lab. (I said "good morning" to the bus driver, but he did not respond. Everyone's quieter before 7, even the bus drivers.) I get ready for work in my quiet house (too quiet, wrongly quiet, without my little Vertigo Dog), and I take the bus and the train alone, watching the city go by in choppy morning light. I walk from the train to the hospital across a long expanse of lawn, and the sun isn't even up over the buildings that surround me.
I'm doing this with the crazy idea that, at some point, there could be a baby; that my quiet house and my relatively uncomplicated life could change radically, and change by my choice. Some days, this seems crazy.
Most days, though, I know that this much quiet is not what I want. It's not me.