Seven cycles feel like forever. When it became evident that we'd failed again, I sank suddenly and deeply into depression. Eric wasn't home yet, and Laurie and her boyfriend were due in later, so I busied myself with cleaning. I had worked up a good sweat and gotten through several crying jags when the phone rang. It was Eric, calling from church.

"Where are you? We have choir practice after the service," he said. "I told you I'd meet you at the church." Knowing that he'd said no such thing, or at least not while I was awake to hear it, I fumed and raked a brush through my curling hair and dashed out into the thunderstorm. I drove like a maniac and reached the church just as the agape meal was being served. As if I could eat; I found myself staring at my bowl of bean soup through yet another haze of tears while people around me laughed and chattered. A father with a fussing baby sat down right in my line of vision. I grabbed a nearby carafe of wine, poured myself a glass, and drank it nearly in one gulp. After a moment, Eric figured out what was up.

He tried to cheer me, but it was an impossible task. Perhaps it was the contrast of the happy people around me with my own dark mood; whatever the reason, I was involved in a struggle to keep from bursting into tears and causing a scene. I didn't want people to ask me what the matter was. I didn't want sympathy.

After the meal was over, the prayers began. I was fine until the congregation reached a line in the prayer which read, paraphrased:

"We thank you for our failures and disappointments, that they lead us toward greater reliance upon Your mercy."

I couldn't stand it. I stood up, grabbed my purse but forgot my glasses, and walked quickly from the room. In the hallway on my way to the bathroom, I passed the father with his still crying baby; I almost broke into a run. I hid in the bathroom until I had recovered, then returned to find that the congregation had entered the sanctuary for the stripping of the altar. I stood in the doorway and watched, feeling very alone.

When everyone was leaving and I was on my way to the choir room, Reverend Paul caught up and fell into step beside me; he had apparently notice me in the doorway. He bobbed and grinned, trying to elicit a smile, but the closest I could come was a sickly one. He asked, "Is everything okay?"

And the dam broke. I began, horrified, to sob, while the shocked reverend looked on. He asked me if I needed to talk, but I could barely breathe. Eventually, I managed to say, "Do you remember when you came to our house, and we told you that we were trying to start a family? Well, it's not happening." I couldn't stop crying, he stayed quiet, and I guess Eric heard me, because he appeared in the hallway then and took me into his arms without a word.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Paul asked, "Did something happen?" I realized that he thought we'd had a miscarriage, so I shook my head and said no, nothing. Eventually, he murmured that he would pray for us, and quickly vanished; Eric said that he'd had a "deer in the headlights" look about him. I somehow managed to pull myself together.

And then we went to choir, of which I remember very little. Eric asked me if I needed to go home, but I refused, wanting no more questions asked. I was embarrassed enough already for my lapse of control.

What is the power of old friendships? When Laurie arrived, all my tears and horrible feelings of failure disappeared in her embrace. I felt almost a sense of relief, though I can't truly explain why. Eric woke up, and we had a wonderful reunion, for it had been almost two years since we had last met.

We talked. We played. We drank wine and told old stories about old friends. Eric and I met and approved her boyfriend. Eric and the boyfriend bonded over computer talk while Laurie and I talked about our jobs.

The evening was far too short, and they had to leave before any of us felt truly satisfied. When we at last fell into bed, I was able to sleep comfortably and happily. I wasn't a failure! I have a good friend.

Eric and Laurie

I feel almost ready to face another shot at this whole conception thing. Facing Reverend Paul tomorrow will be decidedly harder. I hope he wasn't too shocked by my outburst; he's still young, and I get the feeling that he hasn't had to deal with hysterical women very many times yet. I hate feeling that I embarrassed him.