The Deer Ate My Crocus!

Not a metaphor. Last night, as I pulled into my driveway, I was struck by my favorite sight of the spring: the berm in front of my house covered with giant crocus (crocuses? croci?). Mostly purple and white, with a smattering of yellow, the bold colors—surrounded by the brilliant green of new growth on top of the dark mulch I laid last fall—seemed to glow in the gold, early-evening sunlight (god, I love daylight savings time).

This morning, the purple and white and yellow were gone, vanished. Standing on my porch, I thought the blooms had just closed up for the night, but it seemed too drastic a change from the evening before. When I got closer the truth became clear—some son-of-a-bitch, rat-bastard, greedy-ass deer ate my flowers! My first flowers of spring! The flowers that made me so happy last night are gone.

Again, not a metaphor. No greedy monster came in the night and ate my chances at being a mom. And it could be worse. A few years ago the deer came by and ate every bud off of my prize daylilies—on the same berm—killing my chances of getting any blooms that entire late summer and fall. The crocus would have been fading out in a couple of weeks anyway.

But it doesn’t have to be a metaphor to piss me off. It’s been a long, dark, cold, hard, painful winter for me. The coming of spring has been keeping me sane the past few weeks. And for me, spring is all about the bulbs blooming. Now the berm isn’t going to really be pretty until May (my giant daffodils have always been a disappointment), when my tulips bloom (provided, of course, that the deer don’t get to them). And yes, I will be spraying tonight. Fucking deer. They even nibbled on my new daylily foliage just breaking through. Must have been a tough winter for them, too, but I refuse to feel sorry for them.

Oh, oh, of course it’s a metaphor! (You had to know I’d get there eventually.) Because what I was really looking forward to this spring, what I’ve been waiting for since last August, was finally moving on with IVF, and getting an answer once and for all about whether I am going to bear a child. And that hope has been snatched away, pushed back into later in the year, as we battle the insurance company for coverage for super-expensive hormone treatment for J.

Or maybe it isn’t a metaphor, but just a piling on of disappointment and delay. At the end of last year, whenever I looked forward toward March, there were two bright spots on the horizon: finishing my chiropractic treatment in time for spring gardening, and starting IVF again. By the end of January, I knew that the chiropractic treatment was going to take much longer (and that any gardening would have to take place in the heat, humidity, and mosquito-terror of summer in the swamp), but I still thought we would soon be starting IVF. When we saw the doc in mid-February and learned that J’s sperm count had dropped to zero, and that it would be months before we even knew whether we could use his sperm, the only thing I had left to look forward to was my spring flowers. And now they, too, have been gobbled up.

Fucking deer. Assholes.