I've been here before, in this secret little garden. I remember this tree, and its cool, stone bench. It's lovely, the way the ivy creeps shyly over that wall whilst the moss meditates patiently in the damp under my feet. And ah, yes - the sunlight. Dappled, discrete. Shining though the canopy of leaves and branches. Quiet. Draped in peaceful neglect.

("You've done this before, haven't you?" she says, and hands me my drugs without explanation. Am I a veteran so soon? I thought there'd be a tickertape parade, or at least an earnest ceremony attended by non-functional dignitaries.)

Soon, I will dawdle down the path. My feet will move slowly; my body spilling through space like refridgerated honey. There's no going faster here. Something about the air. At least I think I know how to avoid the nettles now, though I can still absent-mindedly forget.

I know they will be there. Right near the deadly nightshade. Maybe I will kick a piece of lichen-soaked wood from my path, as I make my way towards the stream.

There the field opens out, and I will squint into the shadows, trying to identify the shapes. Somewhere there is a bridge, and as I find it and mount it, I will drop a small twig into the water. I know the stream will look the same, but have I really crossed it twice? Perhaps I will reflect for a moment on the nature of time. But I think it more likely I'll watch, vacantly, as my twig is carried out of sight. Then I will move on.

Next will come the part where I always lose my way. I think I know what I'll be looking for - I'm sure I glimpsed it once. There are tales of rare flowers which grow from cacti. But the one I saw was withering away. It should have been beautiful, but it wasn't. And then it was gone. Will I find that part of the garden again, or will I get sidetracked, as usual, onto the grey, dirty street?

(The come-down's the worst. Bruised and abused, my body submits gladly to the synthetic hormones - flesh and mind bowing meakly, thankful for mercy. They have lost the desire to control their own destiny. When the tyrant withdraws, they are abandoned and without direction.)

Before long, I will near the end of the garden. I will strain to hear the noises of traffic. Is that a shout? Or a sparrow? My ears playing tricks? I will cast about for a signpost; a track through the undergrowth; a sequence of bent grass showing the passage of feet. Anyone who can tell me where I have taken myself.

At some point I will reach it. The door. It's heavy, and the bottom is always stuck in the mud, but I'll heave it gratefully towards me and step through.

To where? I don't know. A rare oasis? Or an ocean of grief, whose waves dash themselves melodramatically onto the shore, before retreating, spent, with a whisper: "Next time... next time..."? For now, I'm finding it hard to care.

For now, all I can think about is my secret garden. So I breathe the dappled sunlight and wait quietly on the cool, stone bench.

---
FET#3 is scheduled for Tuesday. We have been using a different protocol, involving more injections and blood tests than ever before. So far, so good. Eighteen days, I guess, til we know if it's all been worthwhile.