Really, I didn't expect so much support and such thoughtful responses to my last post. It was one of those I wrote initially just for me, to sort out my feelings. I didn't intend to post it. I read and re-read the last line and debated whether or not I wanted to put that out there, whether or not you would understand.
And you did.
To clarify, I don't HATE my husband.
Really, in spite of everything, I love the man he is, inside.
I do, however, hate a lot of other things.
I HATE some of the choices he makes.
I HATE having to be the responsible one.
I HATE feeling limited in what I share with others, feeling as though I have to "hide" behind a mask of some sort. I HATE not being able to be honest about what is really going on with us.
I HATE infertility and the strain it has put on our marriage.
I HATE feeling like I may one day regret the choices I'm making now.
I HATE feeling out of control, unable to make the things that I want to happen, happen.
I will be perfectly honest: there are times when I feel hate toward our situation, our circumstances, even toward Mo. But along with that hate is a tenderness and a feeling of camaraderie that we have been through so much together. No one on this earth understands him like I do; similarly, no one on this earth understands my pain like he does. And the feelings of hate that I harbor, deep inside me, don't scare me as much as their opposite: indifference. When I start not caring about the choices that Mo is making, then I will know that we are in real trouble.
When we were in counseling several years ago, at the height of Mo's depression and bad-behavior, my mother told me that I would KNOW when I had done everything I could, and that I couldn't walk away until I had. She was right. I've gotten very close to walking away since then. This move was my last, my most desperate, attempt to save myself, save Mo, and save my marriage.
And it's worked. For the most part.
I HATE having to attach that qualifier, but it's there. With the exception of this weekend, Mo has made giant strides towards returning to that man I met 9 years ago. The man I saw as the father of my children, the man who wanted everything that I wanted out of life, whose desire for a family matched mine. He is there, even though I can't see him right now, hidden in his grief and fear for what the future holds.
I have a very simple plan of action, friends. I intend to......
DO NOTHING.
Yes, you read that right. I can't explain how or why I know that is the right course of action, but I'm confident in it. Remember how I said that I'd found some peace during our trip? Though short-lived, I did, and it has stayed with me. I left the hotel room one evening while Mo was sleeping and drove out to the beach. As I sat on the sand, quiet and alone, without any distractions, I tried hard to listen. I'm not sure who or what I was listening for, but I felt the need to do so. And, somewhere inside me, there was a small voice. I'm not claiming it was God, for I'm still not even sure he exists. Maybe it was only me. But there's wisdom in that, too, I suppose. "Do nothing," I heard. "Do nothing." I thought then that was the answer to my fertility conundrum, but perhaps it had nothing to do with that either. It appealed to me, though, and I left feeling that maybe doing nothing IS the best course of action right now.
So, I'm going with it. It's totally out of character for me, but what I've been doing isn't working either. And that's not to say I won't change my mind later, or be spurred to action in a few days/weeks/months. Nor does it mean I'm going to give up my fight. It does, however, mean I'm not going to explode upon my husband once he awakes, like I normally would. It means that I'm tabling any fertility discussions (adoption or otherwise) for the forseeable future. It means I'm not making ANY big decisions right now.
I'm simply going to be quiet, and wait, and see what happens.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Getting Past The Anger
Any advice on how to do it?
I'm angry about so many things right now, but mostly I'm angry with Mo.
He's still not home, by the way.
He's missing a contracted professional-development day today because he got lost (THREE TIMES) on his way back here. How do you miss your turns that often? Is he paying attention at all? I spent literally hours last night on the phone with him trying to figure out where he was and where he needed to go. I kept asking him what the signs around him said. His answer? "I don't know." REALLY?
I don't know where he stopped last night (I'm assuming he stopped somewhere) or when he'll be home. It would help if he'd answer his phone, another thing that annoys me beyond belief. I know he's grown, but out of respect, shouldn't your spouse know where you are -- especially when you are traveling out of state?
And that's the petty stuff. It annoys me that he has absolutely no sense of direction or of time, and doesn't listen. He's too wrapped up in himself to pay attention to trivial details such as that. He'll be driving for two hours, and tell me it's only been 20 minutes since he passed such-and-such place. Or, he'll go out for an "hour" and show up six hours (or more!) later. And he doesn't understand why I get so frustrated and upset waiting on him.
I'm angry, too, about this weekend. Not only his going/staying out, but some of the things he said when we fought. I know that he didn't mean half of what he said, but that doesn't erase the sting. Nor does it help that I keep replaying our conversations in my head and getting more and more upset about it.
I'm angry that he won't even consider adoption right now. That he wants to wait until January to try treatments again. Which means at least another year and a half (minimum!) until I even have the CHANCE to be a mother, probably longer. I'm no longer holding onto the hope that we are going to be biological parents. There are just too many hurdles, it seems. But I also understand Mo's desire to try everything before giving up. In all likelihood, we will do another IVF in 2011. We may or may not get pregnant, but even then I am so anxious that it will end. Let's assume another brief pregnancy, at best. It will be next summer before he's even willing to consider adoption (if then). Add another year or two for paperwork and waiting and before you know it three years have passed and I'm no closer to my goal than I am today. Which doesn't sound all that terrible, until you add in the 8 years I've already spent waiting to get here. GAH!
I know I sound pessimistic and I'm sorry. I want to move past this, I want to put it all behind me and re-capture those good feelings I had before we left for this ill-advised trip. I just don't know how.
All the grief and drama of the past eight years is just sitting like a weight on my chest, crushing me. And a part of me wonders if I can ever truly forgive Mo for everything that's happened. He's given me a lot these last six months -- not just financially, but in every respect. He gave up everything he knew, everything familiar, and moved five states away. He busted his ass and got a job (even before I did!). He paid for everything: the movers, our living expenses, the FET, the meds, the ultrasounds and doctor's visits, the miscarriage. And so that weighs on me, too. Had I left him behind in February, I don't think anyone would have faulted me. Certainly not Mo -- he knew what a crisis point we were at. But I didn't, and things here have been wonderful since-- amazing, even.
Until this weekend.
And now it feels like we never left, and we are back in the same shit-hole we've always been in. And I just don't know how to pull myself out of it.
How do you let go of anger that is well-deserved, but no longer fruitful? At what point does forgiveness become reality instead of just words that you say? And how do you love someone that you also, in the darkest corners of your soul, kind of hate?
I'm angry about so many things right now, but mostly I'm angry with Mo.
He's still not home, by the way.
He's missing a contracted professional-development day today because he got lost (THREE TIMES) on his way back here. How do you miss your turns that often? Is he paying attention at all? I spent literally hours last night on the phone with him trying to figure out where he was and where he needed to go. I kept asking him what the signs around him said. His answer? "I don't know." REALLY?
I don't know where he stopped last night (I'm assuming he stopped somewhere) or when he'll be home. It would help if he'd answer his phone, another thing that annoys me beyond belief. I know he's grown, but out of respect, shouldn't your spouse know where you are -- especially when you are traveling out of state?
And that's the petty stuff. It annoys me that he has absolutely no sense of direction or of time, and doesn't listen. He's too wrapped up in himself to pay attention to trivial details such as that. He'll be driving for two hours, and tell me it's only been 20 minutes since he passed such-and-such place. Or, he'll go out for an "hour" and show up six hours (or more!) later. And he doesn't understand why I get so frustrated and upset waiting on him.
I'm angry, too, about this weekend. Not only his going/staying out, but some of the things he said when we fought. I know that he didn't mean half of what he said, but that doesn't erase the sting. Nor does it help that I keep replaying our conversations in my head and getting more and more upset about it.
I'm angry that he won't even consider adoption right now. That he wants to wait until January to try treatments again. Which means at least another year and a half (minimum!) until I even have the CHANCE to be a mother, probably longer. I'm no longer holding onto the hope that we are going to be biological parents. There are just too many hurdles, it seems. But I also understand Mo's desire to try everything before giving up. In all likelihood, we will do another IVF in 2011. We may or may not get pregnant, but even then I am so anxious that it will end. Let's assume another brief pregnancy, at best. It will be next summer before he's even willing to consider adoption (if then). Add another year or two for paperwork and waiting and before you know it three years have passed and I'm no closer to my goal than I am today. Which doesn't sound all that terrible, until you add in the 8 years I've already spent waiting to get here. GAH!
I know I sound pessimistic and I'm sorry. I want to move past this, I want to put it all behind me and re-capture those good feelings I had before we left for this ill-advised trip. I just don't know how.
All the grief and drama of the past eight years is just sitting like a weight on my chest, crushing me. And a part of me wonders if I can ever truly forgive Mo for everything that's happened. He's given me a lot these last six months -- not just financially, but in every respect. He gave up everything he knew, everything familiar, and moved five states away. He busted his ass and got a job (even before I did!). He paid for everything: the movers, our living expenses, the FET, the meds, the ultrasounds and doctor's visits, the miscarriage. And so that weighs on me, too. Had I left him behind in February, I don't think anyone would have faulted me. Certainly not Mo -- he knew what a crisis point we were at. But I didn't, and things here have been wonderful since-- amazing, even.
Until this weekend.
And now it feels like we never left, and we are back in the same shit-hole we've always been in. And I just don't know how to pull myself out of it.
How do you let go of anger that is well-deserved, but no longer fruitful? At what point does forgiveness become reality instead of just words that you say? And how do you love someone that you also, in the darkest corners of your soul, kind of hate?
Monday, July 26, 2010
Weekend Wrap-Up
I'm home.
The weekend in a nutshell: Mo behaved badly, we fought, and ended up driving home separately. I spent most of the time we were there in the hotel room, by myself, waiting for him to come to his senses. He did eventually, but UGH.
I've told him, in no uncertain terms, that that was my LAST trip back to our old hometown. I can't take him in that environment, making those same choices, for whatever reasons. I know he's grieving. In the last two years he's lost his father, both of his uncles, his grandfather, and our two babies. He's angry, I get that. But he's been doing so well in our new town, away from old influences and heartbreaking memories. I believe he can continue to do well here. And if he chooses to return -- well, I just won't be there to see it. (I know that to my new readers I may seem vague, but I try to respect Mo's privacy as much as possible here. It's hard to blog about marital problems without jeopardizing that. . . and yet it's something I need to get off my chest, too. If you want the history here, check out my archives, particularly from last spring/summer. You can read between the lines and get a fairly accurate picture. Just keep in mind that it's just one person's perspective, and it can be emotionally skewed at times. End lecture.)
The weekend in a nutshell: Mo behaved badly, we fought, and ended up driving home separately. I spent most of the time we were there in the hotel room, by myself, waiting for him to come to his senses. He did eventually, but UGH.
I've told him, in no uncertain terms, that that was my LAST trip back to our old hometown. I can't take him in that environment, making those same choices, for whatever reasons. I know he's grieving. In the last two years he's lost his father, both of his uncles, his grandfather, and our two babies. He's angry, I get that. But he's been doing so well in our new town, away from old influences and heartbreaking memories. I believe he can continue to do well here. And if he chooses to return -- well, I just won't be there to see it. (I know that to my new readers I may seem vague, but I try to respect Mo's privacy as much as possible here. It's hard to blog about marital problems without jeopardizing that. . . and yet it's something I need to get off my chest, too. If you want the history here, check out my archives, particularly from last spring/summer. You can read between the lines and get a fairly accurate picture. Just keep in mind that it's just one person's perspective, and it can be emotionally skewed at times. End lecture.)
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Well, You Know Me...
It's been a weird weekend so far. We are back in our old hometown for just a few days, with plans to drive back to our new hometown on Sunday or Monday. The long drive down here has given me fodder for several posts, but I won't have time to really reflect on any of it until we get back. Some highlights:
* Of course I mentioned to Mo what I was thinking about adoption. To hell with the fact that he was stressed about work (a kid got hurt on their last day of football camp, and he was called on the carpet), that he was caught up in thinking about his Dad (today marks 2 years since he passed, that's why we're here), and that all-around it was probably the worst possible time to bring it up. The good news is that he didn't shoot me down. He does feel like we should give "healthy Mo" another shot. His belief is that this last group of embryos were just poor quality, largely due to the poor lifestyle choices Mo was making at the time. I don't fault him for this, and part of me thinks he may be right. So, we'll see what the RPL testing reveals, and make our plans from there.
* Irony of ironies, we drove here exactly 3 months (to the day) from our last trip here, which was to do our FET. I tried not to think too much about it, but there were tears. Especially when I realized that it was also exactly 1 month (to the day) since my D&C. And seven months (to the day) from my first positive pee stick, ever. Needless to say, from now on, I'm spending the 23rd in bed. Nothing good ever happens on the 23rd, I've decided.
* Driving into town, I could feel the weight of the past six years just falling down onto my shoulders. I tensed up immediately, and haven't been able to really relax. I hate being here. I hate all the sad memories, I hate how trapped and weak I felt when we lived here. I feel so much stronger, so much more myself in our new home, with all the wonderful things that have happened since we moved. In spite of our losses, I'm happier now than I've been in years. I cannot wait to leave this place behind me.
* I spent some time alone on the beach last night. I'll post more about it later, but right now all I'll say is that I felt a sense of peace that has been missing, and a slight glimmer of a return of faith that may be coming. We'll see.
*I've enjoyed being a part of ICLW again. I've found some really great blogs to add to my reader, and quite a few have decided to follow me, too! Which is quite humbling and ego-boosting at the same time. I now stand at 99 readers...any of you lovely ladies want to make it an even 100? :-)
That's about all I've got for right now. I'll update again when we get home.
* Of course I mentioned to Mo what I was thinking about adoption. To hell with the fact that he was stressed about work (a kid got hurt on their last day of football camp, and he was called on the carpet), that he was caught up in thinking about his Dad (today marks 2 years since he passed, that's why we're here), and that all-around it was probably the worst possible time to bring it up. The good news is that he didn't shoot me down. He does feel like we should give "healthy Mo" another shot. His belief is that this last group of embryos were just poor quality, largely due to the poor lifestyle choices Mo was making at the time. I don't fault him for this, and part of me thinks he may be right. So, we'll see what the RPL testing reveals, and make our plans from there.
* Irony of ironies, we drove here exactly 3 months (to the day) from our last trip here, which was to do our FET. I tried not to think too much about it, but there were tears. Especially when I realized that it was also exactly 1 month (to the day) since my D&C. And seven months (to the day) from my first positive pee stick, ever. Needless to say, from now on, I'm spending the 23rd in bed. Nothing good ever happens on the 23rd, I've decided.
* Driving into town, I could feel the weight of the past six years just falling down onto my shoulders. I tensed up immediately, and haven't been able to really relax. I hate being here. I hate all the sad memories, I hate how trapped and weak I felt when we lived here. I feel so much stronger, so much more myself in our new home, with all the wonderful things that have happened since we moved. In spite of our losses, I'm happier now than I've been in years. I cannot wait to leave this place behind me.
* I spent some time alone on the beach last night. I'll post more about it later, but right now all I'll say is that I felt a sense of peace that has been missing, and a slight glimmer of a return of faith that may be coming. We'll see.
*I've enjoyed being a part of ICLW again. I've found some really great blogs to add to my reader, and quite a few have decided to follow me, too! Which is quite humbling and ego-boosting at the same time. I now stand at 99 readers...any of you lovely ladies want to make it an even 100? :-)
That's about all I've got for right now. I'll update again when we get home.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Another Direction?
If you're here from ICLW, welcome! Click here to read my story in a nutshell. A more detailed timeline can be found on the sidebar.
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Lately, I've been pondering where exactly I want to go on this TTC journey. It should come to no surprise to anyone that, well, I'm tired. 8 years is a long roller-coaster ride, my friends, and quite frankly, I am more than ready to get off.
But I cannot picture my life "child-free." I just can't. It's wonderful for some, but it's not for me. I need children, I need little people to nurture and care for. It's what I'm here for, I know it deep within me. It sounds ridiculous to say it out loud, but I honestly believe that my purpose in life is to be a mother.
There are still so many options available to Mo and I. I know this. Both our IVF's have been clinically successful. I responded well to the drugs, our embryos were able to implant. Why they failed to thrive and actually grow into squalling little bundles of joy we have still to determine. But, should our tests reveal anything conclusive, there are still many methods of treatment available, from heparin to PGD to donor eggs/sperm/embryos.
I have no doubt that, given enough time and resources, I could carry a child to term.
I'm just no longer sure that I want to.
Ok, so that's not entirely true. If a miracle happened tomorrow and I turned up pregnant, I'd be thrilled. But I'd also be terrified and anxious and unable to enjoy any of it. And I'm just not sure if I'm willing to put myself through all that again, in addition to the heartache and anxiety and financial drain of another IVF cycle. Being pregnant, for me, is just no longer all that it's cracked up to be.
I'd really like to start considering adoption.
It's been weighing on me a lot lately...in fact, I can think of little else. I know it's a long, hard journey in itself. I know that it is by no means the "easy" way out of this. But, it's starting to feel like it might be the path of least resistance.
God, that sounds horrible, and it's still not right. I'm having a terrible time putting my thoughts into words, which is why I'm blogging about it. I can't approach Mo until I'm able to verbalize how I feel, until I have a plan and numbers and all my little ducks in a row. He's reluctant to adopt, I know that. He has his reasons, the least of which is his own personal experience with adoption (his younger sister) and the fact that she is certifiable. But several years ago he was willing (in theory) to pursue donor sperm. Will he make the leap to adoption, given time? I don't know...but I also don't know if I am willing to put myself through all the medications, the hormones, the anxiety, and the heartbreak any longer.
I want my body back. I want to be able to drink wine, sit in hot tubs, eat sushi, and do all the other things I've not done for years because I "might" be pregnant. I'm finally free of hormones for the first time in -- what? 8 months? -- and I'll be honest: it feels great. I'm in no hurry to go back to the emotional, anxious, frustrated, angry, crying, short-tempered mess that I've been.
I also want my life back. Not my old life, my early-married, childless life, but the life I've envisioned for myself for nearly a decade. I want babies to hold, mouths to feed, stories to read and monsters to chase away. I want to schedule parent-teacher conferences and take trips to the zoo and demand obligatory attendance at Family Game nights.
I no longer want to be pregnant, I just want to be a mom.
I want to know that, eventually, I will have children. If it takes two or three years, so be it. But to keep spending tens of thousands of dollars on a CHANCE that we'll conceive, along with the anxiety of whether or not we'll miscarry, is starting to seem ridiculous. I am tired of "maybe's" and "what if's" and "someday's." I need to know that there is an end in sight.
I've never cared about biology, about whether or not my children were carried in my womb or had my genetics. Let's face it -- as many good qualities as I've got, I've also got plenty of genetics that I wouldn't want my children to inherit. (Sorry, Mom, but it's true). I know that I could love any child entrusted in my care as much as any I gave birth to. Little Miss, though my niece, is not blood-related to either Mo or myself, and I loved and cared for her immensely while she was with us. Still, today, I miss her and think of her every single day. Had she been given to Mo and I to raise (a possiblity at the time), she would have been mine in every sense of the word.
The problem is convincing Mo of that.
I read on an adoption website about another reluctant spouse. He and his wife were attending counseling, and he admitted he worried about whether or not he'd be able to love a child that wasn't his biologically. The therapist then asked him if he loved his wife.
"I love her with all of my heart," he said.
"Are you biologically-related to your wife?" the therapist questioned.
"No, of course not!"
"If you can love your wife so much, why do you think you won't be able to love a child as much?" she asked.
It took him a minute, but he got the point.
The question is, will Mo?
Monday, July 5, 2010
Reclaiming THAT Room
We all have one.
You know.
THE Room.
The "future" nursery.
The room that's filled with all your hopes and dreams, and, for some, the collection of yet-unused baby paraphernalia.
I've had one in every house we've lived in for the last eight years, six houses in all.
In some houses, the room was used as an office. In others, a guest bedroom. Still, underneath the trappings of utility, I knew what the room's TRUE purpose was. I waited patiently for the day when I could paint, put up the crib, and hang my baby's name on the wall.
Our new house is a four-bedroom. We converted both upstairs bedrooms into guest rooms, and turned the "formal" dining room into my husband's office. That left the small, first floor bedroom right next to the master empty.
I stored some teacher items in there for a while, but I knew. This, THIS ROOM, was finally going to be my baby's room. After learning that I was pregnant again, I began sketching out a room plan. I looked for inspiration online. My mom and I picked out paint, bought some shelves. I moved all the boxes into other rooms, leaving room for the chair and ottoman that I planned to re-cover, and the dresser that I planned to re-paint.
When I was pregnant, it brought me great comfort to sit in this room. The room that was so often avoided in the past became my favorite place to relax in, to dream in. It made my baby feel REAL somehow. I sat in there and talked to him, even read stories once or twice. I knew exactly where I was going to put the crib and the changing table. I was ready.
And then.
For several days afterward, I kept the door to the room closed. I couldn't bring myself to go in there, to see in my mind's eye all those plans that were no longer necessary, to gaze at the tiny onesies that I had finally given in and bought for my husband on his first Father's Day.
In my heart, though, it didn't feel right to shut the room up. I didn't want to close it off, as so many previous rooms had been. I am tired of having an empty room just waiting to be filled.
And so this weekend, I started unpacking. I moved my teacher things into the closet. I brought out the paint that I had chosen. I told Mo of my plans to create a "teacher work room," a place where I can spread out and do all my crafty elementary-type things without destroying our dining room table. This week, I am done waiting. I am going to transform my would-be nursery into a haven of construction paper, die-cut letters, and tri-fold boards. I'm going to give myself an equal space of my own in this way-too-big house. I am, quite purposefully, refusing to give in, refusing to close off another piece of myself because of the overwhelming disappointment and frustration that has been thrust upon us.
I know it's not going to be easy. Every paint stroke is going to remind me of what SHOULD be. Every step of assembling those shelves will be filled with memories of what was, and what I hoped would be. And yet, its not as if I could ever forget.
Closing that door feels like giving up...and I'm just not ready to do that. I need a break, yes. We will not be doing any more treatments until January, at least. We need time to heal, time to figure out what's causing all of this to happen. I need time to focus on non-fertility related things for a while. In the meantime, though, I'm reclaiming that room -- and maybe a little bit of myself in the process.
You know.
THE Room.
The "future" nursery.
The room that's filled with all your hopes and dreams, and, for some, the collection of yet-unused baby paraphernalia.
I've had one in every house we've lived in for the last eight years, six houses in all.
In some houses, the room was used as an office. In others, a guest bedroom. Still, underneath the trappings of utility, I knew what the room's TRUE purpose was. I waited patiently for the day when I could paint, put up the crib, and hang my baby's name on the wall.
Our new house is a four-bedroom. We converted both upstairs bedrooms into guest rooms, and turned the "formal" dining room into my husband's office. That left the small, first floor bedroom right next to the master empty.
I stored some teacher items in there for a while, but I knew. This, THIS ROOM, was finally going to be my baby's room. After learning that I was pregnant again, I began sketching out a room plan. I looked for inspiration online. My mom and I picked out paint, bought some shelves. I moved all the boxes into other rooms, leaving room for the chair and ottoman that I planned to re-cover, and the dresser that I planned to re-paint.
When I was pregnant, it brought me great comfort to sit in this room. The room that was so often avoided in the past became my favorite place to relax in, to dream in. It made my baby feel REAL somehow. I sat in there and talked to him, even read stories once or twice. I knew exactly where I was going to put the crib and the changing table. I was ready.
And then.
For several days afterward, I kept the door to the room closed. I couldn't bring myself to go in there, to see in my mind's eye all those plans that were no longer necessary, to gaze at the tiny onesies that I had finally given in and bought for my husband on his first Father's Day.
In my heart, though, it didn't feel right to shut the room up. I didn't want to close it off, as so many previous rooms had been. I am tired of having an empty room just waiting to be filled.
And so this weekend, I started unpacking. I moved my teacher things into the closet. I brought out the paint that I had chosen. I told Mo of my plans to create a "teacher work room," a place where I can spread out and do all my crafty elementary-type things without destroying our dining room table. This week, I am done waiting. I am going to transform my would-be nursery into a haven of construction paper, die-cut letters, and tri-fold boards. I'm going to give myself an equal space of my own in this way-too-big house. I am, quite purposefully, refusing to give in, refusing to close off another piece of myself because of the overwhelming disappointment and frustration that has been thrust upon us.
I know it's not going to be easy. Every paint stroke is going to remind me of what SHOULD be. Every step of assembling those shelves will be filled with memories of what was, and what I hoped would be. And yet, its not as if I could ever forget.
Closing that door feels like giving up...and I'm just not ready to do that. I need a break, yes. We will not be doing any more treatments until January, at least. We need time to heal, time to figure out what's causing all of this to happen. I need time to focus on non-fertility related things for a while. In the meantime, though, I'm reclaiming that room -- and maybe a little bit of myself in the process.
Friday, July 2, 2010
31/12/00
No, I'm not writing the date for some important event a decade ago.
That's where I should be today with Baby #1, next to where I should be with Baby #2, next to where I actually am.
It's hard for me to fathom, but if our Christmas miracle had stuck around, I'd be well in the clear by now. I'd be huge and uncomfortable and counting down the weeks until I got to meet my little one. I'd have a finished nursery, and possibly even a few showers to look forward to.
After we lost our first baby, I told Mo that there was no way I could wait until September to try again. I couldn't go through the entire pregnancy period and know that there was no way I'd be pregnant again when her due-date rolled around. And so, despite it being financially the worst decision we ever made, we went ahead and gave it our best shot.
And it worked.
Today I should be 12 weeks with #2. Out of the first trimester, having seen an actual baby on the ultrasound. Having heard his heartbeat several times. Anxiously anticipating feeling him move inside me. Still mourning the loss of #1, but hopeful that #2 would be able to fill some of that void. Painting the nursery, planning for strollers and cribs, anxiously anticipating the next six weeks until we could plunge forward into the baby shopping madness.
Instead, I'm 0 weeks. Still bleeding from the D&C, still heartbroken and empty. I'm wondering now if I will ever be pregnant again. We got some extremely bad news this week that puts a possible hold on a future IVF, something I hadn't anticpated. (I'll post more on this later). After 7 years without a single pregnancy, I have no hope that a miracle baby will appear naturally. IVF IS our only hope, the only way we can get pregnant. And, as we well know, even that doesn't guarantee a healthy baby.
I told Mo the other day that we've spent 10 years trying to get here, and that I don't have 10 more years to invest in it. I've been off birth control since I was 20. Next year, I will be 30. I cannot be in this place when I am 40 -- I just can't. Fertility-wise, for me and him, it's just not possible. Even if we are successful soon (in the next year or so), there is no way I'll be able to have the four children I've always wanted. And the more time that passes, the farther away our baby starts to seem. Even adoption agencies frown on older parents -- many won't take you after 45. Mo, as I've mentioned before, is ten years older than I am. That means he's turning 40 this year. What happens if we try to get pregnant for five more years -- and nothing? I'll be 35, he'll be 45. Not a happy scenario.
I'm so frustrated and sad today. I miss my babies, though they hardly seem real sometimes. I want so desperately to have hope for the future, but I am feeling so pessimistic. I feel like a total failure, as a wife, as a mother. I am a hard worker -- I bust my butt at everything I put my mind to. I've always believed that if you want something bad enough, you can make it happen. But this, this I can't make happen.
I'm so tired of hitting roadblocks all the time. I'm tired of riding this roller coaster. I don't know how much more heartbreak and disappointment I can take.
It's a pity party, today, and my dear readers you're invited. Just remember to BYOB (Bring Your Own Baby)-- 'cuz there ain't any 'round here.
That's where I should be today with Baby #1, next to where I should be with Baby #2, next to where I actually am.
It's hard for me to fathom, but if our Christmas miracle had stuck around, I'd be well in the clear by now. I'd be huge and uncomfortable and counting down the weeks until I got to meet my little one. I'd have a finished nursery, and possibly even a few showers to look forward to.
After we lost our first baby, I told Mo that there was no way I could wait until September to try again. I couldn't go through the entire pregnancy period and know that there was no way I'd be pregnant again when her due-date rolled around. And so, despite it being financially the worst decision we ever made, we went ahead and gave it our best shot.
And it worked.
Today I should be 12 weeks with #2. Out of the first trimester, having seen an actual baby on the ultrasound. Having heard his heartbeat several times. Anxiously anticipating feeling him move inside me. Still mourning the loss of #1, but hopeful that #2 would be able to fill some of that void. Painting the nursery, planning for strollers and cribs, anxiously anticipating the next six weeks until we could plunge forward into the baby shopping madness.
Instead, I'm 0 weeks. Still bleeding from the D&C, still heartbroken and empty. I'm wondering now if I will ever be pregnant again. We got some extremely bad news this week that puts a possible hold on a future IVF, something I hadn't anticpated. (I'll post more on this later). After 7 years without a single pregnancy, I have no hope that a miracle baby will appear naturally. IVF IS our only hope, the only way we can get pregnant. And, as we well know, even that doesn't guarantee a healthy baby.
I told Mo the other day that we've spent 10 years trying to get here, and that I don't have 10 more years to invest in it. I've been off birth control since I was 20. Next year, I will be 30. I cannot be in this place when I am 40 -- I just can't. Fertility-wise, for me and him, it's just not possible. Even if we are successful soon (in the next year or so), there is no way I'll be able to have the four children I've always wanted. And the more time that passes, the farther away our baby starts to seem. Even adoption agencies frown on older parents -- many won't take you after 45. Mo, as I've mentioned before, is ten years older than I am. That means he's turning 40 this year. What happens if we try to get pregnant for five more years -- and nothing? I'll be 35, he'll be 45. Not a happy scenario.
I'm so frustrated and sad today. I miss my babies, though they hardly seem real sometimes. I want so desperately to have hope for the future, but I am feeling so pessimistic. I feel like a total failure, as a wife, as a mother. I am a hard worker -- I bust my butt at everything I put my mind to. I've always believed that if you want something bad enough, you can make it happen. But this, this I can't make happen.
I'm so tired of hitting roadblocks all the time. I'm tired of riding this roller coaster. I don't know how much more heartbreak and disappointment I can take.
It's a pity party, today, and my dear readers you're invited. Just remember to BYOB (Bring Your Own Baby)-- 'cuz there ain't any 'round here.
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