Negative. #4 down, not counting the first month after the D&C when we didn't use an OPK, not counting the month we did use an OPK and I didn't ovulate, not counting the month we didn't try at all. We still have two more tries before it's time to call for a diagnosis of infertility and maybe get drugs.
I had hope this time, I'll be honest. Maybe I should have been going to acupuncture. Maybe I'm still not deserving, too many work things unfinished, too many relationships unresolved. MFP has his own list of what he thinks he's doing wrong.
Empty. Not like, mental health empty; post-miscarriages empty, nothing really powerfully joyful to hope for, just a long held dream dying away slowly. I will still be empty, barren, for another whole month. Due date for pregnancy #2 is about to come and go. Since miscarriage #2 and the re traumatizing D&C, we will have seen two once hoped for due dates pass. Unbelievable, the cruelty of this. The cruelty. How little we get, considering how much love we have to give. Despondent. That's how I feel. Maybe this is another step in our journey to become adoptive parents. I suppose we could give up trying now and just focus on that; ethically it feels better anyway. I have always wanted to experience pregnancy and birth. I guess some women just don't get to do that. If only, my dearly beloved child I twice thought I could hope for, if only that wasn't me.
"Are you still trying?" Do me a favor and never ask anyone that. I'm going to let myself do nothing today. I'm in despair. I'm sure my friends are tired of my unvarying monthly dirge. I may not even say anything. I don't even give a shit about healthy ways of coping. I am going to do whatever I want as long as it involved taking another step into this reality of grief I so desperately didn't want to happen.
Maybe the progesterone is interfering? I'm taking it as instructed. For anyone curious, I take it on the fourth night after the OPK says I'm ovulating, then take it for 14 days, then take a pregnancy test, then stop and my period comes shortly after that. I have 30+ day failed cycles because of it. Now I get to stop for this month. Grueling. One thing I like about getting my period is at least it's day one of a new chance. But this progesterone regimen sucks--now I have to have days of limbo while I wait for day one. And then we have another sex marathon in which we try to forget about all the grief and despair and desperation we feel, for seven days in a row while we see the flashing or non flashing smiley. And I have to test my fucking pee every morning. And chart temps on my app. And watch the neighbors enjoy their children. And pass pregnant women EVERYWHERE. And field stupid questions like are you trying. And hand out with people who make clear it is never OK to talk about the miscarriage griefs or infertility. And talk about other bad experiences in therapy but not much at all about this, like it's not important. And talk about dumb fucking shit with friends, as though this lack isn't the biggest thing happening in my life. And wonder why it was so easy for my cold, abusive parents. And decide not to go back to the pregnancy loss group because no one else even bothered to show up last time and anyway my loss looks like infertility now.
I feel sad. Angry. Helpless. And in despair. Ashamed of myself. Hopeless. Grieving for what I so fleetingly once had: hope. No, had twice.
A woman I know died recently whose whole life had been work. She had a partner, but everything was about work, which she wanted to focus on till the end. Is that going to be me? Is that all I have? What did I do, what did I do, to not deserve this basic and simple thing of motherhood? I once said to someone that I wanted to have it all--not give up career ambitions; have a family too. I was 22. She made different choices. What Schadenfreude she'd feel now.
We're going to be okay. We're going to get through this. I have a volunteer shift later today that's meaningful to me. At least I do that with my life, in addition to my job. What a sad, small, bitter life I lead.
I know I have a lot. I just don't want to give much of a shit about it today.
*****
A bit later. Today is the first day I've seriously considered giving up and turning seriously to adoption. There's a line in "While We're Young" when Naomi Watts says, about having kids after multiple miscarriages and fertility treatments, "this is closed for business!" Gesturing down at her body. At least deciding to stop trying is something that is in our control.
There was a moment by the pond in the park, listening to the sound of a fountain, with our dog calmly sitting with me watching the ducks, that was so peaceful. My life, one day at a time, is good. I just can't think about the future, or about two years of wasted effort.
Be forewarned, though: if you are a pregnant woman I may not be able to keep myself from scowling at you. Please forgive me. Maybe one day I won't wince with pain when you walk by.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
"The role of the mother starts the minute you find out"
"Silence of Stillbirth"
I saw this and thought of the families I met in the pregnancy loss group. Of the issues that they shared that I had never thought of before--like how regularly this occurs; how there are charities that take pictures for the family; how important it is to be given some kind of legal recognition of the occurrence, like a death certificate. But mostly of the trauma and the grief. Made worse by so many other people's inability to acknowledge that sometimes women lose their babies and it's no one's fault, it's just unfair, and the grief is intense.
I know that my loss is different. The multiple early losses; the way it resembles the grief of infertility but not quite; the way it resonates with others who hear "there's no heartbeat," but not quite. Recurrent miscarriage is its own unique type of loss. I'm grateful to have met other grieving parents who've shared their losses with me; I think of them when I feel the sharp pain of seeing a very pregnant woman or a baby or when I hear of other people expressing the hubris of being able to plan out their lives and trust that plan will happen. I think of them because I feel so much compassion for them, and I know they'd understand why it hurts for me; and then I feel less alone. Grieving, but not alone in the grief. I draw on the memory of feeling understood and being allowed to be antisocial, resentful, angry, miserable at the sight of something that brings others happiness.
Speaking of which. Father's Day sucked. Really, does everyone have to post pictures of their "wonderful" dads on instagram and Facebook? Every single person? The childhood, old scanned-in photos are the ones that hurt the most. I have an idea: how about I send a picture of me and MFP on Valentine's day to every single one of my single friends! "I'm celebrating how lucky I am today! What a great Valentine's Day this is for me!" Yes, I am angry and resentful about this too. I know people with shit childhoods. Abusive fathers, abandoning fathers, alcoholic fathers, people who spent time in foster care. Yet, many of these people have found renewed meaning in "Father's Day" because of their own children. MFP teared up yesterday remembering that he had really hoped this would have been his first Father's Day. Either with a six-month-old or a baby about to be born. How desperately I wanted that too. What an absolutely, banner award winning, completely and utterly fantastic father MFP would have been. He's so kind, caring, empathetic, supportive, giving, nurturing, solicitous, thoughtful, funny, playful, smart, self-examining; all while being careful not to be intrusive or self-denying. Amazing. I get to benefit from that love now, and so does our dog. I remember the first OB visit from pregnancy #1. The nurse asked us all kinds of questions and gave us some now totally useless packet about health in pregnancy. She called MFP "Dad" when asking family history questions. At first we were confused--our dads aren't here. Then we realized "Dad" was MFP and we were thrilled. We loved the sound of it. That was MFP's one and only moment of being "Dad." And you know what? Despite knowing about the loss that would come an hour later, and then six months later again, that moment was fucking amazing. For a moment, MFP was a "Dad." I was caring for a baby I loved absolutely and utterly. I was sacrificing for it--puking and avoiding soft cheeses. MFP was researching the foods richest in vitamins to cook for us--he was being a "dad" then too.
And it's gone. And I have no pictures. And even I would scoff to claim that he was a "father," that I was a "mother." Not like a stillbirth parent. We didn't even ever make it past twelve weeks of pregnancy. I have a loss that was not a loss. Two of them. I think about the pain of women I know who suffer in fertility. How that too, is a loss that is not a loss. A terrible loss. The same and different, like many griefs.
I've written about my mother here, but that's just because that's easier than writing about my father, who is the primary cause of much of the inability of my mother and I to have a relationship. He is both dead--making Father's Day suck twice--and he was not at all worth honoring--thrice suckage. Unlike some fathers, he made a mockery of fatherhood: playing the role of the good father, yet only to inflict terror and tyranny. I married a man who is absolutely and utterly unlike him in every way; unlike in every way my mother too. I myself have struggled hard for years to be very much unlike either of them. That means splashing in the pool yesterday, swaying with MFP to "At Last" on the Dinah Washington Pandora station. A life of love, safety, and as much joy and peace as we can muster. My father was blessed with many living children, a blessing he abused and squandered. MFP has loved two children he never got to carry or see, snuffed before they were even more than zygotes. And that makes him a better father than many. Yet I had nothing to celebrate Sunday, only encomiums to block out.
I am adamant that we should do away with Mother's Day and Father's Day and all the pain they cause to benefit the greeting card companies that invented them. Instead, or at least in addition, we should have Children's Day. Everyone was once a child worth celebrating. Honor the children, not thy parents. Honor the vulnerable, not the powerful. Thank the children for trusting us, don't thank us for bringing them into the world when they had no choice in the matter. Even if our childhoods were shitty, we deserve a day to honor the innocent, vulnerable part of ourselves that was once a child, and still deserves to experience carefree joy and the feeling of safety. To play. And honor the children of today by being kind to them, being patient, listening to them.
Last bit: I came across this yesterday from Anne Bradstreet, a seventeenth-century Puritan poet, and it comforted me so much. Especially after reading Hilary Mantel on Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII, and how brutally he tossed off his wives in part for having suffered multiple miscarriages and stillbirths and infant deaths (why in the HELL did I do that; there should be a surgeon general's warning on those books). Here was a woman living in the following century who reflects, later in life, after all eight (!) of her children reached adulthood, how painful were the five years spent trying to become a mother:
I saw this and thought of the families I met in the pregnancy loss group. Of the issues that they shared that I had never thought of before--like how regularly this occurs; how there are charities that take pictures for the family; how important it is to be given some kind of legal recognition of the occurrence, like a death certificate. But mostly of the trauma and the grief. Made worse by so many other people's inability to acknowledge that sometimes women lose their babies and it's no one's fault, it's just unfair, and the grief is intense.
I know that my loss is different. The multiple early losses; the way it resembles the grief of infertility but not quite; the way it resonates with others who hear "there's no heartbeat," but not quite. Recurrent miscarriage is its own unique type of loss. I'm grateful to have met other grieving parents who've shared their losses with me; I think of them when I feel the sharp pain of seeing a very pregnant woman or a baby or when I hear of other people expressing the hubris of being able to plan out their lives and trust that plan will happen. I think of them because I feel so much compassion for them, and I know they'd understand why it hurts for me; and then I feel less alone. Grieving, but not alone in the grief. I draw on the memory of feeling understood and being allowed to be antisocial, resentful, angry, miserable at the sight of something that brings others happiness.
Speaking of which. Father's Day sucked. Really, does everyone have to post pictures of their "wonderful" dads on instagram and Facebook? Every single person? The childhood, old scanned-in photos are the ones that hurt the most. I have an idea: how about I send a picture of me and MFP on Valentine's day to every single one of my single friends! "I'm celebrating how lucky I am today! What a great Valentine's Day this is for me!" Yes, I am angry and resentful about this too. I know people with shit childhoods. Abusive fathers, abandoning fathers, alcoholic fathers, people who spent time in foster care. Yet, many of these people have found renewed meaning in "Father's Day" because of their own children. MFP teared up yesterday remembering that he had really hoped this would have been his first Father's Day. Either with a six-month-old or a baby about to be born. How desperately I wanted that too. What an absolutely, banner award winning, completely and utterly fantastic father MFP would have been. He's so kind, caring, empathetic, supportive, giving, nurturing, solicitous, thoughtful, funny, playful, smart, self-examining; all while being careful not to be intrusive or self-denying. Amazing. I get to benefit from that love now, and so does our dog. I remember the first OB visit from pregnancy #1. The nurse asked us all kinds of questions and gave us some now totally useless packet about health in pregnancy. She called MFP "Dad" when asking family history questions. At first we were confused--our dads aren't here. Then we realized "Dad" was MFP and we were thrilled. We loved the sound of it. That was MFP's one and only moment of being "Dad." And you know what? Despite knowing about the loss that would come an hour later, and then six months later again, that moment was fucking amazing. For a moment, MFP was a "Dad." I was caring for a baby I loved absolutely and utterly. I was sacrificing for it--puking and avoiding soft cheeses. MFP was researching the foods richest in vitamins to cook for us--he was being a "dad" then too.
And it's gone. And I have no pictures. And even I would scoff to claim that he was a "father," that I was a "mother." Not like a stillbirth parent. We didn't even ever make it past twelve weeks of pregnancy. I have a loss that was not a loss. Two of them. I think about the pain of women I know who suffer in fertility. How that too, is a loss that is not a loss. A terrible loss. The same and different, like many griefs.
I've written about my mother here, but that's just because that's easier than writing about my father, who is the primary cause of much of the inability of my mother and I to have a relationship. He is both dead--making Father's Day suck twice--and he was not at all worth honoring--thrice suckage. Unlike some fathers, he made a mockery of fatherhood: playing the role of the good father, yet only to inflict terror and tyranny. I married a man who is absolutely and utterly unlike him in every way; unlike in every way my mother too. I myself have struggled hard for years to be very much unlike either of them. That means splashing in the pool yesterday, swaying with MFP to "At Last" on the Dinah Washington Pandora station. A life of love, safety, and as much joy and peace as we can muster. My father was blessed with many living children, a blessing he abused and squandered. MFP has loved two children he never got to carry or see, snuffed before they were even more than zygotes. And that makes him a better father than many. Yet I had nothing to celebrate Sunday, only encomiums to block out.
I am adamant that we should do away with Mother's Day and Father's Day and all the pain they cause to benefit the greeting card companies that invented them. Instead, or at least in addition, we should have Children's Day. Everyone was once a child worth celebrating. Honor the children, not thy parents. Honor the vulnerable, not the powerful. Thank the children for trusting us, don't thank us for bringing them into the world when they had no choice in the matter. Even if our childhoods were shitty, we deserve a day to honor the innocent, vulnerable part of ourselves that was once a child, and still deserves to experience carefree joy and the feeling of safety. To play. And honor the children of today by being kind to them, being patient, listening to them.
Last bit: I came across this yesterday from Anne Bradstreet, a seventeenth-century Puritan poet, and it comforted me so much. Especially after reading Hilary Mantel on Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII, and how brutally he tossed off his wives in part for having suffered multiple miscarriages and stillbirths and infant deaths (why in the HELL did I do that; there should be a surgeon general's warning on those books). Here was a woman living in the following century who reflects, later in life, after all eight (!) of her children reached adulthood, how painful were the five years spent trying to become a mother:
It pleased God to keep me a long time without a child, which was a great grief to me and cost me many prayers and tears before I obtained one, and after him gave me many more of whom I now take care."A long time without a child"... "A great grief to me and cost me many prayers and tears before I obtained one." And this, a grandmother looking back on her life, remembering that suffering. A lot more was riding on her having a kid than me, but still. It's comforting to know my grief is neither new nor unique, yet also very real.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
BTW, MFP FTW
He hates that acronym, "for the win." The other day in the car I asked him if it was hard for him too, hearing our friends talk so much about parenting the previous night, parenting we wish we were doing but aren't. And may never. In response to this or something else, I can't remember exactly, he really hit the nail on the head about trying to have a kid after two miscarriages: "I no longer think of all this as something we do in the hope of having a kid. It's just this thing we do that brings us pain." Ouch. Yes. Devastating. It's so true. This thing we do--counting the days, testing pee, getting tested, avoiding caffeine--that brings us only pain.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Despair
One thing about infertility and/or recurrent pregnancy loss is that I lose, in addition to the hope for having a child, the dream of having the family size I want. Maybe I wanted two, maybe three as a possibility, but now I lose the choice, the control. I have no idea. No assurance that anything I want reproductively will happen. I know there's reason to hope for one child still, but there's good reason NOT to hope for more than one, given my age and how excruciating this process has been. That dream dying is hard, a background loss, but one that sometimes hits me on top of everything nonetheless. Today I talked with a lawyer friend about making up a will. Then I realized we have no one to leave anything too, and we very well may never. If the two of us die, we vanish, pretty much. We have our dog to be sure to account for, and it would feel good to plan to donate anything we have to charity that means something to us. But there's no child, no dear friend, no niece or nephew whose education we could sponsor--no one meaningful. What a waste of my life, after 35 years.
I know my work is meaningful, I know certainly I am meaningful to MFP, and I've touched a few friends' lives. I know too that cumpulsory maternity teaches women our lives are wasted without traditional families, and I want to challenge that. I wish I just didn't want kids. Life would be so much easier right now.
#4 two week wait begins today. If we fail after #6, I am officially infertile. I'm still on a hiatus from acupuncture. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. I'm so fucking sick of this shit.
I know my work is meaningful, I know certainly I am meaningful to MFP, and I've touched a few friends' lives. I know too that cumpulsory maternity teaches women our lives are wasted without traditional families, and I want to challenge that. I wish I just didn't want kids. Life would be so much easier right now.
#4 two week wait begins today. If we fail after #6, I am officially infertile. I'm still on a hiatus from acupuncture. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. I'm so fucking sick of this shit.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Tumbling
Yesterday I wrote this intending to post to this http://pregnantparentingprochoice.tumblr.com:
But I didn't post it. I've thought about writing something similar for a while, about how my miscarriages deepened and enriched my commitment to reproductive justice, and this felt like the right forum: less about me; contributing to a cause. Yet it still doesn't feel right to add my name, to "come out." I wonder if that's because my mother, from whom I'm estranged right now, hasn't heard from me about the miscarriages. Or because there are ex-close friends I haven't told, because they weren't as supportive as I needed when I was going through the estrangement from my mother right before the miscarriages. Or maybe it's because of work. I don't want my uterus to get more notoriety than my work. Or maybe it's because my grief is personal to me. Sharing it is a gift I don't want to bestow widely. And it's still raw, it still hurts. I would feel bad to share this and get a dismissive response from someone, or worse, no response. People often don't know what to say about pregnancy loss. In fact, most well-meaning people have said things that, well, no one who'd been through the loss of a wanted pregnancy would say. It's been rare that I get genuine empathy, naked empathy. Especially as the months wear on, if empathy appears at all it's accessorized by, "You'll have one," "come in, it'll work out," "I know someone who had a million miscarriages and then she had a baby/two unplanned babies/IVF/adopted/gave up trying and is actually really happy now" or "are you still trying?" "Are you having sex?" Or "I thought you were done trying" or "I wish you didn't have to memorialize it." All of these I've heard from people very close to me. Including, "I had coffee my whole pregnancy and I was fine," from multiple people if I dare express that I miss having coffee and it's hard for me to give it up, only to have me retort, "well I have proved incapable of sustaining a healthy pregnancy!" I've also been told how I should be taking progesterone by someone who took it for PCOS, despite the fact that I do not have PCOS, and I'm taking it according to a specialist doctors instructions. You know what I don't get?
Last year, I had two miscarriages in a row. My spouse and I were ready and enthusiastic to become parents, and I learned what it feels like to love the potential of a child from the moment I knew I was pregnant. And yet, I felt that way because I wanted those pregnancies. Suffering the surprisingly intense and even life-threatening physical complications of pregnancy and miscarriage opened my eyes even wider to how utterly wrong and unjust it is to force a woman to continue with a pregnancy she doesn't want, and to deny sex education and contraception to women who could unwittingly be going through the same frightening health complications I suffered. My miscarriages taught me to reclaim the word "miracle" from the anti-choice movement. The process of pregnancy and birth truly is miraculous and awe-inspiring, and unpredictable and intense and wondrous, and that is precisely why every woman should have the health care she needs to only experience it when she chooses to. Choice gives this process the honor it deserves.
- I'm so sorry.
- It makes sense this would still be really hard.
- I feel so sad for the two of you.
- It's definitely unfair what you've gone through.
- I wish there was something I could do to help, but I know I can't.
- People don't understand how to respond to miscarriage a lot of the time.
- I realize now how painful it is watching you suffer this.
- Take your time to grieve.
- This is a big loss.
- I am hopeful for you. I understand if it's too hard for you to be hopeful right now; I'll hold on to that hope for you.
- Maybe I can help you find ways to ritualize or honor your grief.
- Do you want to tell me again about what you went through? It's good to process such a traumatic experience if you ever feel the need. I'm here to listen.
- Remember what the doctor said: "do the things you enjoy." Maybe we can do something you enjoy together.
I feel so sad today. Maybe it's hot, and I'm tired, or maybe I'm lonely. I miss my mom--and by that I mostly mean I miss not having ever had a mom who would ever say those things to me. How I wished I would have a baby to love that unconditionally, to love and protect and support and comfort the way I never experienced myself. Yet I can't even have that. Not yet anyway. And it's not even on the horizon. I had a therapist last year who took the miscarriages seriously, but then when our relationship deteriorated shortly after the second miscarriage, she blamed me for "causing my own suffering" and she forgot that this shocking double loss had just happened, like I was supposed to be over it, and like I had to be healthy to be in treatment. I ditched her for a better counselor, well it seems better so far. At least this one recommended the pregnancy loss group, really validating my grief, and focusing on concrete ways to work through it.
But I still wonder, what did I do wrong to not deserve this joy? What did I do wrong to have lost so many people who could have been supportive, but weren't? I know I did nothing wrong, but the undeserving belief is still there. Several women in the support group said EMDR helped them through their pregnancy losses; it's a therapy that works on beliefs that get stuck like that in relation to traumatic events. I'm starting that process now. We started with "I am worthless." I know where that came from originally, and I know that the miscarriages just confirmed it. I know a child wouldn't suddenly heal all my wounds or fix all my old bad beliefs or make up for all my losses. But the joy and fulfillment and hope of a child, the love I would feel for it, would be succor along my own continuing journey. To feel, believe, that I am worthy. I know that's my deal no matter what, to work on that, and I know that losing two deeply wanted pregnancies in such complicated, drawn out, and painful ways sure as hell didn't help.
Monday, June 8, 2015
Tick. Tock.
Did I ever tell you that I don't even technically have "recurrent pregnancy loss"? Not just because I've had two miscarriages instead of 3 (my Dr. Keep Trying says it takes 3) but because, as Dr. Special said, it looks like with pregnancy #2, which was a traumatizing marathon if trying to get unpregnant for infinitely longer than I was ever pregnant and thinking it was okay, never showed a "sac," or whatever. If that wasn't a sojourn into the murky world between life and new life... Anyway, so diagnostically, nothing is wrong with me yet, except my birthday present of now being high risk as a result of my "advanced" age. Nothing's wrong, which is comforting. But also, eerie. And invalidating. Miscarriage hurts. Two miscarriages hurt. So much. Trying over and over, month after month, ovulation kits and apps and vitamins and progesterone and acupuncture and not getting pregnant right away again--after getting pregnant the first time with no trouble! But not yet taking "too" long to get pregnant... This is not okay. I went off birth control nearly two years ago. I spent half of last year pregnant. Yet all I have is heartbreak.
Last week I was feeling a lot of grief, getting invites to a baby's first birthday party, seeing babies who would have been my baby's age, passing families with two small children, one right after another--and thinking, "what an impossible miracle!" (Some of my grief is also losing hope for the family size I wanted; given my age, two children seems like a pipe dream when one may not even be in the cards). It was the day for the monthly pregnancy loss group, and I thought I was done going, but then I reconsidered. Isn't my loss different from a late term loss? Is this group really for me? Shouldn't I be over it by now? I thought I wouldn't need the group anymore. Don't I sound more like a woman struggling with infertility than with pregnancy loss? Well it's both and neither--again, I'm in the gray zone in between. But then I reminded myself that I have felt better after going; that it can be a space to grieve; that no one there has ever invalidated my grief; that no one there would say to anyone they should be "over" it. So I went, and MFP came with me. And there was no one else there. The grief counselor said this had never happened before, only two people coming. In a way, it was validating--she definitely validated our grief (we chatted for like a half an hour before leaving). In another way, I felt sad to lose the opportunity to see the others there and to offer them support. I don't know if I'll go back again. I did, afterward, after the counselor's suggestion, buy some art supplies and spend a few minutes on my sadness about this loss--remembering it. I got out a tear or two and I'm glad I made time for it. The pain of these memories, even the happy memory of what it felt like to be so filled with love and hope, feels so anathema now.
Among some people we know, we've started getting the "are you still trying?" Comments. Wondering if we've given up. I feel angry about the assumption that it would be in our control-- like all we'd have to do is have sex. We get a lot of comments that reflect how others don't feel comfortable acknowledging the limbo we are in. When limbo is the primary characteristic of what sucks ass about what we are going through. We may have to adjust to a life without kids; we may just have to be patient a bit longer. We may get pregnant again and lose it; maybe multiple times. We may get secondary infertility and have to go into treatment, but we're not there yet. I just don't know. I just know for certain I'm not pregnant and I have no child.
I find myself regretting my choices. Yeah we waited until our life was secure and we felt ready--but maybe I shouldn't have? Should have been panicked about my fertility earlier? I judge every choice. Then I feel resentful at all the things I'm doing or not doing (like coffee). What if I don't go to acupuncture and I don't get pregnant, will that be why? What if I want a break from acupuncture appointments because I'm fucking tired of it? What if I don't have time for a break because every day I slide further down the over 35 slope that I never used to care about? What if I'm overweight and I'd get pregnant faster if I was thinner? Should I add losing weight--despite taking progesterone which causes weight gain--to the many things I'm doing to try to get and stay pregnant?
Saturday I had a big cry. I just know I want this and everywhere I go I'm reminded of how it didn't work out for me; of how lucky other people are; of how I never thought this would be me.
Last week I was feeling a lot of grief, getting invites to a baby's first birthday party, seeing babies who would have been my baby's age, passing families with two small children, one right after another--and thinking, "what an impossible miracle!" (Some of my grief is also losing hope for the family size I wanted; given my age, two children seems like a pipe dream when one may not even be in the cards). It was the day for the monthly pregnancy loss group, and I thought I was done going, but then I reconsidered. Isn't my loss different from a late term loss? Is this group really for me? Shouldn't I be over it by now? I thought I wouldn't need the group anymore. Don't I sound more like a woman struggling with infertility than with pregnancy loss? Well it's both and neither--again, I'm in the gray zone in between. But then I reminded myself that I have felt better after going; that it can be a space to grieve; that no one there has ever invalidated my grief; that no one there would say to anyone they should be "over" it. So I went, and MFP came with me. And there was no one else there. The grief counselor said this had never happened before, only two people coming. In a way, it was validating--she definitely validated our grief (we chatted for like a half an hour before leaving). In another way, I felt sad to lose the opportunity to see the others there and to offer them support. I don't know if I'll go back again. I did, afterward, after the counselor's suggestion, buy some art supplies and spend a few minutes on my sadness about this loss--remembering it. I got out a tear or two and I'm glad I made time for it. The pain of these memories, even the happy memory of what it felt like to be so filled with love and hope, feels so anathema now.
Among some people we know, we've started getting the "are you still trying?" Comments. Wondering if we've given up. I feel angry about the assumption that it would be in our control-- like all we'd have to do is have sex. We get a lot of comments that reflect how others don't feel comfortable acknowledging the limbo we are in. When limbo is the primary characteristic of what sucks ass about what we are going through. We may have to adjust to a life without kids; we may just have to be patient a bit longer. We may get pregnant again and lose it; maybe multiple times. We may get secondary infertility and have to go into treatment, but we're not there yet. I just don't know. I just know for certain I'm not pregnant and I have no child.
I find myself regretting my choices. Yeah we waited until our life was secure and we felt ready--but maybe I shouldn't have? Should have been panicked about my fertility earlier? I judge every choice. Then I feel resentful at all the things I'm doing or not doing (like coffee). What if I don't go to acupuncture and I don't get pregnant, will that be why? What if I want a break from acupuncture appointments because I'm fucking tired of it? What if I don't have time for a break because every day I slide further down the over 35 slope that I never used to care about? What if I'm overweight and I'd get pregnant faster if I was thinner? Should I add losing weight--despite taking progesterone which causes weight gain--to the many things I'm doing to try to get and stay pregnant?
Saturday I had a big cry. I just know I want this and everywhere I go I'm reminded of how it didn't work out for me; of how lucky other people are; of how I never thought this would be me.
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