(I struggled long and hard about posting this—this really deep, long-winded and whiny post—but writing this may be the greatest dose of therapy I get through this journey, so thanks for your support in advance. Also, I plan to post some drunk pictures tomorrow. Something lighter to look forward to!)
When Mike and I began trying for a baby, there was this nervous excitement that bubbled up and out of us, and it constantly filled our house. It was all we could talk about, think about. We scoured the Internet for baby names, we bought a pair of monkey shoes (on clearance at Target) because they were too adorable to put back on the shelf and we talked about how, in all seriousness, we were going to prepare Molly for the change. It was one of the coolest decisions I have ever been a part of—the decision to have a baby with this guy I loved.
But as the months and months have ticked by, without a baby, the mood has shifted. We are still excited, we still want a baby with every part of us, but we have also been beaten up by this journey. We are hardened. We are sad. And most of all—I think in a way I'll never be able to accurately describe—we are scared.
I feel like I need to be honest because so many well-intentioned (and wonderful!) people have made countless suggestions in order to help us but—and please trust me—I've been to the doctor nearly twenty times over the last year. I've researched my condition. We have a course of action, a game plan, and I am on vitamins and prescribed drugs and usually without caffeine and, please please please believe me when I say, there is not a breath of advice you could offer that hasn't already been offered, hasn't already been thought of by my husband, by myself and by the (literal) team of medical professionals I see on a regular basis. It's not as simple as relaxing and it really won't happen when we stop trying—trust me. But we are doing our best to relax when we can. (I slept until noon yesterday. Fine, 12:30.)
I want to candidly write about this experience, though, because I do believe we'll have a baby one day (somehow) and if I choose to write about it then, with perspective and hindsight, some rawness and vulnerability will be lost. And when we do have a child, I want that child to be able to look back and know how much they were wanted and loved before they were ever created. I want to have a record to show him or her of how badly I wanted them to exist. So badly I began taking medicine that made me want to punch everyone I saw. Right in the head. I want to be able to say to our son or daughter, "Love, I wanted you so badly, I drastically cut back the amount of champagne I drink. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS? I wanted you more than I wanted a fourth season of Veronica Mars."
This experience has been the hardest thing I've ever done, gone through, felt. I have never before felt stronger and more broken all at the same time. I've never known such emptiness and pain and failure while simultaneously feeling so hopeful and optimistic and certain that it's meant to happen, someway. And here's where I'm humbled: we are not alone, we are not exceptional, we are in the "easy" part of this fertility-challenged club. We're just trekking through a particularly rocky valley where other couples are digging themselves out of hell itself. We have so damn much to be grateful for. We know that.
I don't want to go into too many details because that will require using medical terminology, and I find that when I send a label out into the Internet the Internet responds with a ferocity and an energy I have never before seen and I immediately become dizzy fielding all the (really well-intentioned!) advice that I'm pounded with. So, let's just say I have a condition that requires medical intervention on a fairly basic level. And it's a multi-stepped process, meaning we have to clear one hurdle at a time, but we really can't be promised how many total hurdles there will be. We've cleared a few so far. We anticipate a few more. We're prepared for that. But, lord, we just can't ever be totally sure.
So, let me say a couple of things. Some days are easy. Some days we are deeply hopeful and we secretly peruse nursery bedding and we think to ourselves, A January baby will be fun! We can tease them endlessly about missing the tax cut! Just think, we'll have the same birthstone! And then the hope crumbles and we look to the next month and we straighten our backs while our hearts fracture a little more. Some days we are ridiculously optimistic—we may have just gotten good news from our doctor, we have gotten a prescription for a drug that may help or we are feeling especially positive about things. Other days I force a lot of smiles, I choke on a lot of tears, I even throw a thing or two.
I have gained weight through this process and that's because I've been comforting myself with food and I have got to stop that. It's not helping anything; it's only making things worse. I have turned on myself in a way I never anticipated. Why can't I do what so many can? Why didn't Mike choose another woman, one who could give him what he desperately wants? And please don't tell me how wrong it is to think this way. I know it is. I rationally know everything. I could write a book about how to think clearly and rationally. But, fuck, I'm a human being. Thoughts creep into my head, and although I push them out as quickly as I can, they still come round sometimes. I will apologize for a lot, but I won't apologize for having them in the first place. And I think it's a natural place to wander, this dark punishing place. We don't want to go there, but it's where we end up sometimes. It's just how it is.
I can't tell you how much longer I can take this. Just when I think I can't take any more disappointment, I get a surge of resilience and I march through another month. I can't tell you what is up ahead. If this whole journey has taught me only one thing it's that you can't plan a day of your life without something popping up and surprising the hell out of you. And, lord, it's kind of irritating, isn't it? How insane life is, how little we have control of things. We can chart and monitor and research and Google like a sonuvabitch, but we're never really in charge. So much isn't in our hands. And accepting that fact—the fact that I am not in control of this, no matter how knowledgeable and proactive I've become—is the single hardest thing I've ever done. All I want to do is fix, do, plan, figure out (like a good little Capricorn) and instead I have had to learn to breathe deeply, rely on faith, lean on my husband, vent to the people closest to me, stop beating myself up and hang on for dear life.
I am a drastically different person today than I was last year. I am forever changed, regardless of what happens for us. I will never be the same. But that's a good thing. It is. Trudging through all this pain has toughened me, strengthened me, humbled me, and I know that all of this will make me a great mother one day.
I have received so many e-mails from friends—which is what I consider many of you. You ask me how I am; you offer your prayers. And I wish I could tell you how you've saved me when you've done that. How I sometimes open an e-mail when I'm teetering on breaking down, and you give me resolve. I dust myself off because of your words—not words of advice, but of support. You are angels, every single one of you. I was told, when we first started trying, not to tell anyone. And I think that's actually good advice. In fact, it's advice I'd offer up myself, to anyone who asked. But I, personally, could not have come this far with my lips sealed shut. I would have collapsed, long ago. I'm not going through this alone, and that is why I'm still going through it at all. You (reading this or otherwise) are why I didn't give up and buy a puppy three months ago.
Again, I do believe we'll have a child one day, somehow, and I believe we deserve one and will love one and will have fun with one and will enjoy showing our son or daughter the world. I know I will be a good mother. I believe a lot of things that make this experience worth it when it's crushing down on me. When we do have one, when the journey brings us to the one moment we're striving for, the first moment I hold my child, I'm going to tell him or her—right after, "Baby, don't ever let your father convince you Mythbusters is quality television"—is this:
Before having you changed my life, wanting you did.