Usually on December 31, I look back at the previous year with some wistfulness. I take the time to appreciate all that I have learned and all that I’ve been given. You do not give me such a luxury.
True, I learned a tremendous amount about myself this year. I learned what it feels like to lose a pregnancy. And then another one. And then another one. I learned that no matter how bad it hurts, you go on. You go on because you have to. You go on because that’s just how it works. The pieces are all there, you must figure out how to put them back together and move ahead.
It’s been interesting to see that the drive to grow my family is stronger than the drive to give up. To stop with the hormone injection cocktails, the random weep fests caused by hormonal fluctuations, the stress caused on my marriage, the insecurity I feel about what this is doing to me as a parent, the enormous outlay of money that we don’t have, the loss of friendships because I just can’t talk about this with anyone. And living through losses and infertility is all encompassing. It’s incredible how much a person must and will sacrifice for this. And I do know it’s worth it. My incredible 4 year old is a daily reminder.
Within the confines of your days, 2011, I have shit my pants in public. Twice. (Thanks Lupron and Vivelle). I have cried in public at wholly inappropriate places and times. Again, courtesy of of Vivelle. I have watched well over 10 friends, family members and co-workers get pregnant and have babies. While I was in the middle of losing my own. I’ve gathered every ounce of strength I have just to get out of bed in the mornings, plastered on fake smiles and pretended everything was fine. And it never was.
So, there’s no love lost between us, as you make your exit, 2011. You leave me a broken woman. I will never be the same. I will go on, I will thrive. But I will never be the same.
Fuck you, too, Estrogen Patches. Making me cry while reading Polar Express.
(Originally posted in LiveJournal)
Turns out, my 4 year old son’s preschool teacher is pregnant. I would like to be happy for her, and I suppose there’s a part of me that really is, but mostly it just really made me sad. We’ve come to that point in fertility treatments that when people say, “Your son is so great. When are you two going to have another one?”, we’ve finally started just telling people the truth. “2 years and 3 miscarriages later, we haven’t had much luck in that department. We’re still trying, but it’s not easy going.” And the response now isn’t along the lines of keep the faith or keep trying, it’s, “Well, you have to be glad then that you have your son and that he’s so fantastic.” I get it, there aren’t a lot of ways to respond to that information. But, I am pretty beat down by all of this and that sort of external feedback just doesn’t help. Everyone knows what I know – this probably isn’t going to happen. And they have some finality in their sentiment – and that’s a finality I just can’t accept.
I’m prepping for a frozen embryo transfer. But there’s not a single piece of me that thinks it could work. As a matter of fact, I’m rather convinced at this point that none of the blastocysts are going to survive the thaw. Not that I have any good reason to believe that other than none of this has gone very well for us, so why would this be any different? I also worry that my negative attitude could be a factor, but I don’t know how to fix that. How do you convince yourself to be positive and hopeful after all of this?
I am going to acupuncture Monday, I am hoping that helps not only my body, but also my mind. In all likelihood, I’ll be flat out on that table bawling by the time my hour is over. Compliments of my estrogen patches.
It’s like those damn pathches have a direct connection to my tear ducts and I cry. A lot.
Anyway, off to coddle my estrogen patches and have a little cry…