Also, apologies to those of you who saw a prior version of this; I hit "publish" on this last Friday, then decided I needed a few days' distance. Sometimes it's too much reporting in from the front lines of your own disappointment. ***
I had all of the symptoms.
All of them.
Had been down this exact hopeful road before, which ended nine months later at the happy cul-de-sac of B-a-b-y Street.
I found out last week, however, I'm actually not pregnant. Not even a little bit. Again.
Why bother mentioning this when nothing about a negative pregnancy test makes me special or any different than squillions of others going through the same thing?
For starters, it's not the news so much as having the hope before the news this time that's just un-Pretty, hitting me harder now than it has in the past when there were no such indications.
I occupy a strange, sorta-kinda-in-between place in Infertility Land (picture a magical kingdom filled with ovulation schedules and frayed nerves instead of Mickey Mouse and children
frayed nerves). I'm someone who not only has a diagnosis, which
is more rare than you might think, but a fix that has not only worked but
worked quickly in the past. I've got one mostly adorable wee CEO to prove it.
I'm told that I'm amongst the luckiest of the unlucky. Most of the time I know that to be true, and I thank my Maker and whoever else will or won't listen for what I do have.
As a result, though, I feel like I don't have a hall pass to talk about this. If I voice my experiences or frustrations, I risk seeming ungrateful for the child I do have, which couldn't be further from the truth. I also don't want to somehow diminish the experiences of those who haven't been able to get pregnant, or sustain a pregnancy, or have suffered longer or more treatments than I have. I don't want to be the jerk who acts like we're in the same situation; I can't pretend to know what those experiences are like.
At the same time, I can't exactly claim citizenship in "Oops, I had a glass of wine and somehow got pregnant!"-ville either (just picture the Olympic uniforms for that one, speaking of). I don't begrudge those of you who can, of course, I just, ya know . . . that's not my journey, if I may borrow hideously cliched Oprah speak. Oh, God - we've come to the Oprah speak point - can I blame the hormones?!
Today, I'm struggling to focus on the one darling boy I do have, not the sibling I want him to have.
To speak up about this, not to complain
much or make myself some
sort of martyr, but in case it's helpful to anyone of you going through the same
kinda sorta maybe baby thing.
So often we hear about the happy ending, we skip to the end of the baby book, without ever hearing about the sometimes messy beginnings or middles. It's understandable - after all, to share one's efforts to procreate is to put yourself in one heck of an uncomfortable fishbowl situation (assuming people wanted to watch goldfish mate - how does that happen exactly?) - but, oh, can it ever be lonely for those of us in the hormone trenches.
Also, to not talk about the unpleasant stuff like this is to give it a further stranglehold on my life. It's against everything I was raised to believe, sharing a so-called weakness - no problem is too big for my people to ignore, particularly those involving s-e-x - but to not do so gives it a power that isn't healthy. I want my closet to hold my Tory Burch, not my life experiences.
I have capital "F" Faith - I do - that this will work out as it should.
And in the meantime, I will shoe shop. And, in all seriousness, I may occasionally talk about this here, or maybe on another site yet to be created, about my experiences with this too. Not all the time, or even frequently, but enough to laugh about it or just sometimes, like today, let it be. Thanks for your understanding.
Next time, I'll be back with Pretty shoes - and, hopefully, happier endings. Pinky swear.
(With thanks to reader J for encouraging me to share this.)