So, it’s almost been a year since the last failed pregnancy. The “almost” perfect one that ended too soon.
The weird thing is even though I am now in Year Four of this huge mess, this is the longest time I’ve gone without being pregnant.
That seems a little odd saying that. In fact, I giggle a bit because at first glance seeing that sentence you might think I was Miche.lle Dugga.r. But you would be wrong. Because none of my last five babies were born alive.
Granted, for the last 3 months, we’ve guarded against a “spontaneous” conception (for you fertile types, that’s how the other 99% of the world gets pregnant). The last thing I need is another pregnancy with my broken eggs.
Lying in bed last night, I realized that I can only remember the dates of the first and the last miscarriage. I am envious that my fellow sisters-in-loss can remember each anniversary of each positive HPT, each loss, and each unfulfilled due date.
I remember the first. It was on a Saturday in April. I was watching the “Chronicle.s of Nar.nia” on DVD with my husband and D. I was 11 weeks pregnant. By Sunday, I was not. I should have been due on my husband’s birthday. I had just turned 38 years old, and my own OB/GYN came into the recovery room after my first D&E and told me I had “PLENTY of time left to have another baby.”
PLENTY, I remember that word like it was yesterday. And that sentence echos onward. How wrong she would be.
My last pregnancy that looked so promising ended after the dreaded viability scan. I had just seen a heartbeat, a perfect one, and thought that pregnancy #6 would be THE ONE. It was not, and on a cold February morning one week after, I had another D&E.
In between loss number one and five is just a hazy history. A trail of broken dreams and hearts.
Some people still wonder why I am still marching down this road. They have grown weary of my trek, and lost interest. I don’t blame them at all, and I have finally reached peace with that.
The hard thing is looking in people’s eyes… and I know what they are thinking…
… they think I am crazy.
Well, I should say the ones who think THAT certainly aren’t infertiles, moms, or compassionate women/men themselves. The are either very naive or very ignorant. Sometimes both.
The difference now between that old me and the battered me is I am able to more easily move from that conversation, or just go about my business knowing that not everyone will understand.
They will never understand.
Occasionally, the few who do are life lifeboats on a vast ocean. I used to be the type of person that dealt with my pain alone, but infertility has changed that. Instead of reaching for the lifeboat I would doggie paddle to keep my head above water. I would suck it up and wade in the ocean even if my legs went numb and I was gasping for breath.
Now, when I feel too burdened by myself, I swim.
Until I find a lifeboat. That lifeboat is now a such a welcoming oasis. It is all of you, my bloggy friends, and a select group of real life friends and family who are commited to standing next to me.
Or swimming, as it were.
I never knew how much I would appreciate a community that can listen to my dribble- really listen, and despite my failed history… still be my cheerleaders.
I’ve done nothing but fail lately, but here I am about to embark one last time, and there you are still wishing and praying for me.
For that, I say Thank You.