Four and half months since we learned our family of three
wouldn’t be growing any larger.
Four and half months of second guessing, tear filled
conversations, trying to process our new reality that would only be changed by
a miracle.
And for 48 hours last week, I thought there might be a tiny
miracle. A rare period that was late,
nausea that was worsening, a butterfly feeling in my stomach that maybe this
was why God told us “no” in May…that this was what we had been waiting
for. I even had enough hope to schedule
bloodwork with my doctor, since an at home pregnancy test still gave me PTSD
flashbacks. But, with an evening trip to the bathroom, the word “INFERTILITY”
got stamped quickly back onto my forehead and I felt foolish for even having
the audacity to think that it could ever have been otherwise.
That’s the hidden hard part of this whole journey. The
constant, lifelong reminders that having a big family was not in the cards for
you.
Infertility doesn’t stop your period coming every 26 days
like clockwork, a monthly reminder that you aren’t having a baby again. Do I
have to be reminded of that another 200 times? More?
Infertility also doesn’t rub off on the people around you,
not that I would ever wish that on any of my friends. But when you’re 33 and surrounded by people
right in the throes of the most fertile period of their lives, there is
always a swelling belly, a swaddled newborn, a birth story, to remind me that
my body is broken. And time will just exacerbate that, as I watch their
families grow with ease, while mine does not.
The reminders are everywhere---the backseat full of
car seats, where mine will always have one.
The matching sibling Christmas pajamas where Cora will always have her
own unique set. Stories of sibling
rivalries, sibling love, a house full of kid chaos. Just a text from one of my brothers pangs my
heart, knowing that is not a relationship my kiddo will have.
The hardest reality that I have yet to come to terms with
this summer?
This pain is forever.
I can be 33 or 93 and I think this pain to some extent will always be
tucked away in my heart. Dreams that
didn’t come to fruition that I had so dearly wanted to come true. Of a big family, a bunch of kids, pregnancies
that took a conversation and wine and not much more than that. I will spend the
rest of my life with that ache.
My new reality is that someone will not ever hand me another
baby.
