This post is probably my last. I’d always hoped OFT would have a happy ending, but that seems unlikely. At least, far from how I could ever have imagined.
I can’t begin to explain the weary rage I feel. There is very little fight left in me. I’ve poured my broken heart and open soul into creating a space that is healing, and met amazing women along the way. I’ve come to think of you all as faceless friends. I’ve even met some of you in person or exchanged gifts in the mail. We were comrades. But now I am on a journey that few have been on.
When I was in London, with spotty internet connection, I learned that I was better off without constantly being on Twitter. When I could check in, I found that Twitter, with its steady stream of BFPs and congratulations, had become a huge source of anxiety and anger.
The problem with seeking support from a group of women who have miscarried is that eventually most get pregnant, and suddenly that support system becomes slap after slap in the face.
If that weren’t enough of a challenge, I now know there is no way I can be gracious and supportive towards women who have “only” suffered a miscarriage. A single miscarriage pales into insignificance compared to the enormity of what I now face and what I have learned about my own biology.
Perhaps a better woman than I would be able to rise above the anger she feels when one of her comrades is pregnant again. Perhaps a better woman would be able to push side her deep longing and loneliness to sympathize with her faceless friends who are wracked with fears and worries about their young pregnancies. Better women than I taught me that others’ IVF successes is a win for all of us in the IF community. Not so for me anymore. My situation is so fucking awful that how you came to conceive your baby is utterly irrelevant now — unless you have what I have. But you don’t.
As I type this, just a few days before my undue date, reeling, devastated, horrified, ashamed, shaking my head that only 50 (yes, fifty) families worldwide have a similar genetic disorder to me but that I am currently the only known person with such a mutation, I want to scream fuck you, everyone and everything. Forgive me, but fuck all those who complain about how hard it is to be pregnant again. And fuck those for finding their undue date hard when they already have the promise of a new baby growing inside them. Fuck those for complaining about problems that I can only now dream about.
There are better women out there, filled with grace and blessed with normal karyotypes and healthy rainbow babies conceived through love or through their parents’ egg and sperm. Another hard lesson I am learning is that I am not one of them and nor will I ever be.
So there is nothing left for me to say but this: in spite of my whirlwind of rage, envy, grief, trauma, shock, horror, and shame, I wish you all well–because I wouldn’t wish my devastating news on anyone–and hope your respective journeys to building your families turn out in the way you hope for. All I ask is that you spare me your pity and, if possible, forgive me my harsh words: I have no others left.