The shock of my diagnosis is wearing off and the reality of what IVF entails is setting in. I am so very sad. I feel like everyone around me has graduated and I’m stuck in a Groundhog Day of not finishing high school. Events change depending on where I go, but it’s the same day, over and over again, no end in sight. There is no baby on the horizon. The flotilla has set sail and left me behind.
If God existed, these would be my questions — and, goddammit, I want answers.
Two days ago I was in a store buying work clothes for the job I had quit a day later and, wouldn’t you know it, the woman at checkout was heavily pregnant. I could barely look her in the eye but kept stealing longing glances at her huge belly beneath a striped t-shirt. I was trying to practice mindfulness, to soothe the anger and deal with my sadness instead. Did I dare ask her when she was due? Before I had time to think it through, I had asked. She smiled and placed a hand on her belly. About a month from now. A deep groaning pang shot through me and settled in my throat. I dared speak again. I had a miscarriage. I was supposed to be due October 5th. I was shocked that I shared this information with not only a stranger, but a pregnant woman. She stopped folding my clothes and said I am so sorry. It’s so hard. As I signed my name, blinking away tears, I responded, Yes it is. I guess the journey is hard, no matter how you get there. And she said, I’ll keep you in my thoughts. As she handed me my shopping bag she said, God bless. I thanked her and earnestly wished her Good luck. Did she take it in the kindly way I meant it? Or did I come across as ominous?
Today I “came out as an infertile” to my dad. I had hesitated to confide in him because I didn’t know if he would feel awkward knowing about our doing IVF without my mum also knowing. As it turns out, he completely agreed with me that I should tell neither my mother nor my brother: they just don’t know how to be emotionally supportive when confronted by someone else’s difficult feelings. My dad was brilliant. He wanted to know everything — my DOR diagnosis, what IVF involves, and how much IVF costs — and I even opened up to him about pregnant women being huge grief triggers for me and how it’s also been difficult because P-SIL just had her baby. (Incidentally, after her nice text message, I am having dinner with her Thursday evening.) My dad was caring and supportive. He listened, shared what he could, and looked appalled when I read to him the tests and IVF protocol. He encouraged me to explore Reiki, Ayurvedic medicine (he has friends in Australia who practice Ayurveda), and said he has a psychic in Utah who he really likes and would like me to talk to (on his dime)! He was very supportive and I’m glad I opened up to him. And yet, until we saw each other in June, we hadn’t spoken in almost two years. So how is it that I am more comfortable talking to my dad about this stuff than my mum? Why does he get it, but not her? Is it because he “lost me” for a couple of years that he understands this strange grief?
I am an animal. Here we are on this earth, motivated by hunger, thirst, sexual urges, and the urge to reproduce. If I can breathe, why can’t I procreate? Haven’t I failed one of the most basic functions of what it means to be alive? I’m not talking spiritually, or about what it means to live well — I mean from a purely biological perspective. If all these women I know can get pregnant, why can’t I? If women older than me who fuck carelessly whilst strung out on drugs can get pregnant, stay pregnant, why can’t I? I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS. How come I have the equivalent of one ovary for a woman my age? Why are you punishing me?
Of all the women who miscarried / learned of their missed miscarriage on or around February 26th, I think I am now the only one who isn’t pregnant again. And now, not only will I not be pregnant again by the time my due date rolls around, I don’t know if I will ever be pregnant again. Dear god, I wish I knew I would be for sure one day. This limbo is killing me.
It is unbearably lonely. I’m trying to be strong, but I’m so worn out. I don’t know how much fight left I have in me. The only thing spurring me is is the real fear of ending up as Aunt Lauren, $20k in debt to pay for an IVF cycle that didn’t work or was cancelled or never undertaken because of Fragile X Syndrome (which I will be tested for on Friday). I feel so very unlucky and alone. How can I be considered infertile when just 8 months ago I was pregnant? I don’t understand what the point of this continual suffering is. Why did you give me a baby only to snatch him back again? If there is a meaning to all of this, why can’t I know now? If there isn’t, then why the fuck not?
I just want to go back to February. Where’s my damn time machine? I was so very happy. Will I ever be happy again? Will I ever be a mom?
I had my first miscarriage on February 25th and my EDD is Oct. 12th. I recently had another miscarriage (a chemical) and I’m also losing hope that I’ll be pregnant by that time. I’ve had nothing but grief since my miscarriage and I too wish I could turn back time. Hang in there–you are NOT alone!
I am so sorry for your losses. I think I had a chemical pregnancy in August. I know it’s hard. I hope your un-EDD came and went without too much pain. I’ve been busy with travel and bad news and a crash course in genetics, so sorry I’m only responding to you now xx
Though I didn’t miscarry in February my October 19 due date is staring me in the face. I have very similar fears as you. I am scared that having only one ovary at 35 is not going to get me what I want in the end. I have thyroid issues as well. These 2 facts are like a double negative when it comes to fertility. Maybe just once in our cases our double negatives equal a positive. Here’s to hoping!
Ooooh, I like the idea that a double negative equals a positive, Kerrie! GENIUS! I’ll be thinking of you on October 19th. Do you have anything planned that day?
We are taking the weekend in Chicago. Relaxing and enjoying as much of life as we can. Or it can be seen as hiding from reality for a weekend.
You most definitely aren’t the only one who learned of a miscarriage in late February who isn’t pregnant again. I’m not either, and as you know, my time is almost up. Two cycles until the vasectomy, and then it’s over forever. You aren’t alone.
I think it was incredibly brave of you to talk to the pregnant woman at the checkout- to ask her about her due date. I could never have done it. I have a pregnant coworker who I have yet to even look in the eye. I just can’t bear it.
I understand wanting answers. I want them, too! There are days when I feel almost desperate for answers, and other days when I can somehow just accept that some of us a really lucky, and some aren’t… that there are no answers. I’m just trying to take it one day at a time. But it’s not easy, is it?
Anyway… no words of wisdom here- only empathy. I wish I could say that the grief and anger will go away with time, but it doesn’t. It evolves, but never disappears. Wishing you peace… you have my email addy if you ever want to talk. Hugs…
A million hugs to you, Catwoman xo
Your art gives me shivers because it causes me to flashback to all of the feelings you expressed in this post. Beautiful.
It’s the most cliche, annoying thing in the world to be told, but if this is your dream, you WILL be a mother someday, and this will all be worth it.
I’m so glad your Dad was a rockstar about all of this. Big hugs lady.
Thanks, Josey. I hope dreams come true…