Two year anniversary

So, here it is: the reason why I went AWOL (hi DinoD!). I wanted to write this really insightful post about my 2-year SIF anniversary. What I learned, what I gained, lalala. And not surprisingly, nothing was written. Yet. And not only because I didn’t really gain anything from this godawful experience. Not even some extra pounds, and I had actually looked forward to adding on some womanly proportions.

So, it has been two years. Lots of babies can happen during two years. Just look at Brittney and, soon, Heidi. But not over here. Oh, no, not at all.

The thing is, I was always afraid of infertility. Always. Even before there even was a reason to fear it. I’ve just seen too many (great)aunts of mine end up childless, having had miscarriages or abortions, and never conceive again. I always pitied them. For me, having children wasn’t a choice, it was the most normal, the most ordinary thing in the entire world. I heard my biological clock ticking before anybody else did. When I learned I had endometriosis, I was devastated. I was very fortunate to have met Mr. H shortly thereafter. But he is a couple of years younger than I am and wasn’t too eager to start a family quite yet (well, I wasn’t quite there yet either, thinking at first that he and I were a wonderful fling without serious prospects). When we finally agreed on trying for a child, we tried to mentally prepare ourselves for the reality of IVF – as much as this is possible, which really it isn't. He researched his health insurance. I wrote down our timeline. But then, out of the blue, on our third cycle trying I conceived Miss V. Can you imagine my utter surprise at that faint second line that emerged? It was a left over HPT and I thought I would have to get used to seeing negatives anyway, so why not pee on it. It was positive, the only positive I have ever got. And thankfully, this positive turned into our Miss V, the cutest little pain in the butt you can imagine.

So, when we started trying for our second elusive child, my guards were down. I wasn’t so much wondering about the IF as I did the first time, it was more a question of WHEN. Ironic, isn’t it, in retrospect? Sure, I was two years older but my endometriosis should have been the quietest it’s ever been, what with the pregnancy and the nursing and all. Needless to say, it wasn't.

It’s been two difficult years for me. I remember my excitement at the first positive ovulation predictor. I remember my first cycle with shooting breast pain, that surely meant one thing and one thing only (it didn’t). I remember the pregnancy announcements around me and my bewilderment of why I still wasn’t there. I remember the wakening of raging pregnancy envy. I remember my acupuncture appointments and vile herb concoctions. I remember FertilAid. I remember the fertility monitor. I remember a cupboard full of vitamins. I remember the never ending rollercoaster of hope, disappointment, and despair. I remember my dawning suspicion that something was seriously wrong. I remember ultrasounds and bad news. I remember surgeries. I remember injections. I remember two embryos. I remember tears. Lots of them. I remember anger and bitterness. I remember increasing social isolation. I remember fights, with my husband, my mother, my friends, and sometimes – and that’s the most bitter thing of all- with my daughter. I remember severe feelings of worth/uselessness, as a woman, a mother, a wife, a friend, a daughter, a member of society.

I’ve learned a lot about myself during those two years. Things that frankly I didn’t need to know. Who needs to know about oneself what a bitch one can be? I cannot think of anything that has ever induced such jealousy as the ability to get pregnant and have babies. It’s frightening of how jealous I can get. And then there is the anger and the bitterness that I cannot shake off. Sure those feelings have got a little better over time, but they’re nowhere close to extinction. I’ve thought of myself of quite the compassionate person before infertility brought me to my knees. But I cannot honestly say that infertility has made me more compassionate. Sometimes I even fear it has made me less so. There is, however, one positive thing that I learned during those two years. It’s how to forgive myself for being such a bitch. Not always, mind you, but I’ve become much better at accepting my undesirable personality traits and inadequacies.

I might not overcome it, but I will survive this infertility shithole. It might just take me a long time to do so; much longer than my family and friends seem to deem acceptable. Recently, I sensed changes within me, may they be resignation or acceptance. When we moved into our house, I was wondering how to arrange our house when our second child would arrive. Would the kids share a bedroom? Or would we have to finish our basement to add more useable space? I haven’t had those thoughts in a long time.

I believe we can be happy again – provided not more awful shit goes down the drain. There will be a good life after infertility for our little family. In the meantime, though, my heart is breaking.

Next: laparoscopy scheduled for Sept 18. Yep, that’s next Monday.