The writer of this post wished to remain anonymous… Just wanted ya’ll to know they’re an amazing, brave person for allowing people into their personal struggle with conception and pregnancy.
Have you ever noticed that when you want something SO bad, everyone else around you seems to get it? Like when you were 16, license still warm from the laminator, and all of your friends had a car. Or when you hit your late 20s and all your friends are married and buying their starter homes and meanwhile, you’re coming home to your cramped apartment and your six cats. Maybe it’s as simple as everyone has the newest smart phone and you’re still flipping yours open and searching for signal.
Well friends, you’re not alone. I’m at the point in my life where everyone around me seems to be getting the one thing I want. A baby. That’s right. I don’t want the dream house or the bass boat. I want 9 months of puking and 18 years of worry. I’ve got baby fever.
But before you say, ‘been there, done that’, let me elaborate. I guess my fever is more of an incurable disease, considering I’ve had it for about 4 years now. And I guess I should let you know that I’m fortunate enough to already have a child. I’ve been blessed once with the miracle that is child birth. I’ve held that precious baby in my arms, drugged and exhausted, and felt that incomparable love and happiness. I’ve reaped the sweet rewards of my labor, and I want more. Unfortunately, my second time around has proven to be naught. AKA, it ain’t happenin’.
At first, we didn’t pay much attention. We assumed it would happen when it was supposed to. Then, we secretly started to worry, but we didn’t let our fears pop to the surface just yet. We kept trying and even started doing the whole calendar thing. And still, nothing. Finally, we faced our fears and made an appointment. We did all the necessary tests, and still no clear answers, so then, the dreaded specialist. Next, came the fun part. More tests, drugs, shots, hormones… a constant barrage of your body and your privacy. You can imagine how fun life was in our household during this time! Then, the build-up. The anticipation, the hope. Inevitably, the letdown. We don’t know why, but it just didn’t work this time. Why don’t we start this whole invasive, emotionally draining process over again next month, and keep our fingers crossed?
Negative, ghost rider. I’m a glutton for punishment, but even I have my limits. It wasn’t a decision we came to lightly, but my partner and I both agreed it was best to give up the good fight. We already have so much to be thankful for; let’s just appreciate that and stop wrecking ourselves. And so we did.
It certainly didn’t happen overnight. In fact, there are still many times that I’m angry, depressed, hurt, and feel like damaged goods. When people ask if we’re having another, I debate telling them the truth, or just smiling and saying hopefully soon. We’ve discussed adoption and fostering and for reasons I’d like to keep private, we realize it just won’t work for us.
And now this brings us to present day. For the most part, I am ok. I’ve grieved and had my crying fits and lashed out at the ones I love the most. I have accepted it for what it is. We are a family of 3. I have a husband I love more than words and a brilliant, funny child who lights up my world and makes life worth living. I have a lot to be thankful for, and I know it.
But it seems like every. Frigging. Day. I check out some form of social media to see some clever, cute pregnancy announcement. People are popping out their 3rd, 4th, 5th kid. People that I didn’t even know wanted kids, are having them. And the best part? The ones who literally don’t deserve kids because they’re such sucky, rotten people are having them. Every day seems to bring a reminder of what I’m missing out on. Fortunately, I feel like I’ve reached a new stage in my grieving process. I’m at a point where I don’t even really want a baby anymore. I think the 3 of us have a sweet gig going. UNfortunately, when I’m hit with this constant stream of baby joy, I ache for the time when I wanted a baby and didn’t get it. So, let me reiterate. I don’t want a baby anymore (ask me again in a month. I am a woman, after all.), but I ache for the time when I did desperately want a baby, and it just didn’t happen. I mourn for what might have been. If it sounds crazy to you, well, I’m sorry. Slide on my shoes for a day, then come back to me and we’ll talk. And don’t get me wrong. I’m genuinely happy for most of these people, even if I do tear up or feel a little angry each time I read/hear their good news. Even if I am slightly green with envy. I wish them happy, healthy pregnancies and bouncing bundles of joy.
Some of you probably think I’m selfish. Wanting something I can’t have when there’s so much already in front of me. Or not realizing that there are so many out there who have nothing and at least I have one. Trust me when I say you’re not telling me anything I haven’t already thought about. I’ve made it a point, dear reader, to let you know that I’m thankful for those blessings. And my heart aches for the aforementioned who have nothing. I probably think about them as much as I do myself, and feel that same hurt and anger for them. Life really isn’t fair, huh?
So, if you’re reading this and you’ve found yourself in a similar struggle, please know you’re not alone. I won’t put on my faux happy face and tell you it gets better. I won’t tell you to get over it, or that it could always be worse. I’m still coming to terms with this season of my life, and maybe you are too. So, I will tell you that it’s ok to feel all those negative emotions and think there’s a black cloud hanging over your head. It’s ok to wake up today and feel at peace, then wake up tomorrow and feel grief stricken all over again. But I will also tell you that this doesn’t define you. There is so much more to you than this giant, uphill battle. This isn’t the end all be all. And when you’re ready, you will realize this. Slowly, the black cloud will start to fade and you might see some sunshine poking through. Please don’t be too hard on yourself. Please don’t beat yourself up over this. Think of the day when you will take this grief, put it in a box, and stick it in the back of your drawer. It’s always going to be there, you’ll still feel its effects on occasion, but it doesn’t consume you anymore. Think of the day when the fever will finally break…