I got my hopes up.. again. I swear I tried not to but when it was four days past the usual start of my cycle, I woke up early and couldn’t sleep. I tried not to count the months and imagine the joyous announcing and relief. It was 4 am and I waited until my husband left for work around 6:30 and went to the nearest 24/7 walgreens that would be open on a sunday. I milled around the cosmetics trying not to head straight for the aisle I wanted to go.. picked up some bobby pins and panty liners I figured I could use them either way… and got the walgreens brand pregnancy test. I found myself gushing to the cashier way too much. And she wished me luck no matter what outcome I was hoping for. It was negative and I told myself that I’d wait a few more days and use the second one. I didn’t want to even tell my husband that I had bought one because he would tell me not to get my hopes up. And when he called asking why I had spent $20 at walgreens, he did. He understood and said that I didn’t have to keep it from him. But I just didn’t want to make it a big deal. Later that afternoon, right as we were heading out the door I got my period. I was numb and stuffed any feelings away as much as possible to make it through a family reunion. But today it all came crashing down and the aching hole in my chest found new flames. I have been learning guitar and all the songs I write are sad. I feel like I must be one of those people who you scroll down and try not to read on Facebook. I don’t mean to make others uncomfortable by talking about it all the time but I am sad. And I can only compartmentalize my feelings so much and so often. Therapy tomorrow. I hope it helps. Thanks for reading. It really does make me feel less alone to see people are taking the time. If you like, take a listen below.
I’ve been trying to figure out how to process through not being able to have kids. This was recorded on my iPhone and it’s not perfect but here it is.
It’s Not Too Late
I know I have been writing a lot about not being able to have kids lately. And I want to let you know there is more inside of me but this is in the forefront of my mind most days. I want to tell you that until the doctor said in January that he doesn’t know what’s wrong or how to fix it, I was holding out. Call it denial or misguided hope but this has just now become real for me. I want you to know that I’m grieving. I’m numb and depressed and in pain. I’m alone in my grief as we all are when it comes. It’s hard to not obsess when you feel you have the right. I want you to know that I’m angry. This was the one thing that I hoped I would never have to face. I remember the moment I was introduced to the idea that this could happen. I was four or five and I overheard my parents talking about how sad it was that some couple couldn’t have children. I was shocked. “That’s a thing?” I thought. “That can happen?!” I stopped and pleaded to God- “I can handle anything God but PLEASE don’t make me face that! Please!” You see, as long as I can remember, I just wanted to sing and be a mom. My mom says I used to sing to my baby dolls and pretend to nurse them like I’m sure I saw her drape a blanket many times. I’m the oldest of five kids. And babies run in my family. I have 27 first cousins- just on my dad’s side. And that’s before you start counting their spouses and their kids. And of all of them my grandma says I was the one who was always holding and loving on the babies. This is my greatest fear come true. So I’m afraid. Afraid that this is robbing me of the joy and hope I had for this stage in my life. Afraid that by needing space from being a childcare giver or baby shower attendee, I’m losing the carefree loving nature that is in me. This is changing me. And I’m afraid of what I’m losing. I just hope this season doesn’t last too long.
Infertility is like losing a loved one.
Your longing to see that person hurts and you grieve them over years just like a loss.
Wanting to see their face and hear their voice- it aches much the same. Its like missing a member of your family.
The only difference is that all hope is not lost. You reopen this aching idea -with uncertain potential for change- over and over again- even if you’ve given up.
You know it’s not over.
It lives with you as long as you do.