I don’t even remember the last time a day went by without crying. I think it’s been weeks.
My spirit has dimmed, and I don’t know how to get it back again. My life feels stuck, even though so much is going on and moving forward. I watch friends’ and family’s babies growing up, and I think about how our twins would have turned 1 next month.
I spoke to a good friend last week, and I told her I have all this love to give and nowhere for it to go. It’s actually eating me up. The nowhere.
It’s been two years since we began this road to motherhood. I remember when we first decided to fully commit to getting pregnant. There was so much joy. And then — boom! — a successful IVF on our second try. What an amazing blessing. And so much joy.
And life was perfect for 17 weeks.
But when my water broke one night and my babies were lost, life took a turn that’s only proven to get harder and harder over time.
I thought it was supposed to get easier over time.
But the longer I go, the further away time brings me from those joyous 17 weeks and the sadder I get — and more dare I say, hopeless.
I never went into this with a diagnosis of infertility. I was simply a lesbian trying to have a baby with the help of reproductive technologies, because I thought it would be easier than trying at home with a known donor. An infertility diagnosis comes (among other ways) after trying to get pregnant for a year or longer unsuccessfully. Or, now that I’m 36, after 6 months of trying unsuccessfully. Either way, I unfortunately fill the bill.
We’ve decided that I’ll try once more — but after that, I’m done. I just can’t anymore. This struggle is too much for me. And I hate that that makes me weak. But I simply don’t have it in me. The disappointment is too much.
Yet so is the thought of giving up.
I’m in a lose-lose situation, you see. And in the meantime, I cry every day. This is the only way to make a change: I have to stop, and quite possibly accept that not everyone gets to have a baby.
And I might just be among that lot.