This morning, staring at the low temperature on my thermometer in one hand, and the negative pee stick in the other hand, I knew I had to face facts: another month gone by and I'm still not pregnant. And the five months ahead of us, for various reasons of scheduling and radiation exposure, don't look too promising. So I did what any rational person would do-- I crawled back in bed and sobbed my eyes out.
Eddie was sort of sympathetic for a minute, but before my eyes were even good and puffy he started whistling "Count Your Many Blessings." Eventually, yeah, I know, I do need to count my blessings (and they are many), but sometimes you just need a good cry too. And a hug couldn't hurt, either.
I think that part of my problem as we try month after month for another baby (yeah, yeah, I know it has only been three, eat my shorts), is that I'm very immature when it comes to sadness. I'm not "acquainted with grief" as Handel (or is it the Bible?) would say. Up to this point, sadness has not been a problem for me. I had a functional childhood and not too much teenage acne. I got into the college I wanted to and thrived there. Except for my 95 year-old great-grandmother, I've never been close to anyone who has died. I married the first man I ever loved and we've been really happy for the last thirteen years. And while he has been in school or training since I've known him, he's happy with what he's doing, which makes me happy too. Despite all the joking about my three sets of hips, my body has been healthy and relatively decent-looking. I've had three easy pregnancies that have happened exactly when I wanted them to and those pregnancies have resulted in three happy, good, smart, beautiful kids.
Loneliness, frustration and boredom? Yeah, I've been there. But sadness, not so much. I know that a normal person would look at the temperature and the pregnancy test and shrug it off, but I feel like maybe I'm more immature in this area than other thirty-one year-olds would be because I haven't gone through something so gut-wrenchingly hard for me before. I know lots of people who have. My best friend waited three years and went through seven losses before her second son was born. Another college roommate lost three babies before she had her first. Two good friends tried for a year before it worked for them. And I also have two very close friends who've learned in the last few months that they'll never know the joy of holding a positive pregnancy test. I've been sympathetic for them and tried to be a listening ear, but deep-down, I've always felt glad that it wasn't me. And after three months, I know it's still not (yet), but I do feel that I understand their sorrow a little bit more.
So what will I gain from this experience? A baby, I hope (and quickly, please!), but what else? I hope it's not bitterness. Last month when a friend told me she was pregnant within five minutes of when I took another negative pregnancy test, I burst out in tears right in front of her (not my proudest moment, by the way). I don't want to be the girl who averts her eyes from car seats perched on shopping carts and doesn't attend baby showers. I don't want to find myself crying again when I get a Star magazine with a cover story about pregnant celebrities. I want to go to my book club despite the fact that everyone else there will be sporting baby bumps. Will it be more faith? Will I ever know why this baby is making me wait?
Every month since we started trying I've been giving up more and more. Last month I stopped drinking caffeinated soda, wondering if the caffeine was interfering with conception. This month, I stopped running during the two week wait because Eddie thought there might be some relationship between adrenaline and progesterone that would be throwing things off. I feel like I can't give up much more if things aren't going to change. Maybe what I need to give up is my obsession over the whole thing-- but obsessing makes me feel more in control, even if I'm not.
Baby, if you're listening, don't make me wait much longer. I might just give up and then you'd miss your chance.
--originally posted 2/27/06
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