My house is so quiet right now. Scott and the kids are outside cleaning the garage, the dogs are lying on the back porch and I'm in here enjoying the silence, letting it sit on my shoulders like a cape.
Unfortunately, in the silence I start thinking, start dreaming, start wondering. And, though I have not mentioned it here or really anywhere lately, all I think about in the silence is out current status of fertility, or, more correctly, infertility. I try not to dwell on it and readily acknowledge that this miscarriage was far less emotionally devastating than my first one was -- back when we weren't sure that we'd ever have another child.
But in the quiet moments my mind wanders and I think, "Wow! I'd be out of the first trimester by now!" and " might have started feeling movement soon!" The thought is relentless sometimes, "I want a baby. I want a baby. I want a baby." It rides on every heartbeat, following my blood as it reaches my fingertips and flows back to my heart. It is so illogical -- my family is perfect as it is, really it is. But I want a baby. I want a baby. I want a baby.
I have been feeling this way for so long, long enough to have lived through the excited planning phase (trying to conceive months 1-5), the jealous phase ( months 6-10), and the heartbroken phase (months 10-15). I am now in month 17 and in the "I'm just so tired of trying, of monitoring, medicating, timing, stressing, worrying and waiting" phase. Which means that every time someone announces a new pregnancy, I am just numb. An online friend announced (on my birthday, no less) that she is expecting her third. I was more annoyed that she announced it on my birthday, especially since she knows my history, than I was jealous or even happy for her. Of course, I didn't tell anyone -- why would I?
When you are struggling with infertility there is no obvious sign, no one makes a t-shirt that says, "Hey, I can't get pregnant and stay pregnant, so please stop asking me when we're going to have another kid!" You don't have a black cloud following you around, raining on people for saying something insensitive because my infertility consumes only my waking thoughts, not theirs. It shouldn't, either. It is such a silent suffering, my battle scars are all in places that no one can see.
I had to force myself to use my ovulation predictor kit the last few mornings -- I had fallen out of the habit since the miscarriage and getting back into it just made me mad. I hate that my life is currently ruled by two little pink lines, that so many decisions rest in the space between them -- should we start planning next summer's vacation yet? What size bridesmaid's dress will I need to order for my brother's wedding? We need a new vehicle -- mini-van to hold three carseats or sedan than needs to hold only two?
I have already had to release the daycare slot our sitter was holding for us. If we were successful right now, this cycle, we would be having a baby close enough to summer that we wouldn't need daycare until the fall when Scott goes back to work full-time. For some reason, speaking that logic aloud, relaying that choice to the sitter was so very difficult because we were admitting failure on an epic level. There is such finality when you tell someone "We don't have a child for you yet, nor will we during this upcoming year."
Part of me wants to give up, so tired of the infinite waiting, the life held suspended in "What if?" But I don't want to give up on a child, don't want a baby to feel like an after-thought, so I'll live life between those two pink lines for a little while longer.