SCOPING OUT MY INSIDES

Would you like to hear about my hysteroscopy? OK!

So I was very nervous. Everyone kept telling me, "Oh, it's no big deal," which made me mad.

"It IS a big deal!" I huffed to Philip.

"No one can win with you," he replied. "You'd be upset if they told you it was a major deal and scared you."

Which was true.

I took great care to pick out my surgery-day outfit: the baggiest, comfiest, frumpiest sweatpants and hoodie. I took extra care with my socks. The socks are the only personal item you leave on for a procedure like this, and it's like being initiated into a very select sorority to wear your first pair of infertility socks. I chose a fuzzy black pair with snowflakes. Yes, those were the perfect socks, good job.

At 10 p.m. the night before, I remembered that the nurse had instructed me to douche. Have you ever douched before?  It is the most abusive thing you can do to yourself, on a number of levels. I didn't happen to have any douches sitting around, so off to the CVS we drove. The CVS was closed. "Well," I said, "the rapey Walgreens it is." I literally witnessed a robbery at this Walgreens once. At this point, Philip and I got into a fight. Because that is what you do when your nerves are on edge about an impending surgery and you're off buying a douche late at night from the rapiest drug store in town.

Also I am trying to find as many excuses as possible to say the word "douche."

So we studied the douches for awhile until we found the right one. Then Philip acted squeamish about carrying the box. No, I was not having that.

"I'M the one who has to douche, AND I'm the one who has to undergo the surgery -- I think you can handle carrying the box!" I said indignantly.

"I'm not only going to carry it," he said. "I'm going to hold it out to the cashier dude face-up like this." And that is what he did.

This particular douche was medicated, which means you mix in some iodine, which turns the liquid in the bottle a lovely shade of dark purplish-brown. Then you grit your teeth and slowly squirt it up into your hoo-ha via a very phallic-looking plastic wand, which feels cold and icky, and then the brown liquid trickles back down into the toilet. I have no idea why anyone would voluntarily choose to do this.

My douching mission complete, we went to bed and arose promptly at 6:30 the following morning so we could be to our clinic by 7:30. A very kind surgery nurse led me to a little room with lockers to undress and don a handsome hairnet and some paper booties over my awesome socks. I also had to take a pregnancy test, which always makes me roll my eyes.

Then I laid in a hospital bed in a small curtained area for awhile and stared up at the ceiling, where a light tile showed a colorful ocean scene full of fish and other cheerful marine creatures. A nurse came by to explain the procedure to me, and another nurse came to insert my IV while Chicago's "After All that We've Been Through" played tenderly over the muted sound system.

I was also handed some post-op instructions. I was not, under any circumstances, to:

1. "Drive a car, if a child, no bike riding, skate boards or gym sets."
2. "Drink alcoholic beverages (not even beer)."
3. "Make any important decisions such as signing legal documents."

Not even beer?! And there goes the big house closing I had planned for the same day as my hysteroscopy. :/

Philip got to join me after awhile, and he told me about an episode of Inside the Actors Studio playing on the TV in the waiting room, in which James Lipton was very self-congratulatorily sharing about a book that Matthew McConaughey had personally sent him.

"And James Lipton was challenging us," said Philip, "to go back and watch all of Matthew McConaughey's romantic comedies and realize what an amazing actor he's been ALL ALONG."

The anesthesiologist came in and gave me a quick rundown of what to expect from the anesthetic. And then it was go time. I walked myself into the OR, clutching my hospital gown closed behind me, and climbed up to lay down on the table.

The staff immediately got to work. A tube started blowing air into my nose, and my legs went up into the most serious stirrups I'd ever seen. "I like your socks," said one nurse, and I remember a brief feeling of victorious pleasure at the compliment. Then they started to strap me in, which felt claustrophobic for about one second before I started to slip off into dreamland and suddenly felt cozier, calmer and more tucked in than I ever have in my life.

Moments later I came to sudden consciousness and cried, "I'm still awake!"

"We're all done, dear," said the nurse.

Next thing I knew, I was laying back in the hospital bed in my curtained corner, feeling drowsy and crampy but overall pretty damn chill.

"Your heart rate is a lot slower now than before the procedure," Philip said. The nurse came and asked if I wanted soda crackers, water and Tylenol, and I nodded. She brought me this tiny bottle of water with a straw in it, and I sipped it quietly like a 5-year-old.

Time passed slowly or quickly -- I wasn't terribly with it. Then it was time to get up and change back into my clothes. I walked back into the little locker room in a bit of a daze and looked at myself in the mirror. I had electrodes stuck to the bare skin on my chest. I allowed myself a brief moment of self-pity, because really, I did look pitiful in my hairnet and electrodes, and who would have ever thought I'd have to go through all this nonsense just to MAYBE have a baby someday?

Then I snapped out of it and peeled the electrodes off. I got changed without further incident, until I somehow jostled a plastic basket of menstrual pads on a shelf and it tumbled to the floor, spilling maxis all over the place like some sort of slapstick act. I cleaned up the mess, shaking my head, and exited.

Outside the locker room, the nurse showed Philip and me some images of the inside of my uterus, which kind of looked like a fleshy pink balloon. Then we walked out into the waiting room, where I encountered my friend Alison, who is also seeking treatment at my clinic, and burst into hilarious laughter. "Fancy meeting you here!" I bellowed, while everyone else in the room looked on with puzzlement.

Then we drove home, and I proceeded to wolf down a blueberry muffin and some apple juice and then sleep for four hours on the couch. I felt some pretty bad period-like cramps and had a little light bleeding, but that was the extent of the aftermath. I was back to work the next day.

Later when we met with our RE, she said she had removed a "skin tag," as well as some "redundant tissue" inside my uterus, but that it was nothing out of the ordinary, and the tissue shouldn't have affected my fertility. They sent the tissue off to a lab to be biopsied, and results came back normal.

I wasn't supposed to have sex for a week, but eff that noise: I wasn't going to let my last chance to try to conceive naturally get thrown into the trash, especially since I had heard of other people who got pregnant naturally after having had a hysteroscopy. So we tried, and my hopes were soaring, because I had also started acupuncture again, as well as Chinese herbs and supplements with hopeful names like "Fertilaid" and "Pregnitude."

But, alas, nope. My period came right on schedule, and with it the usual tears, alcohol drinking and angry prenatal-vitamin boycotting. But then as always, I got my shit back together, and now we move onward full steam ahead to IVF Land.

GUESS WHO'S BACK

<Walks hesitantly onto stage. Taps microphone. Clears throat. "Hello? Is this thing on?" Looks out at empty auditorium. Takes a deep breath ...>

Sooooo, I'm back. As un-pregnant as ever, but not quite so angry. I've spent the last, hmm, let's see, seven months feeling pretty guilty about virtually yelling "Fuck everything and everyone!" and then dropping the microphone and disappearing off the face of the Internet. It's how I was feeling at the time, and honesty is good, but I could have said it all a little more nicely. For example, "Hi, kind people who actually spend their precious free time reading my ramblings, I think I need a little break from this."

So, I'm sorry. I apologize. I don't blame you if I'm talking to no one now, as you probably gave up checking to see if I've updated long ago.

For some reason I've been feeling the urge to write again. They say time heals all wounds, which isn't exactly true, but it does allow space for some reflection and distance from the injury. My thoughts have started to well up inside my brain once again, and I'm beginning to crave an outlet.

I was just so mad when that last IUI didn't work. Like just furious. It hurt so much more than any other disappointment we had faced thus far. I don't know why. And I just had to be done for awhile. I wanted to focus on my new position at work. I wanted to have a normal, festive holiday season -- not a miserable one dwelling on my childlessness. For the next several months, I didn't want to be heartbroken, sad-sack, infertile Erika; I wanted to recapture some of my pre-infertility carefree spirit and be thriving, enviable Erika -- great husband, great job, great cats, great house, weekend warrior, jet setter.

And I did, for the most part. The sadness of infertility was still there, in the background, but dull. Philip and I ran and boot-camped. We spent a weekend in New York City. I spoke at a wedding symposium in Saint Lucia. We bought a new car. We got invited to visit friends in Cartagena, Colombia, and on a whim booked tickets the day before Thanksgiving to fly out the day after. We spent Christmas with my whole family in Illinois, and we spent MLK Day in a tent in the Florida Everglades. It was a whirlwind, it was intense, it was gloriously distracting. All the while my eggs got older, but I was (mostly) too busy to think about it.

I said we'd revisit fertility treatment again in 2014, and we are. We are laying the groundwork for IVF, slowly checking off our clinic's prerequisites. We attended the seminar; I got tested for rubella immunity. Philip scheduled his labs, and I scheduled a hysteroscopy. We also switched doctors, a decision I feel good about.

I never wanted to need IVF. I claimed as an ignorant 29-year-old that I would never do it, that I'd "just adopt" if I ever found myself unable to get pregnant. I still don't want to need IVF. I'm giving acupuncture another go and pounding a crazy cocktail of vitamins, supplements and Chinese herbs in the hopes that I'll be one of those magical people you hear about who was "just about to start IVF" when they conceived out of the blue. Unlikely, but it can't hurt, right?

But now that I've (mostly) got my head around the idea and gotten the ball rolling, it's exasperating how slowly the process is going so far. More diagnostic surgery, more RE appointments, three weeks of birth control ... it's starting to look like it'll be summer before we really get this show on the road, and I'm impatient as hell.

And what about my infertility demons? My silent suffering? My perpetual state of resolution-less limbo? It's back in full effect, proportional in large part to how hard we're trying. The more treatments we undergo, the more money and effort we throw at this, the more failure hurts.

My friend Vicky says everyone has their crosses to bear, and she's allowed to say that to me because she had her second son only with the help of IVF. And it's true: Everyone suffers, one way or the other. I like to think my suffering is the worst kind, but it's not. Why am I so precious about infertility? Sure, it's a unique kind of pain, but isn't all pain unique?

I heard the stories of two friends (who already each have a child) who went through miscarriages -- a loss I've never had to bear, a loss that takes a toll not only on the emotions but also on the body in a very brutal, physical way. And while I cried for them, I also felt like something had been taken from me. No longer could I wear my pain badge like I'm the only survivor, the only strong one, the most afflicted. It's a horrible, shameful thing to admit, but it's the honest truth.

So have I become any wiser during my absence from this blog? I think yes, a little, but only because the passing months just allow more time for life to happen -- more babies were conceived and born (much to my great envy), but also: Other babies were lost, new friends came out as infertile, and on a broader scale, jobs were lost, marriages ended, houses were broken into, grandparents passed away. Everybody muddles through this life thing, and I've realized we need to celebrate when we can.

Then again, you're catching me on a good day, when I haven't cried or screamed or moped about infertility. :)

LET'S GET RAW, FOLKS.

In light of this morning’s negative pregnancy test (which I snapped in half* and threw across the bathroom at 5 a.m. this morning), and also in view of some other thoughts I’ve been having lately, I’m considering closing this blog. I’ll attempt to illuminate the reasons below.

1. First and foremost, I’m sick of my business being everyone else’s business. The fact that everyone is up in my business is my own doing, of course. From day one I have been very open with people about the fact that we were trying, and as the months wore on without success and we ventured into fertility treatment, I continued to share our journey pretty candidly not only here but also in real life, both with close friends and also not-so-close friends. Our families know; our pastor knows; our sponsored child in Bolivia knows; even my old boss knew.

I have always been one to wear my heart on my sleeve. Philip says I’m honest to a fault (for example, when giving someone a gift of free swag I’ve received through my job as a magazine editor, I always compulsively confess that the gift is free swag that I’ve received through my job as a magazine editor). I don’t enjoy lying, I suck at lying, and I want to be known. Infertility is the biggest thing going on my life, the thing most on my mind and heart, and to not share it with people seems like I’m not revealing my true self.

However, sometimes I want a little privacy in this whole nasty business. I’m sick of explaining the damn difference between IUI and IVF. Even before I started fertility treatments, I knew the difference between an insemination and IVF.

I’m sick of being asked “where we are at” with everything and trying to come up with a succinct answer. We are not anywhere that’s easily described within a normal person’s attention span. We are somewhere in the midst of the world’s completely broken, prohibitively expensive, shockingly-low-success-rate infertility-treatment purgatory where the same tiny handful of therapies is tried on the majority of patients because doctors are satisfied with a completely BULLSHIT “diagnosis” of “unexplained” infertility.

People ask me all the time if the doctors have found anything wrong, and I despise the answer I have to give them. Yes, they’ve found a couple things wrong. My AMH hormone level is too high and I have slightly irregular ovulation, so there’s some kind of hormonal imbalance going on. And Philip’s sperms aren’t A+ either. But there’s nothing to be done about these things apparently, other than just run us through the standard treatment ringer: three medicated cycles of timed relations; three IUI cycles; IVF until you’re broke and have lost your will to live.

So that’s where we are “at” as far as treatment, but then there’s the emotional side of everything. Do you really want to hear about that? Because it’s ugly. Really fucking ugly. I’m super sad. I’m exhausted. I’m angry. I’m bitter. I’m obsessive. Being around pregnant people, even pregnant people I love dearly, makes me want to gnash my teeth, and I don’t even know what that means. I hate parties because pregnant people are always at them. I don’t want to be around my friends’ small children; I don’t want to hear all my “mommy” friends compare notes about their six-month-olds sleeping through the night; I don’t want to see or hear one more pregnancy announcement for the rest of my life.

Other people’s joy makes me jealous and upset, and I feel bad about that, and I’m sick of feeling bad about that. I dread the imminent pregnancy announcements of all my friends who currently don’t have kids, of my siblings, of my teenage cousins — even of other infertile strangers on the Internet, which is really messed up. I see statistics about age and pregnancy rates and I panic. I fight with my husband over infertility-related issues on a regular basis. I feel like I will be the last person I know to ever start a family. That is where I am at.

But of course I don’t say all of that, because I would sound like a crazy person and I would make people uncomfortable and probably a lot of people would judge me, because if you haven’t been in these infertile shoes, there is no way for you to understand, try as you may. So I have to struggle to find some acceptable answer about where we are at: a quick synopsis of where we stand as far as treatment, a brave “I’m hanging in there!” to summarize how I’m doing emotionally.

And I’m tired of doing that. For two out of every four weeks, we are just waiting. Waiting to see if something worked. Doubtful that it did. Anticipating the tears in the bathroom and the arduous rallying of emotional reserves to try again.

But during every two-week wait, everyone else is so expectant and optimistic. They have “good feelings” about this one. This will be “my year.” And I know everyone cares about me and wants this for me, and of course I don’t want to be met with my own cynicism, but I feel like a creep unless I muster a weak smile and try to act as sure and happy and hopeful as everyone else. And I’m tired of doing that.

But people’s sympathy and pity are no good either. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me and think of me as that poor Erika, who’s going through this terrible trial, and I sure do feel bad for her.

I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s talk about my job, or my trip, or my cats — or better yet, let’s please talk about you.

2. I haven’t been that honest on this blog. It’s largely for all the reasons stated above. I don’t blog anonymously, and I have a lot of readers who aren’t infertile, so I don’t want to alienate people or make them feel guilty or change people’s perception of me in any negative way. But if I can’t be honest here, what’s the point?

I started this blog to be a place to purge my feelings, but it’s not a safe space for me to do that. Too many people who I interact with on a daily basis have access to it. People at my workplace, including my new boss, could easily enough find it via Twitter or Instagram. (One of the best things about my new boss, by the way, is the fact that he doesn’t know about my infertility, so it doesn’t color his perception of me at all. The pity, the morbid curiosity, just aren’t there, which is amazing.)

But if I can’t share it openly, that’s a problem too. I want readers; I want this space to mean something. So I keep walking this line, and even that is exhausting. I want to just verbally dump — and I think my infertile readers want that too. Otherwise it’s too neatly packaged; the pretty bow tied around everything where I say, It’s all okay; I’m learning and growing so much from this experience, makes it feel disingenuous and makes me sound way stronger and more at peace with everything than I really am, and in turn makes my words unrelatable to the readers who come around looking to see that we’re all struggling and lost, and that’s normal, so at least we’re not alone. But I don’t feel the freedom to do that.

3. This blog hasn’t fostered the community I’d hoped it would. So many of the other infertile bloggers I read, and whose Twitter/Instagram accounts I follow, seem to have found these incredible support systems online — to the point where they’re sending each other care packages in the mail — and I have not found that at all. Even though I’ve been at this TTC business for 2.5 years now, I still feel like the new kid at school going, Hey guys, can I sit at your lunch table? And all the seats are taken.

Again, this is probably my own doing. I’m not honest enough here. I don’t write posts often enough. I don’t comment on other people’s blogs enough. I don’t belong to any message boards; I don’t volunteer for Resolve; I don’t post pictures of my pregnancy tests on Twitter asking if anyone else can make out an evaporation line.

And a lot of that is due to reasons I’ve already stated, as well as other insecurities. I feel too bogged down in my own story and misery to be a voice ringing out for advocacy and community. I applied to be a contributing blogger at The Infertility Voice and never heard a peep, which made me feel like a failure and an outsider. Plus I just don’t have the time to be keeping up with all of the above. I’ve got my non-virtual life to attend to: work, social engagements, time with Philip, time with family, chores, car shopping. I want to make a scrapbook for Carmen. I have trouble prioritizing it all.

I realize that everyone who does keep up with all the Internet “TTC sisterhood” friendship maintenance has all of those real-life commitments too, so I’m just making excuses. And thankfully, I’ve got a handful of friends in the flesh who are also going through infertility, so I don’t think the need for me to find support through online means is as great.

But still, it’s felt tough and frustrating to try to break into the conversation, and keeping up with the blog often feels like an extra chore/burden, especially when I spend time on a post and don’t really get any comments. If what I’m saying isn’t prompting anyone to respond or interact, was it really worth saying?

4. I’m not sure why people come here. Again, I’ve touched on this already, but just to elucidate a little more: I know people are reading. I see in my blog stats that some days I get as many as 40 or 50 page views. But because of the lack of interaction, I don’t really know if people are finding what they’re looking for.

I suspect that what brings a lot of people back is the constant curiosity of: Is she gonna get pregnant this time? It’s a nice little literary device, suspense, and I’ve got this handy ongoing conflict that keeps my story juicy, but to those genuinely interested in me because they care about me, I say: I’m tired of disappointing you month after month, and to the voyeurs: I don’t want to be here purely for anyone’s entertainment. That said, I do want my writing to be entertaining, but more than that, I want it to be helpful.

I had a vision once for starting a website that would be the Style Me Pretty of infertility sites. While sharing my own story, I could also share inspirational images and quotes, fur-baby galleries, suggestions for weekend getaways, and helpful advice related to infertility. It would be a place for everyone to come together, as there doesn’t seem to be one central resource. I discovered recently that Baby Hopeful is kind of already doing this to an extent. And of course, every infertile alive knows about Stirrup Queens’ comprehensive blog roll.

I still think my idea is a good one, but it’s one that requires more time (and, frankly, more heart) than I have to give it. Life presented me with an exciting new job, not a dead end that might lead to a freelance career with more time for personal projects. And since I still feel so (at worst) bitter, miserable and (at best) ambivalent about infertility, it’s hard to imagine creating something beautiful and positive out of this experience.

Which, of course, makes the whole ordeal seem that much more pointless. I met a girl at a big work conference last December, and of course, I shared that I was infertile. (Why not broadcast it to the masses?) She told me she had struggled for four years to get pregnant and did several failed IUIs. All the while, she was wrestling with God over it and trying to find His purposes. Finally she felt she had a spiritual breakthrough, and soon afterward she got pregnant on her own. She now has two daughters. She told me, “Never waste a good trial; press into God.”

I feel I am wasting this trial. I can’t find the redemption in this. I can’t find the lessons I’m supposed to be learning. I can barely even face God. I thought maybe this blog had something to do with the “reason” behind it all — comforting others with the comfort I have received from God and all that — but I don’t really see that happening, and I don’t have a vision for it.

5. I think it might be nice to have privacy as we begin the IVF process. Circling back to number one, at the moment I’m very attracted to the idea of doing IVF in private. When people ask me where we are at, I could just say we’re taking a break — no having to explain the meds I’m on or report on the quality of our embryos.

No follow-up questions like, When will you know if it worked? and, What are you going to do with all the embryos you don’t transfer? No having to hear people use the wrong terminology like eggs being “harvested” or embryos being “implanted.” No having to advise single friends on whether or not it’s prudent to freeze your eggs (so tired of being a cautionary tale, and they’ll probably have no issues getting pregnant at 40 anyway) or how much that costs (I don’t know). No pressure to tell the waiting world the results. Sharing our news — whatever it is — at our discretion and at our own pace.

It all sounds like such a dream right now, like such a giant relief. Of course, I’m reacting to my current disappointment. A full year of treatment. Infinite pills, shots, blood draws, speculums and vaginal ultrasounds. Thousands and thousands of dollars. And I’ve got nothing to show for it. FUCK THAT. I’m ready to throw out the baby with the bath water. Delete the blog; fire the doctor. Go into deep hiding.

And of course, there’s the valiant argument for infertility awareness: The more I share my story, the more the world will understand, and the less ostracized future infertiles will feel. But I just can’t worry about those poor future infertiles right now, as, wet-faced, I cradle my little broken heart in my hands at 7:51 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

* To be perfectly honest, the test would not neatly snap into two pieces the way you see fresh celery do in commercials. Instead, the hard plastic basically folded in half, which was not nearly as satisfying. And the results still read just as clearly.

ONCE UPON A TIME

There was a girl who had an enviable life -- an amazing husband, a beautiful bungalow-style house, two loving cats, a vibrant career, even a recent promotion! She was in good health, except for one problem: After trying for two and a half years to conceive, she was still barren.

All around her were reminders of the life of motherhood she wasn't living. Pregnant bellies, strollers and babies were everywhere she turned, from the grocery store to the hotel pool. Anniversaries and annual events reminded her of how long she'd been fruitlessly trying. Future plans were made with ambivalence: Should she go on that trip/buy that car/accept that responsibility, or make a different choice on the small chance that she could be pregnant by then? And of course, friends and acquaintances were regularly announcing pregnancies, as it was that season of life.

Summer was winding down -- another season passed and still, no child -- and the weekend had been emotional: Two pregnancy announcements on Facebook had thrown the girl into a private tailspin. Not only did she feel pain at the news, but she also felt guilty for being upset at another's joy.

But she bore the heartache quietly. She didn't want to weary her husband with fertility obsessions. And indeed, what was there to say that hadn't been said a thousand times?

In her mind, she counted the days. She and her husband had undergone an insemination, their third, and were awaiting the results. They had agreed the insemination would be their last; the statistics didn't show much success beyond three attempts. They also agreed that neither felt particularly hopeful about this treatment cycle. They had swallowed every pill, administered every injection, and showed up at every appointment, but robotically.

It was also true that they hadn't made any attempts at reducing stress. Work had been intense for both of them, long-term household responsibilities had piled up, and they had gotten into several nasty arguments over the previous weeks. The girl had fallen far from her routine of yoga, massage and healthy eating.

Nevertheless, she knew every day where she stood: eight days past ovulation; nine days; ten. In a few short days, they would have their answer, and what if it was negative? Always a planner, she considered the next steps. Ostensibly, they would meet with their reproductive endocrinologist to discuss in vitro fertilization.

But it seemed impossible that they were already on the doorstep of IVF. How could they have tried everything else already? How could it be that nothing worked? Her RE had said most of his patients got pregnant without needing IVF, and the girl had seen the proof: The simple ovulatory drugs had worked for that friend of a friend; the progesterone supplements for the old work acquaintance. But not this girl. She needed the full $12,000 last resort, reserved for the extremely infertile and the extremely desperate.

It was hard to accept. The failed inseminations made her angry -- the wasted money and the wasted months. The checked-out nurses made her angry, and the RE made her the angriest of all -- that mirage with whom they had talked only three times. THREE TIMES, in a full year.

All of this she mulled silently in her head. Finally she spoke to her husband: "I think I will call tomorrow to make an appointment with the RE. If it turns out we're pregnant, we can just cancel it, and if we're not, we'll get in to see him that much sooner."

Her husband affirmed it was a fine idea, but then said, "I don't want to pay for it."

Suddenly all the emotions boiled over the surface. The disappointment, the anger, the loneliness fused into an accusatory arrow that she threw at his heart: "You care more about money than you care about having a baby!"

A long discussion followed. They sat on the bed facing each other, trying to understand. First it was about the money: She didn't want to talk to the clinic about pricing, because it's always stressful and never straightforward. He didn't want to pay $200 for an IVF marketing pitch. She didn't know what else to do other than talk to the RE. He wanted to research other doctors to see if there may be a better overall value and fit for them. She was overwhelmed at the thought of leading that new charge. He felt that if they're going to spend that much money, they need to be sure it's with the best possible doctor. She said it's not like buying a car! He said it's absolutely like buying a car!

Finally the girl started weeping. "I will pay whatever it costs!" she cried, choking out words through her sobs. "Why don't you feel that way? I want you to feel that way! I will do anything! This desire is overwhelming! It's always with me, always! I just want it to go away, but it won't. I see Brittany's pregnancy announcement on Facebook, and I just feel so behind. And helpless. And BROKEN. Everywhere I look there's some glassy-eyed parent pushing a stroller, and they have NO IDEA what a blessing it is that they have that child! Starting a family is the most natural thing in the world for people, it's so easy, and I CAN'T DO IT! No matter what I try, I can't make it happen, and I wonder if it will ever happen. I see a family of four sitting around a table, and I wonder, will that ever be us? Will we ever get there?! Or in ten years, will we just be that couple who never had kids, living some totally other life, one that I never imagined would be our life?"

Her husband listened attentively and compassionately, feeding her tissues. Always a fixer, he looked for ways he could participate more fully in the quest for a family. He should give her more opportunities to share her feelings; he should encourage a more relaxing lifestyle, he said. He volunteered to call the fertility clinic to ask about the cost of the IVF consultation. He confessed that he didn't feel how she did -- he felt good about their life: They were trying everything they knew to conceive, and in the meantime, they were still living fully -- traveling, having fun, and eating leftover flautas at 10 p.m. He didn't constantly long for a child, but he didn't want her to feel alone.

She said she felt that way sometimes, and she certainly tried to live that way: making the most of the current life season. She acknowledged that the desire for a baby was completely illogical, that a child would seriously interfere with all the freedom they enjoy now. But in a way she was thankful for the misery of her constant overwhelming desire, because it drove her forward; it kept her pushing through a merciless process that would otherwise defeat her.

The next day, she felt a little better. The outburst had been cathartic, and she put on her face and her work clothes and functioned effectively the entire day in her Normal Person disguise. She saw on her calendar that her husband had added an IVF consultation appointment four weeks from the day, and he had also added information about a local Resolve support-group meeting.

She said a prayer of thanks for her husband, and she counted on her fingers: eleven days past ovulation.