I’ve been running around like crazy since Saturday trying to get a bunch of things done for Christmas and for friends visiting this weekend and I’m ready to slow down already. When I get like this, I get tired and emotional and that combination is never a good thing for someone in my shoes.
You would think running around crazy wouldn’t allow for the baby thoughts to creep in, but they seem to never go away. This morning as I was cleaning up a bit before I left for work, I opened the trunk in our bedroom and caught a glimpse of the baby blanket my friend made for me two pregnancies ago, and instantly I thought that the chances of wrapping a baby in that incredible gift of love is very slim. Then moments later as I was getting dressed, I opened a clothes drawer and saw the onesie I bought when I was pregnant for the second time, the one that was just too cute to pass up, even though I knew I was pressing my luck. It’s red and white striped, and fits exactly into the style Tim swears I possess – that of a pirate (I like to call it romantic). I love that onesie. And all I want is to be able to see it on our baby. Except I realize that it may remain in my drawer, left forever waiting to be filled.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how, at two years, I seem to be becoming an elder in this community. I know there are a handful of you out there that have been at this for twice that amount of time, and I am awed by your persistence and strength. Because even though I’m “only” at two years, I’ve started to notice that the majority of women out there don’t usually have to struggle for this long. I am not by any means saying that their pain or grief or frustration is any less than mine…believe me when I say a month at this is too long. It’s just that I’m starting to see more and more people succeeding while I remain in the same place. I’ve begun witnessing a new wave of women come into our community (I’m so sorry you’ve joined us), while the old ones move on to their newfound (and much deserved) families. How did I get to be a Super* Senior in this shitty-ass high school? And who can I talk to about the fazing involved for the Freshman? They don’t deserve this pain. I’d rather be the welcoming Senior, with an arm-full of babies to hand out than the one handing out blows to the uterus with a paddle.
It’s difficult feeling like you’re being left behind. And it’s not just in blog world. Yesterday I saw from a distance a woman that I used to be friends with before all of this crap, pushing a stroller with her 3-month-old in it. I realized later that day that she has gotten engaged, married, pregnant, and had her baby all in the time I’ve been trying for a successful pregnancy. Why does she deserve it so much more than I? I can’t make sense of it.
To those of you that have succeeded or on their way to succeeding, please know that I hold no resentment towards you – in fact, just the opposite – I’m thrilled for you because you give us hope when it feels impossible to find. Unfortunately though, that excitement doesn’t erase the fact I want so badly to be in your shoes – for all of us left in here to be in your shoes. And I know you want that, too. That’s the one thing this infertility school gives us, an uncanny ability to be compassionate to those who know what this is like.
I know this sounds like one big whine-fest, but we’ve hit our two-year anniversary of trying to make a pregnancy work and I can’t believe I’m still here. As happy as the holidays are for me, the Christmas lights and warm fires are reminding me of a more innocent me that is gone forever. I miss her spirit, her hope, her naivety. This is a world I never wanted to be experienced in.
*Super Senior is a phrase my friends and I used when we were all in our 5th year of college. In that case, it was fun to be a Super Senior because why rush the real world? In this case: not so fun. I want back into that Super Senior year…this one sucks.