The other day I remarked that for 98% of the time, dealing with our fertility challenges isn’t really a big deal. We go to parks and swing, we go to amusement parks, we visit the animals at the zoo — we have plenty of things to keep ourselves occupied during all the waiting. We love our little girl so much, and we cherish all these wonderful things we get to share with her right now.
But that other 2% of the time…it’s sometimes a dark place to be.
I hate that we even have to do all this to have another child — not the fact that we have to go to the doctor at all (which, whatever, I’m fine with), but more the fact that it worked fine on our own — with a completely normal number of cycles — the first time.
I hate seeing so many other people get pregnant so easily — often before they were even trying. And then act so freaked out by it.
I hate that it seems like every time I go to pick up Baby B at daycare, I cringe whenever I see a new pregnant belly lurking. I’ve seen three in the past three school days.
I hate that we don’t have infertility coverage on our health insurance and have to pay for every last thing out of pocket.
I hate spending all this money for treatments, only for it to be completely pointless at this point.
I hate that we don’t have the financial means available for more advanced treatments.
I hate that there’s absolutely no one to blame any of this on, and the fact that there’s only so much in the process that we can control.
I hate that we’re quickly running out of options.
I hate that I can’t stand to hear what comes across to me as insignificant pregnancy complaints: “I had a tough day and want a glass of wine but I can’t have one…WAAAAH!” or “I gained THREE POUNDS since my appointment a month ago.” Cry me a river.
I hate the knowledge that if we’d had success our first month, we could have a five-month-old right now.
I hate that our garage is cluttered with baby gear that we’re keeping to use the next time — not knowing when “next time” will come — and I hate the thought of making the decision to get rid of it all if it ever comes to it.
I hate when I see families with dads who are kind of slackers on the parenting front who reproduce easily, while The Husband is an awesome father and we can’t find our way to the good side of luck.
I hate that I plan all these fun trips and things to do as a way of coping with all of this, and each time I think, “Well, surely I’ll be pregnant by then” — then it comes and goes without that ever happening.
I hate that I know how to give myself shots.
I hate that each month I dream of that moment where I see the positive pregnancy test. Will I be shocked? Relieved? In denial? Cry? Laugh? All of the above? Sadly, I never find out.
I hate that I feel so dramatic when I think or say things like, “I don’t know if we’ll ever have a second child” — but sadly, it’s true.
I hate the blow that I’ve taken to my self-esteem and self-confidence.
I hate that even when I do get pregnant, a baby is not guaranteed. One thing I can guarantee: If I manage to lose the baby after becoming pregnant after all this time, I’m going to be one pissed off lady. Sad too, I’m sure, but mostly seething.
I hate that all of this makes me irrational sometimes — and often not very nice to my good friends and The Husband.
I hate that it feels like I’m stuck on a treadmill, never getting anywhere, while it feels like others are running marathons, MILES ahead of me. Literally and figuratively.
I hate that I even compare myself in relation to other people. It’s not helpful, but it’s unavoidable.
I hate that I have to say things like, “Maybe cycle 17 will be the lucky one.”
I hate that, while I try to live my life as normally as possible and still make plans to do fun things, there are still just some plans I can’t make too far ahead of time “just in case.”
I hate that I’ve become a cynical, jaded, and jealous person at times. None of those represents the real me.
I hate that with each month that passes, it takes digging even deeper to find happiness for those who have passed me yet again.
I hate that it gets harder and harder with each failure to find the hope for myself that I had before. At moments it feels long gone.
I hate that I even have to make lame posts like this.
In case you couldn’t tell, IUI #2 was a failure.
Negative test yesterday at 13 days after.
I hate that there’s not better news to share.