Role Reversal

Mo has really gotten on the baby bandwagon as of late.  He is spending most of his afternoons and evenings researching clinics, IVF financing, procedures, success rates, you name it.

He even found us an insurance policy that will (eventually) cover at least two rounds of IVF.  It's part of a maternity rider that has a 12-month waiting period, so we will have to spend about $3000 on it before it kicks in.  Then there's a $1000 deductible.  But, all said, if we use it within 24 months of purchasing it, it will be like getting $15,000 worth of coverage for $6000.  WAY AWESOME.

Because of the waiting period, we are shelving it temporarily and plan on using it either as A) a back-up plan if this summer's attempts are unsuccessful or B) for a sibling if we get so lucky as to conceive and carry to term.

I hesitate to even write our "plans" as the universe often seems to laugh in my face when presented with such notions.

Still, it's nice to think about.

Which is about all I can do.  Mo is busy as a bee, making phone calls, emailing people, applying for Att.ain and A.R.C. and anyone else who offers IVF financing or refund programs.  I haven't done a thing.

Except, of course, bemoan my childless existence and the unfairness of the universe.

When did this happen?  When did Mo become the productive one and I became the one unable to put one foot in front of the other?  When did I become "too busy" to make a phone call or schedule an appointment?  When did TTC and IVF become persona non grata -- words I luuurve (in theory) and yet avoid with startling regularity?

While I have a lot of (contained) excitement for another attempt, I am also filled with trepidation.  With anxiety, and fear.  With....panic?

I told Mo that it was so much easier two years ago.  Two years ago, I had no idea how much it would hurt to be unsuccessful.  Or half-successful, if you will.  I had no idea how much it would hurt to learn that my baby -- our baby -- had died within my womb.  I mean, I thought I knew.  But I didn't know.

Now, I know.  I know exactly what we are risking.  And it scares me beyond words.

ART is, always, a gamble.  We risk our money, our hearts, on a 50-50 chance at happiness.  We blindly close our eyes and leap, hoping that we soar instead of sink.  Praying that there's some sort of pillow to cushion our fall.

Before, I had no idea how much it would hurt to go crashing into the cement sidewalk.  Now, a year after our second loss, I'm still bruised, still broken.  And still wanting -- desperately wanting -- to take that leap again.

It's just much, much harder than I ever thought it would be.