Either/Or

Mo brought home a book the other day.  This is monumental in itself, as he is not really a book-reading kinda guy.  He knows HOW to read, and he reads newspapers and online crap all day long.  He just never got into books the way I did.  I digress.

Anyway, this book was given to him by a co-worker.  It's an older book, written in the 1990's, about a woman who lost her naturally-conceived triplets due to premature labor, then two more pregnancies the same way.  This was in the late 70's/early 80's, and she was very young (19-22) at the time.  She then went on to have three successful pregnancies and three beautiful children.  The book is all about how she maintained her faith in God throughout the tragedies of losing her five babies.

The book was, obviously, very difficult for me to read.  It wasn't that it was overly-preachy, but more that it raised the same questions I grapple with every day.  Why would a loving God allow these babies to be conceived, just to be yanked away?  Why would he give babies to undesiring or undeserving parents, and not us?  She doesn't pretend to have any answers, thank goodness, just maintains that life is full of pain and misery and that it is all part of a grander plan.

My problem, of course, is the idea that it IS all part of a grander plan.  I think it's really easy to say that when you are on the other side.  When three living, breathing, children are sleeping in their beds underneath your roof.  When the pain and frustration are no longer echoing in silent rooms and a way-too-big house.  I'm not discounting her pain, or the pain of anyone who experiences a miscarriage or still-birth.  I know firsthand how much those babies were wanted, loved, and will always be missed.  But I also think it's part of the human condition to want to create order out of chaos, and that is why we will often look back on our lives and try to make sense out of why things happen the way they do.  We turn coincidences into divine providence, and assign meaning where there is none.

It also raised another issue for me, one I've struggled with silently for months now.  At the end of the book, as she is reaching out to others and realizing that she isn't the only one who has experienced this, she writes about how "her story is not my story."  And I feel that, oh-so-acutely these days.  The more I reach out into the blogosphere, searching for others "like me," the more isolated and alone I feel.  Not only am I continuously being lapped by my closest bloggy cohorts, but more and more of the blogs I find are written by women just starting out on their journeys.  And while I understand that to them it doesn't feel like just starting out, that two years absolutely can feel like an eternity, I also long to find someone who has been at it as long as I have, who hasn't yet figured it out, who still wonders what the final family portrait is going to look like.

Please don't misunderstand me.  My pain is not greater than anyone else's.  My frustration and anger are equaled by many, I'm sure.  I just wish I could find someone who is walking this path with me, someone whose story I can relate to.

And I think that's really what it boils down to.  It seems like so many in the ALI community are either/or.  Either we can't get pregnant without medical interventions, or we can't stay pregnant without medical interventions.  Loss is horrific, but even more so when you know that you CAN'T get pregnant again, at least not without considerable effort and cost.  Virtually all of the blogs I read are either IVF or RPL -- but not one of them has both.   And it just seems so unfair that we are saddled with both of these diagnoses.  We will never be one of those couples who stops trying and is blessed with a surprise natural pregnancy.  If we decide to live childfree, my friends, that's exactly what will happen.  And even if we decide to continue to pursue a pregnancy, well -- there's no guarantee there, either.

I would give anything to be one, or the other.  To be able to get pregnant, as many times as it takes, without spending every last penny we have.  Or, to have just one of our expensive treatments result in an actual live baby.  Maybe that sounds callous -- I don't mean it to.  Some of my biggest supporters have suffered more losses than I have, and I don't want to sound like I'm belittling those.  Each and every baby was wanted, and each and every loss was incomprehensible.  I certainly don't wish for more losses.  But the ability to try again -- I admit, I'm jealous of that.  I'm jealous of those who can have sex and get pregnant, even if those pregnancies are riddled with anxiety.  I'm jealous of those who do IVF, get pregnant, and carry to term.  Hell, I'm even jealous of those who have given up on treatments and are pursuing adoption -- they are, at least, making headway on this never-ending, winding path to parenthood.

Sometimes I feel like I'm walking where few have tread.  It's a lonely path, and no matter how hard I try not to, I keep thinking that "her story is not my story."  In doing so, I know I'm isolating myself, closing off opportunities for support and encouragement.  And yet, I can't help myself -- it pops up despite my best efforts to suppress it, to keep it stifled underneath proclamations of hope, and best wishes, and promises of a brighter tomorrow.

I've spent the better part of a decade being resentful, and jealous, and even bitter.  I don't want those feelings to define me.  And yet, what does, if not how I feel 95% of the time?  How do I "keep the faith" when all signs point to a life I am not willing to lead?  How do you stay positive in the face of tragedy?