10 Ways Candy Crush is Like Infertility

1. At first, it seems easy and fun. You breeze through it, confident it will all turn out right in the end. Besides, everyone else is doing it! 

2. You think about it a lot more than you're willing to admit. Sometimes, you envision passing the next level as you are trying to fall asleep. 

3. You are shocked to discover roadblocks in your path. No one ever mentioned needing tickets to get to the next level! 

4. As things get harder, you find yourself more and more determined to "win." But, winning becomes simply passing the next hurdle. You lose sight of the end goal. 

5. You watch your friends breeze past you, and you wonder what they know that you don't. 

6. You start to google hints for getting past your current level. Surely, someone, somewhere, has the answer!!! 

7. You try any and every strategy someone suggests for passing the next level, no matter how ludicrous or far-fetched it seems. 

8. You start to resent people who brag about passing levels that are so far away from yours, it seems impossible to ever reach them. You learn to hide those annoying Candy Crush updates from your Facebook feed. 

9. You begin to wonder why you are still playing this game at all. It's not fun anymore, you are hopelessly stuck, but you keep at it anyway, night after night. 

You vow to stop at a certain point, but find yourself whispering, "Just one more try...."

10. Eventually, you realize that it is, in the end, a game of chance. Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don't. Eventually, with enough persistence, most people will find a way out, but it all comes down to luck. There's really very little skill involved. Sometimes, you simply can't pass, despite doing everything right. Sometimes you get impossibly close, but that one tiny jelly stands in your way. And every once in a while, the stars align, and you experience the euphoria that comes with successfully beating the challenge set before you. 

Just in time to start the process all over again. 

12 Weeks and Change

We met with our OB again yesterday, and I have decided that I really like him. He told us we'd take a quick listen to the heartbeat, and Mo said, "No pics today?" Dr. Head Honcho smiled and said, "Sure, we can take a quick peek." I know most docs aren't that liberal with their ultrasounds, and I am tickled that we got another glimpse of our little monkey. 

First, we pulled out the Doppler, and as I lay there for what seemed like eternity, hearing nothing, my heart began to sink. 

And then. 

Whumpa, whumpa, whumpa, whump. 

"There it is," I whispered, my relief tangible in the small room. Mo squeezed my hand and we both just sat there, frozen in time, for several minutes.  

After that, as promised, we got another look at the little one. Head, arms, legs, even tiny little feet were visible. It actually looked like a baby in there. There was a little disconnect as I looked at the screen, because, really, how could that be inside of me? I'm the perpetual infertile. I see follicles, and empty spaces, and on a few special occasions a small, featureless, blob of potential - but never an actual baby. I'm still quite shocked that we've made it this far. 

I pause a moment as I write this, wishing I could describe these feelings of elation mixed with disbelief, of pure joy tinged with black fear. But then I realize - you guys already know. You have walked this path before me, balancing carefully on this tightrope that is Pregnancy-After-Infertility.  Some of you long to be here with me, even knowing that the climb is steep, and there is no safety net if you fall. I am reminded over and over again of the many hands that lifted me up, the gentle voices that continued to encourage me each time my feet began to slip or the destination seemed impossibly far. You already know my heart, my sisters of broken dreams. You understand my heartache and my happiness, even if I find myself unable to put it into words. 

Tonight I am grateful for so many things. A husband whose strength I'll never match, a marriage that's grown stronger despite the flames, and this potential life, this longed-for child-to-be that continues to grow despite his or her mother's neuroses. But most of all, I'm grateful for all of you, in a way I could never explain, nor do I have to.

Because you? You get it. And I am so, so, lucky that you do. 

One Foot In, One Foot Out

That's how I'm feeling these days. Like I'm in that shadowy no-mans land. Not happily ensconced in pregnancy, nor railing against infertility. I'm a few days past 11 weeks - still in that first-trimester haze, wanting to believe in happy endings, but still too battle-scarred to do much more than quietly hold my breath and attempt to shield my heart as I count the days passing. Mo is as joyous as I've ever seen him - he proudly proclaimed the news on FB (and to everyone else he knows) after our last ultrasound. But I've held back, still cautious, waiting for that traditional mile-marker, even though I know that telling or not telling will have absolutely no effect on the viability of this pregnancy. I go in again on Friday for my 12-week appointment, and I hope that I can begin embracing this opportunity a little more. Because that's how it feels -- I've got this one shot, this one chance to finally make all our dreams come true. There will be no more IVF's - we are emotionally, physically, and financially spent. I feel incredibly grateful to have this chance, a chance I honestly thought I would never have again. At the same time, it still seems impossible that this one could end differently than our last three pregnancies did. 

Mo keeps telling me that we're going to have a baby in March. But, to be perfectly honest, after ten years of trying to make exactly that happen, it's hard to imagine that it actually could. I can discuss the abstracts -- possible names and nursery ideas, daycare options -- but when it comes down to it? I simply can't imagine the reality of it. I can't imagine going to sleep with my baby safe and sound next to me. I can see myself rocking an infant, I can imagine those sweet pudgy arms encircling my neck, and I can almost smell that sweet baby smell. I've done that often enough with other people's babies. But the idea that I could have one of my own, one that I don't have to give back? One that is ours to raise, to snuggle and laugh with, to learn and grow and ponder with? I haven't let myself go there in so many years. It seems as though I've forgotten how. 

And so it may seem, even to my sweet husband, that I remain fairly detached from this little person growing inside me. And there is some truth to that. A heart that has been broken will often seek to protect itself from similar, future harms. But there's another part, that one foot, that has already begun sinking its toes into the water. I'm moving slowly, that is true. But I'm making progress, delicately balancing my need to keep my head above water (and my feet firmly planted on the shore) with my desire to dive head first into the unknown. 

Half in, half out. Neither here, nor there. Waiting, hoping, for some sign that the water is safe. But it's murky water, my friends, and I can't quite see the bottom. I'm going to have to leap eventually, but for now, slow and steady caution is the only way I can make any progress at all.