Warning: PG mentioned. If, like I often was, you are hiding out from the family and reading blogs, you may want to skip this one this year. No hard feelings, I promise!
Today I am the most thankful I have ever been! We are 24 weeks today -- a major milestone that seemed so very impossible just a few months ago. Although it's not by any means a guarantee of a living, healthy, baby -- it's extremely comforting to know that, were something to go wrong, doctors would at this point actually attempt to save the life of my precious son.
We are spending the holiday with my parents and some very good friends -- the ones who put us up during all of our treatments last summer. I am so grateful to all of them for their unending support. Though neither couple has ever experienced infertility, both my mom and my friend have had losses. Regardless of shared experiences, they have both been incredibly uplifting and loving towards us, even when they didn't know what to say or do. I feel thankful for their love and friendship every single day -- though today it does seem even more poignant (pregnancy-hormones, anyone?)
Speaking of Baby Boy, he is growing stronger every single day! His little twitches and flips have turned into solid kicks and rolls. At over 1.5 pounds (according to our last ultrasound a week ago), he's starting to fill out a little bit. We got the most precious 3-D picture of his face -- I stare at it daily, simply entranced by the idea that that is MY son, and that soon I will be able to kiss his sweet cheeks and tickle his tiny feet.
I am beyond thankful that modern medicine has made this experience possible. I've written before that adoption is an answer for some, though not without its pitfalls and heartbreaks. We walked that path ourselves, hoping that maybe our family would come to us that way. It turns out that it didn't -- and while I know that the future is "still unwritten" and may include adoption at some point, I am so very thrilled that I got to feel my firstborn moving around inside of me. I didn't realize how much it would mean to me until I actually experienced it. That's not to say that adoptive moms are missing out -- I firmly believe that motherhood is a state of the heart, not of the uterus. I'm just thrilled that I'm on my way to finally meeting my son; the kicks are just an added bonus. :-)
I'm also not unaware that many of you don't feel too thankful today. It's hard to, when nothing seems to be going the way you'd planned. I hope that, whatever your current status, you do something nice for yourself . Skip the holiday, indulge in an extra glass of wine, cry your heart out in the bathroom. Eat a crapload of turkey or fifteen different desserts. Do whatever it takes to make it through. I know firsthand how impossible it can seem, how unending and unfair and unbearable to miss your children when everyone else seems oblivious to your pain. It's my fervent hope that next year is different -- whether that means an adoption, a pregnancy, a living child, or just a peace that eludes you this year.
So Happy Thanksgiving -- or not. Here's to a holiday that is easier than you anticipate.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
I Am Happy
I think that I perhaps gave the wrong impression with my last few posts: I am, indeed, very excited and happy to be pregnant. The FEAR has hidden in the recesses of my brain more and more as each week passes. The meltdown earlier this week was, in fact, the first occurrence in several months. I find tremendous joy in every movement, every purchase, every single day that we get closer to bringing Baby Boy home. Mo and I talk to the baby every day; we cherish lying in bed at night and feeling him squirming around. I'm absolutely loving talking about ways to decorate the nursery, or what we need to buy, or what we're going to do with him when he gets here. I am, in short, HAPPY. In a way that I haven't been in many, many years.
But happiness, for me, does not many blog posts write. I started this space as a place to vent my frustrations and my fears. I am, without a doubt, much more verbose when I am experiencing those darker emotions. Writing is cathartic for me, a way to deal with and handle my anger, my bitterness, my terror, my pain. Those things that I can't talk about with others, at least not in any meaningful way. It is, in its own way, my therapy.
But please, rest assured, that I am enjoying (almost) every minute of this pregnancy. Now that the terrible first trimester is over, I feel good physically, and most days I feel pretty damn good emotionally as well. I have my moments; we all do, I think. This process leaves us scarred and damaged and its quite normal for The Fear to rear its ugly head every so often. I am, however, quite happy most of the time. And even, dare I say it? Excited. I went shopping yesterday with my mom to pick out fabric for the stockings she is making for us; we also wandered through two baby departments. It was surreal, picking out clothes that Baby Boy will wear in just a few short months. I've started cleaning out rooms in the house to make room for the junk that has accumulated in what will be his room; I'm actually looking forward to going back in there and setting things up. Most of the time I'm able to believe that things are going to continue to go well, and that Baby Boy will be gracing us with his presence in the spring.
But when I don't? When the Fear takes over? That's when I come here, to unload those feelings and to feel better. It's worked for the past five years (have I really been blogging that long? Holy cow!), and I don't see it changing anytime soon.
So thank you for being there for me, for lending an ear to a rather pessimistic outlook at times. Just know that, deep down, that's just one part of me -- and lately, that part is getting smaller and smaller. Happy-Jo rules the roost these days -- I just don't have her voice as finely-tuned. Perhaps I need to work on that.
But happiness, for me, does not many blog posts write. I started this space as a place to vent my frustrations and my fears. I am, without a doubt, much more verbose when I am experiencing those darker emotions. Writing is cathartic for me, a way to deal with and handle my anger, my bitterness, my terror, my pain. Those things that I can't talk about with others, at least not in any meaningful way. It is, in its own way, my therapy.
But please, rest assured, that I am enjoying (almost) every minute of this pregnancy. Now that the terrible first trimester is over, I feel good physically, and most days I feel pretty damn good emotionally as well. I have my moments; we all do, I think. This process leaves us scarred and damaged and its quite normal for The Fear to rear its ugly head every so often. I am, however, quite happy most of the time. And even, dare I say it? Excited. I went shopping yesterday with my mom to pick out fabric for the stockings she is making for us; we also wandered through two baby departments. It was surreal, picking out clothes that Baby Boy will wear in just a few short months. I've started cleaning out rooms in the house to make room for the junk that has accumulated in what will be his room; I'm actually looking forward to going back in there and setting things up. Most of the time I'm able to believe that things are going to continue to go well, and that Baby Boy will be gracing us with his presence in the spring.
But when I don't? When the Fear takes over? That's when I come here, to unload those feelings and to feel better. It's worked for the past five years (have I really been blogging that long? Holy cow!), and I don't see it changing anytime soon.
So thank you for being there for me, for lending an ear to a rather pessimistic outlook at times. Just know that, deep down, that's just one part of me -- and lately, that part is getting smaller and smaller. Happy-Jo rules the roost these days -- I just don't have her voice as finely-tuned. Perhaps I need to work on that.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Meltdown
So things have been progressing quite nicely. I'm a day shy of 23 weeks, feeling Baby Boy move every single day, and generally feeling pretty damn good most of the time.
But.
Sometimes the emotional overload of the past decade rears its ugly head. Last night was one of those times.
I was texting my sister about today's upcoming ultrasound (we have a follow-up scheduled from our anatomy scan four weeks ago because they couldn't get enough pictures of the baby's heart). I was telling her that I was nervous that they will find something wrong, that things can still fall apart and that there isn't much they can do at this point if they do.
And she said something about me being Miss Optimistic. And I lost it. I mean, sobbing in bed, fingers flying, as we continued texting back and forth. How on earth can I be expected to be optimistic, even this far along? Why does everyone but me believe that I'm actually going to have a baby in March?
Don't get me wrong. I've finally bonded with Baby Boy in a way I was unable to do during the first trimester. Feeling him move has changed things -- if something WAS to go wrong, I don't know how I would survive it. I've always felt that there's a gradation (feel free to disagree with me, I know many will) when it comes to loss. Yes, ALL losses hurt like hell. My first one rocked me to the core, at just six weeks along. But all three of mine happened in the first trimester, long before I felt any of them moving around, or knew their gender, or gave them names. They were still hopes and dreams at that point. I've always felt that a second-trimester loss, or a stillbirth, would absolutely destroy me. And now I know, having felt this baby move and given him a name, that losing him would be the worst possible thing that could ever happen to me. He's not just a ghost-child, a maybe-baby that I'm pinning all my dreams of parenthood on. He's real in a concrete way that my earlier losses just weren't.
Anyway, I digress. The point is, I melted down over an insignificant comment yesterday. It's something that hasn't happened in many months, and it brought all those terrifying feelings back into the forefront. All the pain of infertility and loss that has been hiding behind my happy-pregnant smile and my growing bump -- it's still there. It may not come out to play as often, but it's still there. I can't erase the past ten years, and I don't feel like a "regular" pregnant person. I fought incredibly hard to get here, and while I enjoy it 90% of the time, the terror never really leaves. I'm constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wondering if it's this appointment, this ultrasound, that's going to destroy the happy little bubble we've been living in for the past five and a half months.
I know that each day that passes, our chances of bringing Baby Boy home alive and healthy increase. I know, logically and in my head, that we've passed all of our screening tests with flying colors. I know that if the doctor was concerned about his heart, he would have said something at our anatomy scan. I KNOW all of that. But I can't shake the fear, I can't seem to silence the little "what if?" corner of my brain.
Infertility is more than just a physical disease. It's an emotional virus, one that infects your core and never, ever, goes away completely. Like a cancer, those cells may lie dormant for days, or months, or years -- but they often come back, raging like never before. Being pregnant helps (oh god does it help!) to ease the pain, to make life manageable again. But it isn't a cure.
In my heart, I am still, and always will be, infertile. Which, I suppose, makes me as pessimistic as they come.
But.
Sometimes the emotional overload of the past decade rears its ugly head. Last night was one of those times.
I was texting my sister about today's upcoming ultrasound (we have a follow-up scheduled from our anatomy scan four weeks ago because they couldn't get enough pictures of the baby's heart). I was telling her that I was nervous that they will find something wrong, that things can still fall apart and that there isn't much they can do at this point if they do.
And she said something about me being Miss Optimistic. And I lost it. I mean, sobbing in bed, fingers flying, as we continued texting back and forth. How on earth can I be expected to be optimistic, even this far along? Why does everyone but me believe that I'm actually going to have a baby in March?
Don't get me wrong. I've finally bonded with Baby Boy in a way I was unable to do during the first trimester. Feeling him move has changed things -- if something WAS to go wrong, I don't know how I would survive it. I've always felt that there's a gradation (feel free to disagree with me, I know many will) when it comes to loss. Yes, ALL losses hurt like hell. My first one rocked me to the core, at just six weeks along. But all three of mine happened in the first trimester, long before I felt any of them moving around, or knew their gender, or gave them names. They were still hopes and dreams at that point. I've always felt that a second-trimester loss, or a stillbirth, would absolutely destroy me. And now I know, having felt this baby move and given him a name, that losing him would be the worst possible thing that could ever happen to me. He's not just a ghost-child, a maybe-baby that I'm pinning all my dreams of parenthood on. He's real in a concrete way that my earlier losses just weren't.
Anyway, I digress. The point is, I melted down over an insignificant comment yesterday. It's something that hasn't happened in many months, and it brought all those terrifying feelings back into the forefront. All the pain of infertility and loss that has been hiding behind my happy-pregnant smile and my growing bump -- it's still there. It may not come out to play as often, but it's still there. I can't erase the past ten years, and I don't feel like a "regular" pregnant person. I fought incredibly hard to get here, and while I enjoy it 90% of the time, the terror never really leaves. I'm constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wondering if it's this appointment, this ultrasound, that's going to destroy the happy little bubble we've been living in for the past five and a half months.
I know that each day that passes, our chances of bringing Baby Boy home alive and healthy increase. I know, logically and in my head, that we've passed all of our screening tests with flying colors. I know that if the doctor was concerned about his heart, he would have said something at our anatomy scan. I KNOW all of that. But I can't shake the fear, I can't seem to silence the little "what if?" corner of my brain.
Infertility is more than just a physical disease. It's an emotional virus, one that infects your core and never, ever, goes away completely. Like a cancer, those cells may lie dormant for days, or months, or years -- but they often come back, raging like never before. Being pregnant helps (oh god does it help!) to ease the pain, to make life manageable again. But it isn't a cure.
In my heart, I am still, and always will be, infertile. Which, I suppose, makes me as pessimistic as they come.
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