…I didn’t waste any money, just hope.
My period was a day or two late. I told myself, if I get to Monday morning, I’ll test. Maybe the miracle I’ve wished for will come true!
I closed my eyes and imagined, for a minute or so, being pregnant again.
My period started yesterday afternoon.
No tears. Just more wasted hope. It’s never really gonna end, huh?
I haven’t written much about BabyHope lately. She’s bloomed. The traces of baby are nearly gone – save some wispy hair and a touch of baby cheek. She’s tall – she’s grown 2+ inches since her well-check in January, and about two weeks ago, we hit a milestone – 30 pounds!
She’s reading. Really reading. Like outloud at Target or the flooring store and people are noticing. We bought a 6 pack of early reader books at Costco the other day and she read all of them. Independently. It’s funny when she hits a word she guesses at or sounds out – sometimes from the back seat when I’m driving. I play translator. Today it was “hopiscoootch”. Hopscotch. Took me a second to get that one. She’s reading signs at the zoo, the store, the street. It seems extraordinary.
Pretend. That’s all we do. Pretend to be animals or different people, playing kitchen, dress up, doctor, house. She loves to water the garden (one thing I will miss sorely about the house).
She’s still slow to warm up sometimes. And I often can’t predict when or why. New teacher at ballet? No problem. Swimming pool in a friend’s backyard? 45 minutes of not wanting to get in, and then the moment she got in she was jumping, flipping, and blowing bubbles.
She talks non-stop. Today, two women watched (and giggled) as she chatted about the IAMS display at Target – talking about the cat check-up and on and on. The things she remembers – like the foster kittens and their names from last summer – blow my mind sometimes. Some of it is her voice. I need to record her voice.
“We live on planet Earth. We want a clean Earth.” (said “Erf”, of course) she just said to me.
She eats nearly anything I put in front of her. She’s great about trying things – sometimes with a little encouragement. Fish is a new favorite – she insisted on bringing leftovers to school on Tuesday. Spinach pesto is her favorite, second only to chocolate anything.
It’s not all wonderful. I think we escaped the terrible twos – or the terrible twos were easy for me to wrap my head around. The threes? We have moments where I have to walk away. She screams, hits, kicks, lies on the floor in an attempt to get what she wants. It’s maddening. I try to tell myself that it will pass, that all the other moms are dealing with the same thing, but sometimes, in the middle of the grocery store, it can feel pretty lonely.
We’re still in the middle of change central. The house is under contract – in record time, maybe. The option period is up, inspection and appraisal are done. We have an apartment secured. We’re going to be urbanites for a few months – literally next door to Mr. Hope’s work. It will be fun – an extended staycation is how we’re thinking of it. But I think the small apartment will have us quite ready to move out when the time comes. BabyHope will start a new school in the fall, too. It will mean lots of driving for me, but it’s supposed to be a fantastic (and looked fantastic on observation) setting, and I think they will be able to help her grow in ways her current placement can’t. You know, that whole reading thing. And I think they’ll actually keep track of what she can and can’t do – and actually work on weaknesses and build on strengths.
Life is good. I’m mostly too busy to worry about pregnancy, though I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a moment each month where I think “maybe”. It’s never true, though. And some announcements still sting. A lot. One took my breath away and caused anger a week ago. I won’t go into details, it just felt smug. And like the person thinks she knows but she has no real idea.
Everything. Well, almost.
Not two of the tiny, tiny preemie bodysuits that were too big those first weeks. Or the single preemie disposable diaper I have left that was also too big. Or the little blue soothie pacifier that took up half her face. Or the hat she came home in.
But the rest. The pack n play. The cloth diapers. The toys, books, and bottles she’s outgrown. The maternity clothes.
And the house.
I’d be lying if I said sorting through 3 years of clothes and marking them for sale was easy. Or that I hadn’t shed a tear. But it’s time. There are no fertility treatments on the horizon.
I remember, vividly, walking in the door to this house, our home, with her for the first time. It will be sad to say goodbye.
But I also remember the first day here, followed by the second day that is a blur because my brother died in that car accident. And I remember lying on the bed sobbing after the first IVF cycle resulted in a roller coaster beta ride and ectopic. And I remember sitting on the couch looking at the refrigerator but knowing I couldn’t make it to get that glass of water the nurse told me to drink as I started to hemorrhage, and choosing the bathroom instead.
I love this house. I hate this house.
I love all the things we are selling. I want, desperately, to be able to use them again. To meet our baby again for the first time. But, even more desperately, I never, ever want to fail another IVF cycle. Or miscarry. Or hemorrhage. Or have whatever thing go wrong that I haven’t thought of. I can’t do it again.
I thought I couldn’t sell this stuff. But I can.
It’s another step down a different path. And it will be okay.
to be clear here, these are my opinions, not necessarily those of RESOLVE. For more information on Advocacy Day and the issues we presented, please visit resolve.org
Look, I’m going to be honest here. Advocacy Day was different for me. It wasn’t a rah-rah-rah experience; it wasn’t uber-bonding with a group of women from my home state in similar situations; it wasn’t super-successful.
The good and amazing:
I met some amazing women – some I’ve watched from afar, too timid to engage. Some were completely new to this but so fired up and effective – it was awe-inspiring.
I participated in our democracy in a way I’ve never done before. It is our birthright as United States citizens to have our voices heard by those we elect – it is our right to show up in their offices to present what we need legislated. That was an amazing experience. I’ve always voted, but this was different and empowering.
The bad:
I live in the second most populous state. I live in the second largest state by area. I am not the only infertile woman who lives in my state, but I was the only participant from my entire state.
That I was the only one who showed up was honestly a little discouraging.
We have 32 representives in Congress. 31 didn’t get personal visits by their constituents. I distributed the 17 additional “leave-behind” flyers to some of those offices, but it’s not enough.
It’s sad to me that infertility – a disease – is a partisan issue. Diabetes, cancer, asthma, MS – none of these are partisan, and all are covered by insurance. A bum uterus? No tubes? Anovulatory? No sperm? Well, I’m sorry, your insurance won’t cover treatment, and my senators aren’t particularly interested in doing anything about it because it’s expensive and somehow insults their pro-life stances (this wasn’t overtly said, but understood). It seems a juxtaposition, an oxymoron, and even an insult to be pro-life yet anti-IVF. All we want is to build families – to create life.
I have follow-ups to do. I’m mulling my responses in my head – how to encourage those that don’t see what I see without alienating them. Nudge instead of shove, encourage instead of berate.
Oh, and next time? Could someone from my state come with? Puh-lease?
I’m typing this on an airplane headed for Washington, DC. You see, I’ve been without internet access at my house for the 48 hours leading up to this trip (timing!!), so this is the first time I’ve had both the time and the ability to post.
Yep, I’m attending RESOLVE’s advocacy day for the first time. I’m sure to meet some amazing women, and hopefully have an amazing experience while I’m at it. For more information, visit resolve.org.
Also, the link to the show will be taken down tomorrow after they air a new show, so if you want to hear my voice, you’d better jump on it!
And, it’s my 6 year blog-versary this week. Yep. Six years.
I’ve been quiet, yes. Mostly, I’ve been busy.
This is RESOLVE’s National Infertility Awareness Week, and hopefully, I’ll get around to “Busting a Myth” soon. I did want to come here to let you know I’ll be on a radio show tomorrow talking about NIAW and infertility. I’m pretty darn nervous, and I’m printing off my “talking points” as we speak. The link (you are supposed to be able to listen live tomorrow at 3PM CDT or on a recorded show later) to the show is below. I hope it goes well, and maybe I’ll help someone who is listening.
And my real name is listed…let’s not get all crazy and use that here, huh?
Honestly, I don’t know what to say here. I’m really a broken record. Most days I’m fine.
I have a half-written post about why I can’t move forward with treatment; it’s not the money, really. It’s the failure. I don’t have an ounce more of grief to give to failure. I can’t be back in the black place right after a BFN or the even blacker place after a miscarriage.
Mr. Hope must know I still want more. We don’t discuss it. I’m scared to bring it up – it’s clear to me where he stands, upright and certain. I however, cower in the corner, feeling guilty on the days when I want more, timidly happy on the days where she is more than enough.
I dared attend my clinic’s IVF reunion today, and it was probably a mistake. I’m a failure among failures – it was a celebration of the fecund infertile – I swear to you I was the only one with a three year old, no bump, and no other babies in tow. They all have stories, tragic I’m sure, but somehow I felt jealous in a way I haven’t been jealous in awhile. I left and let the tears stream down my cheeks on the drive home. I didn’t expect that.
It boils down to this: I want another child, but it’s almost like I physically can’t take the steps necessary. IVF, wonder that it is, has lost it’s gleam of promise for me. IVF no longer entices.
I’ve yet to figure out how not to be momentarily breathless at new pregnancy announcements, and I still don’t know how I’ll ever brave selling or donating the baby things stashed away. Or the crinone sitting in my bathroom.
I’m walking in the dark, it seems, and can’t quite get my bearings.
So Mr. Hope got a bonus the other day. It’s less than any of the things listed below, and these thoughts were before I knew the dollar amount.
My first thought: house! Second thought: vacation! Third thought: my first thought wasn’t IVF!
Honestly, it’s saying something that I didn’t immediately call the clinic and schedule some sort of expensive medical procedure. I’m not saying the thought didn’t occur later. This is me we’re talking about.
It’s a process, this grief about not having another, not continuing the treatment path I know so well. There are moments where I feel sure we are done. Done putting ourselves through anymore optional grief through cycling, and complete as we’ll ever be as our family of three.
Moments later, however, I think about desperately asking every fertile woman I know if she’d consider being a gestational carrier for me. Followed by thoughts of adoption. Or cycling again with my uterus. Or being done. Again.
It’s a process. It will take time. I know these things, but there’s a part that yearns to know the future. Which decision, if there’s even a decision to make, do I make? Am I fulfilled and happy in that decision, or am I still plagued with pangs of regret 5, 10, 15 years down the road?
Inaction, which is essentially where I am, is a decision in and of itself. Maybe it’s the right decision. It’s too hard right now, today, to take a step in any direction. So I’m sitting on the bench – and that doesn’t sound quite right, either. Because sometimes, sitting on the bench at the park is better than running around the park – you see things sitting still you might not have noticed in motion. The breeze, the curious bird, the sensation of a deep breath.
So that’s where I am. Sitting still. Thinking about moving, but unable or unwilling to do so. Maybe ever. You know, unless you have a fantastic uterus I could borrow for 10 months (I kid, I kid). Trying my best (yet sometimes failing) to enjoy both the silence and the noise around me.
This week’s BAKED: Sunday Mornings recipe was Malted Crisp Tart. It’s a fairly standard tart dough, with the addition of malted milk powder, a layer of milk chocolate ganache (again with some malted milk powder) with caramelized rice cereal and crushed Whoppers, finished with a layer of cornstarch-thickened, malted milk flavored, and whipped cream lightened pudding.
I made this yesterday and brought it to a friend’s house. I didn’t manage any pictures, but there are still a few pieces left, so maybe a shot later.
I was a little skeptical about this dessert: I’ve never been a fan of “malt” in my milkshakes or of Whoppers, so I wasn’t sure about in multiple components of this tart. Once it started coming together, I got excited – the crunchy crispies, crunchy crushed Whoppers, chocolate ganache, and cream! Yum! But…I assembled the tart right before we left, and it refrigerated for about two hours while we ate dinner. The crunchy bits weren’t crunchy anymore – kind of soggy. So, while I liked the overall flavor of the dessert, it left something to be desired in the texture department. More like chocolate ganache tart with some chewy stuff in it, vs the crunchy candy bar dessert I thought I’d end up with.
So I’m not sure I’d make it again. It wasn’t hard, and I might mess around with the idea…someday.
Hold My Hope 