Wednesday, July 8, 2015


I decided that sometimes its better to just write it out. You know, instead of letting all the frustration and anger swirl up inside. Sometimes it helps to just word vomit until there is nothing left. Or at least until the storm feels less like a raging hurricane and more like a manageable thunderstorm.

Here's the thing: I'm one of those women. One of the women I looked at and prayed for. One that I empathized with, imagining her pain. Well I know the pain. I know the frustration. I know the hurt and irritation. I know the gut wrenching, heartbreaking cycle of being let down month after month.

I struggle with infertility. I am one of many, and yet I still feel alone.

Struggling to conceive was always something I feared. I'm not sure why. I come for a prolific family. I'm the oldest of 8 kids. Both of my parents come from big families. All of my aunts and uncles have plethoras of childrens. Sometimes I wonder if my own worry caused the problem. If somehow I jinxed myself. And then I remember that I don't really believe in jinxing (unless I'm going to get a free soda out of it).

Oddly enough, I don't really feel like my body has failed me. I know many other women have felt that way. But it isn't something I've thought. It is more that I have failed my body. That I must have not paid enough attention, or taken care of myself so that my body could function the way it is supposed too. I have struggled with eating disorders. Maybe I brought this on myself?

I try not to think this way. I try to remember that I can't control everything. That I am unable to change the past and can only love and accept who I was then and who I am now. Most days I can do that. Some days I can't.

PCOS isn't uncommon. Not at all. Many women suffer from it. And there are treatments that can help. And maybe I'm just a big old wimp. But taking the medication that I need too to help us conceive is brutal. I feel sick and tired and grumpy 90% of the time. And right now, that is the most frustrating part of all.

I'm constantly on the verge of vomiting. I'm tired. So very tired. And I spend the majority of my time feeling like my entrails are trying to become my extrails. It is unpleasant. And sometimes unbearable.

Maybe it would be different if I KNEW, much like I know my mom loves me and the sun will rise tomorrow, that all of this would give us a baby in the end.

I don't know that. And sometimes it feels like needless suffering.

Between the constant nausea and my bewilderment that this is my life, sometimes I feel dizzy. I turn 25 this year. I expected to be a stay at home mommy with a chubby baby and a small zoo. I'm working on the small zoo. I'm also working on a career I never thought I would have. And I'm discovering things about myself. I'm learning what I really do want to do outside of the home. (Teach. Yoga.) And I am loving what I get to learn and do.

But more than that, I want the chubby baby. Or a skinny baby. Just any baby really. I want the nausea to be from a bun in the oven. I want the stretch marks and baby weight. I want the sleepless nights and mountains of dirty laundry. I want it all.

And so I pray and hope and love and hurt. Every day. I love on my new furbaby and my old furbaby. I buy puppy clothes instead of baby clothes. I look for ways to start building up the life I have, instead of pining over the life I want. I surround myself with the best of friends and family for support. And I stop wallowing. That is what I need to do right now. Pick myself up and stop wallowing.

I know I'm not the only one who has walked this path or will walk this path. And so, to my sisters in infertility, I say let us hold hands and walk together. Or at least sit on each other's couches and eat ice cream. A girl can only do so much.