Today has been hard. That pesky alarm sounded at 5:45am, as it does every morning, and I woke to take my daily temperature reading. Through the fog of early morning slumber, I rolled over as I awaited my temperature results: 97.2. Great. As I recorded my result, something I so dutifully do every morning to track my cycle, I wiped the drool from my lip (let’s be real. Mornings don’t look good on me) and braced myself for the notice I knew I’d receive with a temperature reading like 97.2: “Your temperature fluctuations seem to be on the high side.” Hmph. Here we go again, I thought.
After spending the better part of an hour analyzing my “look, your body is doing weird things” chart and trying to hypothesize just why it is we aren’t getting pregnant, I decided to thwart off my morning shot of depression with a cup of coffee – sans the cream, because everyone knows that dairy is no good for baby making. And it is here – with my dairy-free cup of coffee in hand – that I find myself engulfed in an overwhelming sense of defeat. I reflect upon the years of struggle with infertility. I remember the joyous hope that ensued at the thought of having kids. I remember that hope turning into tears, and then into heartache, and then into anger, and then into bitterness. I remember going gluten-free, dairy-free, caffeine-free, and any other diet that Google promised would cure our infertility (such a liar, that Google). I remember doctor visits. I remember tests, ultrasounds, and blood draws. I remember being told that everything is functioning normally and that there is no reason we shouldn’t conceive within three months… that was five years ago. I remember being told that I was underweight and then subsequently stuffing my face full of french fries in an effort to gain a few pounds. I remember cutting back on my workouts. I remember tear drenched pillows and a husband so gently trying to muster up words of comfort. I remember rounds of Progesterone, which inevitably resulted in months interlaced with heartburn, bloating, and mood swings. But most of all, I remember the longing. I LIVE in the longing.
Truth be told, I am utterly exhausted. Our struggle is raw and persistent, and sometimes, I just want to cry with someone – anyone – who will listen. So often, infertility is dealt with silently. Those who struggle with it, do so quietly. Those who do not, tip-toe around those who do so as not to conjure up any unwanted emotion. But isn’t this the most dastardly way to go about things? There is no healing in shutting yourself off from those who care about you. So, here it is… I am opening up the pages of my life that are worn with unrequited longing for the most natural thing my body refuses to accomplish month-after-month. And though some days I feel as though I cannot so much as lift my head above the fog of this lingering void in my life, I know that someday, hopefully soon, you will arrive. And you will be perfect. And you will be loved. And you will be mine.