I feel like this is long overdue. I have always wrote, and by journaling my teenage angst, I somehow received satisfaction by putting all my problems, indiscretions, and feelings onto a paper. I have resisted writing through my last years and especially this last year of struggles. Why? Perhaps because I am afraid. Afraid if I start writing, then all of my feelings will surface. Afraid that I may overanalyze, overationalize, and oversensationalize my life’s issues and my emotions. Afraid that instead of helping me to heal and progress, this may make me more attune to the feelings that I refuse to acknowledge-the ones that manifest themselves as I try to sleep and burn deep into my gut. Afraid that when my thoughts become words on a screen, they will become real. But mostly, afraid of how to begin. I cannot begin at the beginning, that is too far away, and I cannot begin with my future hopes, or even of today. So I will start somewhere in the middle.
Here it goes:
I became a teacher. A love of children, yada, yada, yada. I became a farm wife. With that, I became a stereotype. I knew then that I would have my 2-3 children and spend weekends at the rink and summers at the lake. I would be tired, and stressed, and generally about as happy as everyone around me. That was the story I was lead to believe. It’s not my story now.
Flash forward a few years to startling realization that things weren’t working the way they should. Fast forward to tests and a diagnosis that would diminish many things-including our sex life and our hopes of this normal, average life. My next chapter involved six trips two provinces away where I would I would be poked and prodded. This time involved dozens of ultrasounds, blood tests, long drives, and weeks of work missed. This time involved injecting hormones into my belly-in airports, parking lots, public washrooms, friends vehicles, the principal’s office…-in the name of creating a family. This time had me taking pills, more pills, and more pills (some of which are not taken orally). Fast forward through 1 egg retrieval, a failed embryo transfer, 2 more egg retrievals, another embryo transfer, and a blood test. I should/could/would (choose your term) have been 1 month pregnant last Friday. But, again, that is not my story.
My story this week is one of small children making me laugh, a farming husband who is working 18 hours a day, family and friends who are as supportive as they know how to be, 2 boxes of wine, and two packs of cigarettes. My story involves a phone-appointment with my specialist saying that their next plan is to put me on “The Kitchen Sink Protocol” (more on this later). In some ways my husband is now happy it’s not just him… his genetics make having a normal embryo damn near impossible, and now apparently my uterus rewards these internationally-tested embryos by, well, killing them.
I do not want to talk about my feelings of failure. I do not want to think about the emptiness inside me. I do not want to dwell on those I am letting down when my womb is determined to be empty. I do not want to feel guilty about my absence of tears (really, in one day I heaved enough to last a lifetime) and my withdrawal from people I love. I do not want to acknowledge that I can see, feel, and smell my baby that could have been born last month, or the one I could be nurturing inside me right now.
I want to lay down and stay down… or drink wine. I am hoping that this page will help me to move forward, and perhaps develop some coping strategies that do not involve sipping and inhaling. Who knows? Until then, I am off for a wine and a cigarette.