I know that today isn’t blog day, but my heart is a little heavy this morning.
My body likes to play games with me. My body likes to play cruel tricks on my mind.
Every month, without fail, I get my hopes up and I think that Baby Horsley could be in the making. Just like last month. Just like next month. Just like the month after that.
As you may already know, we are a couple struggling with infertility. I have shared our struggles before on my blog and I have avoided mentioning it as of late.
I don’t know why…probably because it hurts to talk about. It hurts to think about. It hurts to pretend it is not something you think about every day.
This is not easy to do with your head held high, pretending not to hurt. Infertility hurts more than anything I could ever describe.
This is not easy, to go through the roller coaster of emotions that comes with it every month. Trust me, I get BEYOND emotional about the subject and I have had to walk away from conversations.
Every month, I go days, sometimes weeks, waiting for my period, hopeful that it won’t come. Scared if she does. Scared if she doesn’t.
And every morning when I wake up, I go through a handful of ‘what if’ pee-sticks, excitedly testing, and retesting, just in case.
And without fail, a Big Fat Negative, but I’ll test again tomorrow. I’ll test until she comes. And when she does, sadness. It is just another ‘late’ period, go figure.
Sometimes, it leads to an extra long and hope-provoking 45-day cycle, and, sometimes, I get two periods a month just to throw me off. I stalk my charts and apps daily, but I am never ‘normal’.
After anxiously awaiting my 11-day-late period this cycle, shark week began today. TMI, I know, but I’m sure you’ve read worse.
Another cycle, gone. Another egg, gone. Another month tacked onto the list. Another month, no baby.
I wrote this poem last year around Christmas time, as we had just surpassed our fourth year of infertility, our fourth year of trying for a child to call our own. I have written small portions here and there, slowly adding to it.
After this week, I thought it was about due time I posted it because I’m feeling all sorts of emotions right now. Hell, it may not even be any good, but I have to share it.
This past January marked 50 months of waiting, and our number continues to grow.
50 Months of Infertility
50 months of infertility,
Never thought I’d see the day.
50 months of trying,
No baby on the way.
50 months of hoping,
And 50 months of tears.
200 weeks of wishing,
That leads to 4+ (plus) years.
50 months of testing,
Only one pink line for me.
50 months of dwelling,
On the mother that I won’t be.
50 month of scheduling,
Baby making is now a task.
50 months of thinking,
How long can this last?
50 months of late night crying,
And 50 months of my self-blame.
50 months of added stress,
Will things ever be the same?
50 months of explaining,
Questions of when coming all of the time.
50 months of depressing thoughts,
So terrible, what a crime.
50 months of suffering,
Avoiding the topic helps the pain.
50 months of lingering,
Each month, less hope remains.
50 months of doubting,
And our ‘when we’ turns to ‘if’.
50 months of baby showers,
Myself, I get no miracle or gift.
50 months of doctor visits,
No reason for the cause.
Wishing I could turn back time,
I wish I didn’t know our flaws.
50 months of shower tears,
50 months of faking smiles.
50 months of double cycles,
50 months of self-doubt trials.
50 months of seeing babies,
Everywhere we seem to look.
50 months of researching treatments,
A cure is in no book.
50 months of sadness,
And 50 months of dread.
50 months of letdowns,
I can’t get out of my own head.
50 months of heavy feelings,
Fearful for that 2-week-wait.
50 months of gnawing impatience,
Go figure that my period’s late.
50 months of a tugging need,
A caring instinct I need to share.
Not having kids to fill my heart and home,
Is a future I cannot bear.
50 months and more to come,
Who knows how much more?
Infertility has 50 and Mary has zero,
But, really, who’s keeping score?
50 months, I begin elated,
50 months, delighted, then mad.
50 months, I’m anxious for the time,
50 months, a realization of the bad.
50 months, we’ll try again,
Trying is the fun part, yeah, right.
50 months of such bad luck,
But, maybe 51 will be lucky? It might.
Please feel free to share. Thank you for helping to bring awareness. This battle is not easy.