I didn’t know how to even start this post, but the simple act of typing the title conjured up so much emotion that I’m on the verge of becoming a blubbering idiot. The same blubbering idiot I’m known to become when I watch “Beaches” or “Ole Yeller” or “Toy Story 3” when Andy leaves his toys on Bonnie’s front porch and drives away. All of which include salt pouring from my eyes and snot pouring from my nose. It’s so un-pretty that it’s nearly scary when I become a blubbering idiot. And I’m about to become really un-pretty.
People read my blogs for encouragement and laughter, but I have none of that to share today. I’m sorry. My heart is heavy as another month has passed and I’ve yet to become pregnant with a third child. Another disappointment. Another 20 dollar bill wasted on pregnancy tests. Another month older, another month barren.
I turned 34 last week, which only prompted my biological clock to tick louder. It reminds me of the hourglass that my children use when they brush their teeth. The sand falls rapidly- grain by grain- and when the top half is empty, they know that it’s time to quit brushing. I feel like I only have a few grains of sand left in the top of my hourglass. I feel like I’m really close to that cutoff age- the age where my last egg will eventually shrivel up and some doctor will finally confirm that I’ll never conceive again. That last grain will fall and I’ll know that it’s time to quit trying.
Don’t tell me to adopt, please. I’ve already written articles about that. At this point in my life, I don’t feel compelled to go that route. I want to experience pregnancy and childbirth again. I want a blonde haired and blue eyed little boy or girl who resembles the two I already have. I want to name him Whitten. I’m not sure of the girl’s first name yet- maybe Whitney or Wellesley. Maybe I’d call her Welles. Her middle name would be Jane for my grandmother and my sister, I do know that. I don’t care if people find that weird that I’ve named unborn children. I don’t care if people call me selfish for wanting to have my own child and contribute to overpopulation. My heart hurts right now, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about it.
We bought a dog a few months ago. You know about the dog. I’ve talked about him a lot. He pees everywhere and humps stuffed animals. He’s lying on me right now, content with being by my side. I said I bought the dog for the kids, I tried to convince myself that the children needed a dog- but I bought him for me. I bought him rafter my miscarriage because I was grieving and wanted a baby- even if it was a puppy. I can’t believe I just confessed that to my blog readers, but there it is.
My youngest child, my sweet boy, starts kindergarten in two weeks. In two weeks, the child who has depended on me for everything the last five years will be leaving. Not really leaving- not going to college or moving out of the house, but it feels like he’s leaving. He will officially be gone five days a week, depending on some kind woman to teach him things and take him to the bathroom and give him hugs when I can’t. I know it isn’t entirely true that I won’t be needed anymore, but it feels that way right now.
Maybe that’s why I want a baby so badly. Because if I’m not a stay at home mother, then what is my purpose? What am I supposed to do with my days if I’m not tending to my children? I could volunteer or find a hobby or spend the time writing, but I want to be a new mother again. I feel like I should be devoting my time to a newborn. I should be sleep deprived and scrubbing spit up off the couch cushions. That’s what I feel like I’m supposed to be doing right now. That’s what I really want to do right now, although it sounds absurd to want to put myself through all of those sleepless nights again.
But I’m barren. And no one knows why.
Every test, every procedure, every consultation says there’s no reason I shouldn’t be pregnant. We’ve shelled out thousands for the doctor to shake his head and sigh and try to figure it out. Unexplained infertility, that’s what it is. No one can explain it- not the doctors or the internet- and certainly not me. And I’m the type of person who needs explanations.
I’m supposed to be having a baby this month. This is the month I was due if I hadn’t miscarried last November. I would have a newborn in my arms when I send my baby boy off to kindergarten. I could possibly be lying in a hospital bed right now clenching the blankets as contractions come, instead of writing this blog post about infertility. That’s how it was supposed to be. I’m supposed to have my third child this month- maybe right now.
I know this post makes no sense. It’s not a body of literary genius by any means. It’s just me rambling. I can’t think clearly what to write when I’m feeling this way- feeling heartbroken. Feeling deprived. Even feeling useless in some way. Maybe it’s a pity party. But right now I just need to feel sad. I need to vent. I don’t want to be cheered up right this moment. I just want to cry and be left alone.
The advice I’ve received over these last three years of infertility- I’ve heard it all. All things happen for a reason. In God’s time. It’ll happen when you least expect it. Maybe it isn’t meant to be. You’ve already got two healthy children, can’t you be content with that?
I don’t want to hear that anymore, honestly. I’ve heard it. And heard it. And heard it again. I’m not even asking for advice by writing this post. I know I should keep my chin up. Move on. But the fact of the matter is that I’m overwhelmed with emotion right now. Another birthday.Struggling through the month I was supposed to give birth. Sending my oldest to 4th and my baby to kindergarten. It’s all taking it’s toll right at this moment. At this very moment it’s all pooling on my chin in a mixture of salt and snot.
Maybe I’ll never have another child. It’s hard for me to type that- it’s hard for me to let go of the hope and the countless prayers to God for number three. It’s hard to put that image of that child, Whit or the little girl with the middle name of Jane, out of my head. It’s hard to let go of that dream. But maybe that’s exactly what I’ve got to do .
I just really don’t want to.
At this moment, I’m broken. My female plumbing is broken. As is my spirit.
And I hate being broken.