I love my blog. I’ve nurtured it. Grown it up from a wee seed like a master gardener. But lately, as noted in a prior post, I’ve had writer’s block. It’s not so much block as a paralysis that always overcomes me when I am going through some emotional turmoil.
Guy problems? Health problems? Any problems? I end up digging into my daily habits and squelching any creative output with a lot of my regular for-pay work and TV watching. Uggh!
This latest episode is due to, of course, well known to followers of the blog by now, our chronic bad luck with trying to have a baby. In August, we had a ray of hope in that we got a total of 8 embryos frozen after using an egg donor. But alas, the one embryo which was transferred fresh didn’t decide to turn into a mini-human, which spiraled us into a new phase of misery, tears, hopelessness, self-loathing and well, you get the idea, overall UN-pleasantness.
But here I am, trying to muddle through. Play through the pain. Insert cheesy inspiring cliche here.
We are trying again. A frozen embryo transfer. It will happen on the 23rd of September. I’m trying to psyche myself up. I am trying to get positive. Trying to be hopeful. But it is really hard to this time.
My head is saying: How many times can you hold out hope only to have your legs knocked from under you another time? How many times are you going to get burned by hoping? How long are we going to let this take over our lives?
To say that I feel wobbly would be an understatement.
We promised after the initial shock and dismay of our negative Beta HCG test that we would start to put this infertility thing into the background of our lives instead of the foreground. We made symbolic gestures to that end. We finally changed the light fixtures that had been waiting for months. We are planning to go to a concert – Chris Cornell at the Beacon Theater. We are talking about our wedding again, arguing: Mexico? New York? Italy?
But it feels like a big lie. The baby is in the foreground. It does hurt. We can’t stop wishing. The time isn’t now to stop. We still do have hope left in our hearts, even if our heads are protesting.
And I look around New York with sadder eyes and start to understand that infertility is a silent disease and that it has affected many around me, some dear friends, some in circles of my acquaintances, and some strangers. It is deeply personal. I don’t find a lot of over-sharing going on around me. And I certainly don’t volunteer the info. I understand that I am seeing its effects when I notice a couple in their mid forties at Starbucks with a single infant child, that they were recently in the infertility fray, too, and that their patience and hope did eventually pay off. Maybe, hopefully, we will be the ones to get lucky this next time…