It's funny... Sometimes I think I've dealt, rather effectively, with my infertility and my pregnancy issues. I can joke about my body, as Sarah calls me, 'the little oven that couldn't' (a play on 'the little engine that could'). As someone who doesn't deal well with failure, I've tried to accept that I can't control the world and that this get-pregnant -stay-pregnant-thing is something that I, unequivocably, suck at. And, usually, I'm good. I am 100% happy for friends who announce pregnancies (especially when they arent saddled with infertility, too) and, although I've never been a shower-happy kind of girl, I can do the whole baby shower thing without trepidation. Bobby and Maya have helped with a lot of that, but I've grown over the last years as well, and that helps too.
But, sometimes, this stuff hits you in the uterus and you want to double over in pain and puke your guts out.
(Good image, right?)
My sweet, sweet niece (who is Bobby and Maya's godsister if not my biological niece) received the Sacrament of Confirmation on Saturday. I was thrilled; I cried. She's a beautiful girl... In EVERY sense of the word and I could not have been more proud than had it been one of my own kids there. In addition, another sweet girl who is close to my heart was also receiving Confirmation, and I was just in a nice, happy place with these 2 young girls who have touched my life so much in such a great celebration of Faith. Because the Mass interfered with naptime, we knew we'd need to take the kids out for walk abouts every now and again. And that was okay.
And what was extra fun?
The half dozen VERY pregnant bellies I encountered in the span of 90 minutes.
Now, let me preface this: we're Catholic. There are usually pregnant bellies abounding. And I'm okay with that. It's beautiful. It's great.
It wasn't great on Saturday. The first, okay. The second, okay. By the third, very pregnant and about to burst belly, I was starting to feel that deep pull in my chest. By the fourth, I wanted to cry. By the fifth, I was looking for an escape route, and by the sixth, I was fighting back the tears. These women were ready to pop. And it wasnt so much the "they are pregnant" thing. Because, truly, I have no idea if they struggled with fertility or if they've lost children, and, even if they havent, I dont begrudge them their pregnancies. But the thought that came?
That will never be me.
Because even if I got pregnant again and carried past the first trimester... Even if I had a cerclage placed and made it into the second trimester... Even if I didn't pPROM or go into PTL... I'd never be that pregnant and out. I'd be in bed or, most likely, in the hospital, taking different concoctions and hooked up to different monitors to try and stay pregnant as long as possible.
And, damn... That hurt. That thought really, really hurt.
I did my best to focus on the beauty of the day and when L came running and hugged me and was gorgeous and perfect and newly confirmed, my thoughts and heartache went away and all was well. We celebrated with a luncheon (where Bobby acted like we dont feed him and ate 10 meatballs and 2 meat pockets (meat filled yeast rolls- delicious) in addition to cake and heaven knows what else) and then took the kids to get them a nap. It was a good time.
We needed to go by the farm and bakery and supermarket, so after naptime, we did our running around. And, once again, the Universe aligned itself against my mood. In the supermarket I saw another half dozen VERY pregnant women. And, again, the thoughts... The sadness... The pain...
I was okay and got out of there as soon as we could. And I was okay at home. But, as the kids played, and Peter and I prepared food together, I lost it.
I'm so damn tired of being a bloody statistic. I'm tired of being infertile. I'm tired of having multiple miscarriages. I'm tired of having preterm labor where my babies either die or have to rely on weeks in the hospital to live. I'm tired of not being able to get and stay pregnant. I'm tired of being told how strong I am, or how I'm an example of faith to someone, or how they couldnt do it. I want to scream "I DONT WANT TO DO IT! I WANT TO HAVE A DIFFERENT CHOICE!!!"
But do I? I know I wouldnt choose differently. I wish, so much, that this wasn't me. But, if given a choice, I'd do the same over again because it brought me my children and there is nothing that would ever make me want to change that.
But still, it hurts. Even when we think we are over it... Even when living children have numbed some of the pain... Those scars are still there and it takes so little- especially when we expect it the least- to open them up again.