It has been a long time in between posts. In a lot of ways that is due to my own laziness, but secondarily I don't want to feel like I'm repeating myself. But then again, 22 months of trying to conceive can be kinda monotonous.
To get my dear blog up to speed, we lost another baby in July, shortly after our daughters second birthday. Feeling very heartbroken, we decided it was time to go see a fertility specialist. While this may sound like an obvious option to most, it was actually really hard to make that appointment, and even harder to walk through those doors. It was the final act of really admitting that my body is not working, and that I need help. Anyone that knows me well knows that asking for help is really hard for me to do, I don't like doing it at all. But I did.
We saw our specialist in September for the first time. His name is Alex Eskander and he works out of North Park private. The guy is brilliant, very no nonsense and never overloads us with information. We're very happy that my GP pointed us in his direction.
So now I'm on a cocktail of fertility drugs. Clomid, Ovidrel, and progesterone pessaries. Whoa Mama, let me tell you, the mood swings are great. Just so much fun. I go from happy to bitch in under six seconds. I'm also bloated, sore and very, very tired. Basically I'm pregnant without actually growing a baby (and isn't that a lovely head fuck, especially when you're looking for pregnancy signs at the end of your cycle).
The good news is that I'm responding well to the Clomid and everything on my husbands end of the deal is looking great.
And yet, here we are. 22 months in, three of those assisted, and nothing.
I have my days where I look at my daughter and think, "That's enough, I'm happy, I should just stop." But the fact of the matter is, there is a hole in my family. Ellie would love a sibling, we would love another baby, we have enormous amounts of love to give.
I'm very fortunate to have such a good relationship with my husband, I can see how this tears couples apart. From the outside it seems like such a simple thing, you just have sex, you wait til the end of the month, if nothing, you try again. When you're in the middle of it though it's an emotional roller coaster, it's exhausting and it's cruel. And then you get to the end of the month and it's heartbreaking, and at the point I'm at now it's kind of heartbreaking, but in the most mind numbing way. I'm hurt, but I don't even feel it properly anymore. I know how sad I am, but I can't even react because I have reacted so often and felt the deepest of sorrow for it. How many times can you cry over something before you just feel that it's a part of your monthly routine?
But we keep going. How can't we? My husband put it a beautiful way during a very hard discussion with some dear friends who are expecting a baby - it's like the colour has been drained from our world. We do see glimpses of colour (especially in our daughter who is growing so fast and we are just so in awe of her) but for the most part, things are grey, faded and worn.
And I am very tired.
No comments:
Post a Comment