It’s strange to live in a body – in a mind – devoid of hope. I wish I felt it. I wish I could hold onto the belief that there will be a positive outcome.
These last few months have become increasingly difficult. I feel so discouraged and am having a harder time relating to others. Those in the Ttc world are difficult. They tell you to hold onto hope and it will happen. But what if it doesn’t? Let’s just get real here and admit that it might not. When those with babies in their arms or wombs try to be reassuring it’s especially hard. I used to feel so happy to have outlets where there was support from others in this journey. Now, as more and more cross over from trying to pregnant, I feel reclusive and angry.
The non Ttc community is equally as hard. At least with those who have tried I can remind myself that they knew the heartbreak I feel. I can be honest and say i never knew this would hit me so hard and i never understood how people trying felt. Maybe it’s the holidays and being far from our families or maybe it’s knowing that I have a dear friend in turmoil back home I’m not there for or maybe it’s the constant disappointment of Ttc – whatever it is it is making it hard for me to relate to folks and hard to be around other people.
I read blogs and forum posts like this when we first starting trying and swore I wouldn’t become one of these people. “It won’t take me that long,” I told myself. “I feel so bad for her.” A few months ago a blogger wrote (I’m too lazy to look it up.) this heartfelt post about how to announce her pregnancy on Facebook when she knows how hard it is for other people. I thought she was nice to be considerate but now, as I weekly see new announcements from friends, family, clients, I am overwhelmed by her compassion. Seeing the announcements is a new heartbreak every time.
A good friend is Ttc #2. Because of health issues her doctor told her three more tries and then they should stop trying. I think that must be a relief. Heartbreaking, yes, but also a relief. At least they know when it will be over. We have no plans to stop trying and know what our next intervention steps and timelines look like but it feels like we’re just going through the expensive motions and I wish we knew when to walk away. Maybe when it’s time we will know.
But for now, I look for hope and I find moments where that light shines through all the dark surrounding me. The other night I woke up to go to the bathroom. When I climbed back in bed Pot, asleep, put her arm around me and pulled me close. She does this often in her sleep – she is my constant protector. I laid there and imagined my stomach moving and uncomfortable – full of a new life. I imagined Pot putting her arm around me, holding us both close. I know she will be the constant protector of us both. I know she will be an amazing parent – much better than me. I think of her, of us, of our not yet complete family. I think of how bad I want this for both of us. I close my eyes and fall back asleep and in that moment I know there is some hope. I know she still shines, even if tattered and tired.