My CV should read “talented pin cushion…”
I can’t have children.
I have spent 10 years of increasingly intrusive, drug protocols. I am an expert-
- in injecting big fuck off needles up to 4 times a day,
- throwing back a handful of meds in a single swallow,
- applying hormone patches,
- sticking pessaries where the sun never sees,
- watching my hair fall out in clumps,
- having daily blood tests
- getting regularly intimate with an ultra-sound wand (dildo cam in my circles).
- whacking my legs into stirrups quicker than any rodeo rider for doctors, nurses and embryologists to stare intently at my girly bits,
- being poked and prodded up the wazoo,
- regularly having surgical instruments scrape my uterus without a sedative (aka the “evil test & yes, one does go into shock & nearly passes out).
Each day I say to myself “today is the day I will brace myself and grieve for the death of all my potential children” It is yet to come.
I see the strength on the faces of my partner, parents and sister, when inside they are grieving the loss of their own child, grandchildren, niece/nephew.
I have had many a poignant moment pondering on never having all those first moments- my baby reaching for my face, first day at preschool, seeing her crawl for the first time, hearing him giggle, their first time at the beach or feeling the indescribable love that people have for their children.
That feeling of waking up and not knowing what I am here for.
Looking at the bank account and realising you could have put a hefty deposit on a house if you hadn’t had to pay all those medical bills.
Those moments of deep sadness, worthlessness and incredible heartbreak when you get yet another negative result, the daily betrayal of your body no matter what you do (positive thinking does not make one pregnant-let’s just clear that little gem up).
The attempts of well-meaning friends “why don’t you just adopt?”…. all well-meaning but just a tip….don’t say it, just don’t.
Facing the daily cruelty of Mother Nature and trying to be big about it, and believe that she has ear marked me for amazing things that don’t require being a mum (still trying to figure out what that amazing thing is….)
The moments when you walk in the door at home, finally finding yourself alone and your legs give out and you collapse on the floor in a suffocating heaving mess. You release the gut wrenching sadness, then pick yourself up off the floor and put on your happy, happy joy, joy public face.
Clenching my teeth in the face of people who declare “Christmas is about the children” after yet another year of failed cycles. I believe Christmas is about Family…whatever shape or size it is.
I have to come to terms with the wedge that has been driven between some of my dearest friends, their world is so different to mine and my journey has been an awfully lonely one. No-one gives you a card to say- sorry your body destroyed yet another life, our sympathies.
I have struggled with not having a membership to that elusive Mummy Club.
I know I have to put behind me 10 years of baby making demons and look to a different future to what I had planned.
Despite all that, I am the luckiest girl in the world (if hitting 41 you can still call yourself girl). I have a super guy who hugs me and calls me crazy girl, does absurd impressions of me being an efficient (not really) coffee maker/home keeper, fabulous parents who respect my decisions and are always there for me, a sister who teaches me that getting worked up over the little things just isn’t worth it (she’s a cool cucumber of the good kind) and a variety of friends who just rock. They make me laugh and inspire me. A nutter of a big black dog who grounds me daily with his floppy eared love and weird arse antics.
To all those people who actually made it to the end of this monologue (and I suspect the ones who have dwelled in the world of infertility are probably the only ones who did), sorry for the sad, self-indulgent rambling but thanks for letting me purge.
Hugs to all those people who have experienced this journey. It’s really hard and an incredibly lonely place to visit (even just for a short time). My heart and strength goes out to you.