One of those days….

Well, yet another lost opportunity. Yet another egg that didn’t want to do what we hoped for. I think this part of the month is the worst and over the years it has become better… and worse.
I have stopped counting the days. I don’t do that any more, since I realized that it only makes med stress out. My cycle is rather regular so I only count to ovulation, nothing after that.

I figure that if it goes our way, we somehow will figure it out, if it doesn’t the signs are obvious.
It took a lot of soul searching to come to that conclusion, but it has definitely improved my moods.
Somehow I feel that after we have done our best, it is out of our hands.
Nothing is getting better if I worry or wait with anxiety. If something, the anxiety is making it worse and the chances will decrease.

When I know that this also was a lost month, then I can’t help thinking of my own identity. How much is infertility a part of that? Has it become not only a medical problem, but a part of me?
When I know that this month hasn’t worked either, well some small part of me are relieved. Not because I don’t want a child, but because a child would mean that I have to change the whole perception of my self.

Infertility has become such a strong part of my identity that I don’t know who I would be as a mother. Who am I if this huge part of my life would go away?
All the treatments, all the medications, all the involvement and the discussions, whether we like it or not; over the years it has become an obsession and finally a part of my identity.

Am I afraid of getting pregnant? I don’t know any more. I dream, I hope, I long for it, but somehow deep inside of me there is a little ambivalent voice that says; I don’t know who I am if I’m not infertile.

Which day is it going to be to day?

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I ask myself, which day is it going to be today. Am I going to wake up to a beautiful morning and a beautiful day where I feel strong and comfortable with my self? Or is it going to be one of those days where I only want to return to the bed. When the tears are just behind my eyes and the only thing I want to do is hiding somewhere in my big house.

On a good day I am strong. I am invincible, I look on the world and I think to myself that everything is going to be okay. Sometimes I say; Well it is going to work it self out. We are going to solve the problem and finally get to our drams.
Other days I say to my self; if we don’t get any children, we still survive. Our relationship is strong enough to handle it.
On a good day I feel like it is the truth. I feel like I mean it. That it doesn’t really matter if we get pregnant or not, that a childfree life is worth living.

I guess that is living in a lie. On a good day I can convince myself that the lie is the truth…. then reality catches up with me and the lie hits me… and so the bad days start.

I don’t know if I am more realistic on a bad day? I only know that the impact of a childfree life is too much to cope with. On those days it is very difficult to see the meaning of even the simplest of things. Every little tiny moment somehow reminds me of what we lost. In those moments I don’t look at it as a dream. I only feel the heavy load on my shoulders. I only feel the tears so thick that they don’t even fall anymore.
I don’t cry anymore, not because I don’t have any tears left. I don’t cry because my tears are too many, like a Los Angeles traffic jam. Nothing moves because it is just too much.

This is a good day; this is a day of reflection and, in a way, a day of dreams. I dare to dream right know. I dare to picture myself with our long awaited child. I dare to believe I wake up tomorrow, one step closer to our dream.
But I fear not knowing if tomorrow are going to be one step closer to our dream, or three steps back...

What about the future

A mother lost…. In a way it is an identity, it is the sadness in which I am. I think I would be a terrific mother, if I just had the chance. I try to tell my self that in me there is a mother lost.

My story is the story of a very tragic word, infertility. I think it is a word that is very difficult to comprehend if you haven’t been there yourself. It is an impact in your life that follows you through everything.
It excludes you from many things in our society, and it will continue to do that. It is not only the loss of children; it is the loss of grandchildren and a part that takes up most of our society.

I lost my first son in a car accident. He was still inside of me and everything happened very quickly. A driver run a red light and hit the passenger side of our car. My last memory is looking down and seeing all the blood. When we arrived at the hospital my son was stillborn. I hold him in my arms and from that moment everything changed.

Our relationship didn’t survive. My boyfriend drove the car and felt a lot of guilt, for my self the mourning was so intense so there was no room for his feelings in my life. We split up soon after.

That was 23 years ago, since then I have lost so many children that I stopped counting. About seven month ago, my husband and I lost our expected twins, it was our 11:th miscarriage in five years. After that a part of me gave up. A part of me felt that I couldn’t do this anymore.
I turned into my self. I have spent the last six month thinking, trying to comprehend. Trying to understand what all this mean to me, without finding any answers.
I need to find a way to believe in the future. I need to feel that my dream can be there, can be reached. I need to find the strength to reach it, to walk that last mile that will bring me there.
But knowing what has happened in the past, it is much easier to look back than to go forward. It is much easier to see what is behind you, than believing in a future.