It dawned on me today, as I was preparing another blog post for publication, that there is a whole lot about my life that I don’t share here. I talk some about my adoption and my experiences as they relate to that and I talk some about my daughters adoption as well as the experiences that relate to that. But I don’t talk to much about life in general. I rarely talk about the day-to-day stuff involved in raising a kid with autism. I don’t talk much about our infertility and the painful struggle we went through with that. I don’t talk much about the time we spent foster teen boys when we lived in northern Illinois.
Bottom line: I just don’t share that much.
This post comes from one of those places that I don’t open up to often. It’s about the fight we fought, and lost, with the infertility Gods.
I’ve been fairly lucky over the last three years – also known as the last time my body tried hard and failed to sustain a pregnancy that, in the end, we lost for reasons that aren’t quite clear. I’ve been lucky, I say, because I have a regular MD who has done my ‘woman visits’ each year since then. What that means for me is that I don’t have to go sit in the waiting room of an OB/GYN and wait for an appointment as a well rounded parade of pregnant mothers-to-be walks by the gigantic wall of infant pictures.
I’m not ashamed of my infertility, but at the same time, I’m not over it either.
I don’t think I’ll ever be ‘over it’.
So you can imagine the dread I was feeling when my regular MD said to me, “Brandy, you gotta go see a Gynecologist, there’s something going on that’s beyond my skill-set”.
Today was my appointment and it sucked about as bad as I thought it would.
With the prerequisite wall of infant photos, I waited in a room full of pregnant women, their gushing husbands and in some cases their infants/toddlers.
Each time the back office door opened, a beaming mother-to-be would walk out with a hand full of ultrasound photos trailing behind her.
Each time the front office door opened, a new round belly filled the space.
By the time I got back to the room, where I put on my paper dress, I could barely speak.
I’ve been fairly lucky over the last three years, but my luck ran out today.
Every time I think I am beyond the crushing emotions of infertility, they come rushing back. Every time I think I’ve got things in check, I lose control.
It probably didn’t help matters that I’d had The. Weekend. From. Hell. this past weekend. It probably doesn’t help that I’m struggling with adoption related issues at the present moment. It’s likely got something to do with the fact that by baby will be 16 years old this year.
I’ll find out soon enough – I go back next Friday.
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Hugs to you, Brandy. I hate when life kicks my friends. You deserve better and much kindness.
Those visits can be crushing in so many ways.
I hope things go well next week, both with your return visit and with the recent struggles.
Hang in there.
Oh, Brandy. Thinking of you. Message me. Even if I’m DND. It’s just to keep the annoying family at bay.