Before you read here, you must go read "Every day is one day closer." I’ll wait. Did you read it? Didja? DIDJA!?!
Wow. Just…wow. I am almost speechless. Almost.
Lupron + T-minus 2 days until my period = tears, choking, and snot. You know – one of those ugly face-contorting cries that leaves you gasping for breath. That was me today in my classroom when I did my afternoon blog check. Thank God for the facts that my students were at their exploratory classes and I didn’t have any meetings planned. I don’t think Shayna will ever fully understand how she has touched me.
I sometimes feel the need to validate my place in the infertility community. Don’t get me wrong; not one singular person has ever pointed her Follistim pen accusingly and screamed, "GET THEE FROM HENCE, YOU FERTILE WENCH!" But given the well-deserved angry veteran tone the IF community can have sometimes, I know that I put that pressure on myself. Admittedly, nine or ten years ago if some 4-kid Pollyanna came gallivanting through No Man’s Land spouting how she was "one of us" I would have put my hands on my non-childbearing hips and snorted, "Prove it."
Blogging was non-existent when I was in my personal hell, so there is not really a record of my time while I was actually there. I don’t write about it now to validate myself to other IF’ers (but if it does, that’s fine with me, too). I write about it because it is a part of me and though I have my kids, I still deal with the baggage, albeit on different levels. If all I had to worry about was shaving the brittle chin-hairs every other day (now there’s an attractive thought) or avoiding excessive carbs so as not to flip into full-blown Type II Diabetes, living with PCOS/insulin resistance would be but a relatively minor daily annoyance. But sometimes when I gaze at my daughters, I can’t help but wonder how much of this shit I passed on to them. I don’t want to see my infertility in their innocent faces. There are many traits of mine that I hope they inherit but a set of wonky ovaries (or God knows what else) is not one of them. I certainly don’t want them to run out and get knocked up at the age of 14 so they can say, "Look, Mom-they work!" But I already feel a bit guilty, and I know that my concerns about their fertility will only increase as they age. But I digress (sort-of). Suffice it to say that the IF still bugs me out. Writing about it in the past, present, or future tense helps me kick away the little demons that like to nip at my heels and yell in my ears.
It is also my hope that someone out there can take some comfort from knowing that you can come out on the other side of it and be okay, or that someone can find some solace in the things I used to tell myself to get through just. one. more. day. So thank you, Shayna, for validating that I have at least done that. Knowing that I have helped at least you is another kick to infertility’s ass.
I am at a loss of words for explaining how I feel, but I think this poem by Emily Dickinson called If I can stop one heart from breaking (one of my personal favorites) describes it:
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Side note: the title of my blog is not a snooty proclamation of my brainy intelligence (or lack thereof). I tend to be a bit of a smart ass (hence the donkey), but sometimes I can be a bit of a hairbrained dumb ass, too. You there! You speed-reader, drive-by blogger, you. Have you no idea why I felt the need to explain my blog title? No? That’s because you did not go read the entry like I asked you to at the beginning. Well, what are you still doing here? Go read it!