The Pain of Infertility

There is little I can compare the pain of infertility to. It is a deep, GUT wrenching pain that is far beyond anything that I have ever experienced. The cries I cry are the ugly cries.  The kind that leave your ribs sore the next day and leave you thirsty.

It is not that I am not happy for those that have children,  I am.  Its that this loss is like no other.  It is the loss of what you were designed to do. Our bodies and our chemistry are geared to reproduction. Its how we are wired, mostly.  And most of us want to have a family. Its an expected life. Its promised to you as a child and promised to you by society.  You expect to have kids. You don’t expect that you would be infertile, and your spouse would be infertile, and that your insurance wont cover “fixing the issue” (because women don’t count is what they are saying) or that adoption would be so expensive. You don’t think about that when you are falling in love with your soulmate and you are sitting in a car, in the cold, talking (because you aren’t allowed in the house) on the third date and you are talking baby names.  You don’t expect infertility to completely change your soul, to push your faith way beyond the breaking point, or to make you question the goodness of God.
You don’t expect any of this.

You toddle along and trudge along and skip along and then BAM!  You run face first into the wall with no doors and no windows and you can not possibly climb without help. And no one offers.  They just say “tsk tsk, its too bad”.

The pain is debilitating and exhausting.  The pain is the difference between color and black and white. It envelopes you into its world and you can not escape. No medicine, no therapy, nothing can possibly “fix” this.  You just have to ride it out until the grief lets you go and what remains of your soul can continue its unimportant existence.

I lost my expected life. I lost my anticipated reality.  I lost my dream.  I lost my identity and my purpose.
I am lost.

My quest now is to heal.  To find hope again, to find joy and to discover a purpose that I didn’t know I had.  I promise if I ever hit the lottery to start a foundation to help women like me make a baby.




I haven’t written in months. Honestly I haven’t felt like it. We aren’t going to continue to do infertility treatments.  His numbers bottomed out after the IUI and the meds were making him grow these weird fatty tumors.  So he came off the meds, had a couple places that grew really fast removed (and a mammogram for the one on his chest) and we decided we were done.

We have looked at, kinda looked at, adoption. The only the single only person in our family that even offered to help us fund raise or pretty much anything was my sister-in-law.  My dad insisted if we fund raise and the adoption failed, we were morally obligated to pay all of the money back. He also said he wouldn’t and couldn’t donate a dime to something that was not a “sure thing”.  My mother in law didn’t even offer.  My sisters feel bad for me, but have not offered to help.  So with so little support, (and I’m not even talking about financially) how the hell can we possibly do this? It’s all I can do most mornings to get out of bed (the stress of the new job has made the meniere’s much worse) and there seems to be no end in sight for the emptiness.

I still cry.  I still look at the kiddos in the store screaming and thank God they aren’t mine. I still feel so jealous. I still enjoy my freedom.  Its a strange duality that I can’t explain. The stress has caused my health to suffer.  And as I type this I am eating a strawberry store brand pop tart and sipping a coke. No way I’d pass a physical for adoption with the doc I have right now.  Meds for depression and anxiety, meds for the meniere’s (which is getting worse) and blood pressure and blood sugars that are borderline along with triglycerides that are too high. The ONLY thing that’s good is that my regular cholesterol is stellar.  Between the  drama at the new job and the stress that infertility has bestowed upon me, well, one can’t expect much better.

The other day a friend called and told me about this girl she knows who just found out she was pregnant and might want us to adopt.  Though it killed me to do so, I did the right thing and told my friend that we couldn’t even consider it until she has had some counseling and is further along.   A lot will change once she feels that baby move.

Oh what about the new job you ask…  well, I took a job doing the same thing  I was doing and it pays better. On my second day, the boss quit, the new mayor is a sexist pig, and the police chief quit. The books are a mess and I can’t get anyone to help me sort it out.  My hour each way commute is fun, but I’d rather be five minutes from home.

Ah, change.  I like my job, just not all the drama and politics. I’m exhausted from the emotional strain.

Sometimes I still cry, even on meds

Sometimes I still cry and cry and cry.  I’m on meds for that.  I’m having to take medicines to ensure that I don’t lose my mind and yet I still find times when this journey is so overwhelming that I can not function. It is then that I cry.

I cry because I got my period again, and that means no “happy accident”.

I cry because I think about what a kid of ours might have looked like or acted like or even smelled like.

I cry because my family tree ends with me.

I cry because all of the stories, all of the fun all of everything that is me ends with me.  There is no legacy.

I cry because I want to hold a beautiful baby, one that I held in my womb for 9 months, one that is part me and part him and all kinds of wonderful.

I cry because people don’t understand, and family can be so difficult in this time.

I cry because when you are infertile and don’t have a lot of money, there is nothing else that can be done. You are too poor to have medical help, yet make enough to raise a child. And we are too poor to adopt. Fantastic. 😦

I cry because it just isn’t fair.  It isn’t.

I cry because unworthy people, those that abuse and neglect, get to have kids and I don’t.

I cry, because this is the greatest disappointment in my life and in the life of my husband.  It is enough to bury me in grief. I’ll never be the same woman again. Ever.

Then it hit him…

So the deep sadness has come back to my house.  This time its the dear hubby that is carrying it.  I am sad too, don’t get me wrong, but he also is carrying this and its starting to weigh him down. All the things are weighing him down.

I’m tired of the sadness. I’m tired of grieving and I’m just tired.  He is too.  All of the things.

Infertility F-ing sucks.

A Child Called “Idiot”, or Why I’m So Angry at God

The world isn’t fair.  I get it.  I live it.  I know it. I am the poster child of this.  So now that we have that out of the way, I’m quite angry at God.

Rather pissed to be honest. Here’s why:

Today I opened up the news online to see another story of child abuse and neglect.  This one was bad, but was also different.  A child, a four year old child, thought her name was “Idiot”.  Idiot.  They called the child idiot so many times she thought it was her name.  They also had beaten this child and starved her. It was really terrible.

And here I am. A good loving woman with a great marriage and a job and a house and, and, and, SO much love.

I am childless.  I am childless not by choice.

This woman was blessed with a precious gift, a life. This woman who allowed a man to call the child idiot so much that she thought it was her name.  This woman that beat and zip-tied her kid to furniture, and starved her.  This woman was gifted children (there were others in the home). God chose her over me.

God chose her.

Not me. Not my husband.  Not a good married couple with SO much love to give. Nope.  He chose abusive trash. Abusive monsters that caused harm to this child that will last for her life.

I am awash in anger.  How God who loved us so much as to sacrifice his only son so that we may be saved allow this to happen.  There aren’t words enough to describe how I feel.  There aren’t words.  There can never be words.

Clomid wasn’t the do all be all we hoped for.  Only when mixed with Arimidex did it even help.  Now that the Arimidex is no longer used (side effects) the numbers are dropping in the tests, and our best shot was a failure.   We stand here angry and sad and ready to fight and God closed doors and slammed windows and made it impossible for us. Yet he let this monster of a woman have a child who thought her name was idiot.

I don’t have enough faith to carry me through this. I don’t have enough courage to see me to the end. I don’t have the patience to endure this.

I don’t have the faith to believe that somehow this woman, this monster of a woman who called her child idiot for a name, who abused and starved her child is somehow more worthy than I am.  That somehow she gets this gift and I am denied it.

I think if God told me why, I might be okay.  But on this there is no answer.  On this there is no relief.

How do I reconcile the faith that has carried me through all of the other bad things with knowing that I am somehow not “chosen” or “worthy” to have a child?  How do I move though life with the knowledge that I wasn’t chosen and a monster like that was?

I’m sure I’ll figure it all out, eventually.  As for now, I’m starting to plan for that “child free” life and trying really hard not to let this whole thing kill me.

It’s gonna be a tough week.

I hate today, and tomorrow. Its “BACK TO SCHOOL” which included about a thousand back to school posts, “look at how big he/she has gotten”, first day of school photos, and so forth.

I’m sitting here looking at my cats and wondering if I should call a groomer. I’m fighting a headache that is actually a migraine but I can’t use the “M word” at work because the peanut gallery said I’m making it up and if it were “real” I’d not be at work.  (hello there are different kinds of migraines and they can be of different a severity between people and even between causes and so forth…  But I digress) I’m tired because the headache (aka migraine) was triggered by getting dehydrated cutting grass yesterday and I was up every few hours drinking water and then up again to pee several times in the night.  Ok, I’m whining now. Sorry about that.

Back to where I started. I hate first day of school posts.  I have friends on Facebook that span several counties and states.  And magically enough they all have different start dates.  They all remind me right now of what I can never be: A mom.

Oh I could adopt (If I had 50,000 and was a tad younger and lost a 100 lbs) or I could keep plugging away at infertility treatments that the hubby’s infertility urologist said were a waste of time and money, or I could get into foster care and possibly fail and ruin a kids life because I can’t handle the pressure the system puts on foster parents by not getting the kids what they need…..  There are options.  *rolls eyes*

Right now I’ll just whine a bit and wait for the week to simmer down. In the meantime I’ll get my self mentally ready for the new boss we are getting at work, whom ever that may be.

Not Sure If We Will Even Do A Second Round Of IUI

August fast approaches and I’m not sure I want to do another round of IUI.  We have discussed this at length, and I don’t know if I can take it emotionally.  Physically it really wasn’t too bad.  A few very mild effects, but nothing I can’t deal with. The emotional roller coaster was too much.  Even as I sit here thinking about it I am shaking with dread of another round and the emotional crash at the end.

Would I be content to be childless?

Would I be forever regret my lack of courage?

When I was a firefighter I feared little. I ran into burning buildings, repelled into storm drains, you know, the scary stuff.  I was afraid, but I kept moving forward.  Some of it was because I had a job to do, some of it was because I didn’t want to seem like a coward.

Now I am.

I am a coward.  I am so afraid of being crushed again that I’m afraid to even think about the next steps. I always imagined myself being a mother.  I always imagined having kids, and now I’m so afraid of the process that *might* have a chance.

You know they say its between 15% and less than 1% depending who you ask.  The Dr (who makes money off of this) says 15% (but his numbers come from younger women) the statistics online (on medical and reputable sites) say 2% around my age not counting both of our issues….

Am I willing to gamble my emotional wellness on this minuscule chance?  How much more can I take.  The clock is ticking because once I hit 40 the game will be pretty much over.  I’m done. I don’t want to be 60 and have a kid just graduate high school.

Is it fear or self preservation?

Am I a coward really or am I a realist?

Are we done or do we do this emotional torture again?  I really just don’t know. I just don’t.