This post discusses experiences related to trying to conceive (TTC). Please take care while reading, especially if this topic is sensitive for you.
I got my period. Again.
I was supposed to be doing little dances, thanking God, and planning out the next few steps. Instead, I’m shattered into a million pieces. I feel my uterus squeeze itself, and I know for certain I lose another chance of carrying a baby. Tears roll down my face as I lose the confidence to try one more cycle. My body is full of anger, betrayal, and fury. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
I was supposed to be canceling my follow-up with my OB. I should be telling her the good news, that the medications worked- and I didn’t need an ultrasound. I should be making a confirmation of pregnancy appointment and blocking it off the date in my calendar. Instead, I’m confirming my appointment with the sonographer and dreading to walk into her office and see all the pregnant women sitting in the waiting room.
I was supposed to be texting my friends about this little secret. Sharing the excitement, the happiness, and the anxiousness of the months ahead, however, I continue to hide this little secret. For eight months, I’ve kept this close to myself, not daring to share it with my closest friends. Not even my best friends know I’ve been struggling to conceive. I don’t want constant checkups, pity, or any attention. In their eyes, I just want to be me. Now, I struggle through smiles when they tell me who IS pregnant. When internally I’m wondering, why can’t that be me?
I was supposed to be telling my older children. Figuring out a way that makes sense in their mind that they’ll have a sibling on the way. I can imagine happy faces, or perhaps, upset ones. How they can’t wait to tell their friends and teachers, watching them figure out rooms and seat assignments in the car, then arguing about who will get to hold the baby first. Rather, I tell them nothing and continue imagining what it could be like to have another child in the car, at the store, and sitting at dinner.
Is it selfish of me to be upset that naturally conceiving another child has been difficult because I already birthed more than one. I think that’s why I don’t want to share this with anyone; I’m afraid people will dismiss me by saying I already have enough. But what if I want more? Why is this happening to me? Why can’t my body do what it’s supposed to do?
I’m feeling defeated as each month goes by, and I don’t know how much longer I can endure.
I was supposed to be happy.
