After February 16

It’s been four months since our failed IVF transfer. Four months since I’ve been able to write about it or even have a meaningful conversation with others about it. Time has moved quickly, and not at all, at the same time.

Immediately after learning that we weren’t pregnant, without my having to ask, my partner disposed of the sharps container at work, so I wouldn’t have to worry or think about it. There is still approximately $1,000 worth of medicine in the fridge, that I can’t get rid of. I tried donating it to a local fertility group, but with treatments being personalized and tailored to each couple, no one needed the medicine I had. Every time I open the fridge and reach for the almonds or lemon juice on the bottom shelf, I am hit with the sight of our failure.

We will never be pregnant.

I will never give birth.

I may never be a mom.

It’s a lot to feel when you’re just waking up, trying to get some lemon water ready for the day. It’s a lot to know that all our efforts just simply weren’t enough.

There really isn’t a safe space right now for my emotions. I’m triggered, irrationally, at the egg aisle of the grocery store. I turn on the television and shows that I watch to laugh, inevitably end up having a character or couple who are struggling with infertility. I walk outside, and the annoyingly fertile and crabby neighbor across the street, yells at her five kids to get in the minivan. I try to listen to music and there is a beautiful song written about being a mom. I go for a wellness check with my doctor, and he extends his sympathy, and while much appreciated, it is just another reminder. Then there is the guaranteed trigger of looking on Facebook for more than a second. Photos of kids, families, and milestones slap me in the face. Not to mention Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and any other holiday that involves families.

I sometimes feel like I am making these “reminders” follow me or that I am somehow looking for them and that I just need to change my perspective. Then there are times, where I feel ok being childless, and for that brief moment, I feel normal. Normal but guilty at the same time. How could I possibly be fine with being childless when we spent so much time and money to get pregnant? All the tests, medicine, bloodwork, and pain I put my body through. What was that all for?

When I am most overwhelmed, I can’t speak. I can’t find the words to say that I am feeling lost or confused. I repress my emotions and pretend it’s all ok.

This is where I am at…today.