During my somewhat lengthy absence, some of you may have been wondering whether I'd locked myself in the dark basement and curled myself up into a ball on the floor where I've remained, motionless, for weeks. Maybe you've pictured me lying there next to an empty box of donuts, dressed in grubby, cat hair-covered sweat pants and a Pink Floyd tee shirt, my face smeared with a thick, opaque Krispy Kreme glaze. Perhaps you've imagined me mumbling something ridiculous like theplatypuskilledmybaby, while an endless stream of sugary drool runs from the side of my mouth and pools onto the cold concrete floor.
The truth is, I'm doing okay. Sure, I've eaten my fair share of Krispy Kremes, and I'm not denying the cat hair thing, but I promise you I haven't seen my Pink Floyd tee shirt in years, and I wouldn't even consider lying down on my floor. The couch works just fine.
I'm kidding.
There have been some bad days, of course, but far fewer than I had expected. The day of the D&C was definitely a bad one, but the deep emotional pain I felt immediately upon waking from the anesthesia has been softened a little bit more with each passing day. The incredible amount of love and support my husband and I have received from family and friends has helped immeasurably. For weeks following the D&C, our house was filled with hugs and flowers and cards and baked goodies, and to this day, the emails, comments and phone calls keep coming. I thank you all so much for helping us through this. To do it alone would be literally impossible.
The most difficult part for me right now is shifting focus. As odd as it may sound, my heart had already begun this process long before we started our last IVF cycle. For the past year or so, I held onto a tiny bit of hope, but at the same time, I had already accepted that I would probably never be a mother. And ever so slowly I came to realize that that would be okay.
Yeah, I said that.
And it will be okay. I will be okay. The pain will surely not disappear overnight, nor do I expect it to. It may never completely disappear. And that's okay, too. What's not okay, for me, is to continue to suffer through failed cycles and heartbreaking losses month after month, year after year, never knowing when (or if) it will end. Which is why my husband and I have decided that it will end, and it will end now.
I know all of this probably sounds utterly depressing and may even be impossible for some of you to fathom - believe me, there was a time when I wouldn't dare dream of giving up until I had a child, so I do understand - but please do not pity nor judge me for having made this decision. It's the right decision for my husband and me, and that's what matters. Think of it not as regretfully admitting defeat, but as making the conscious choice to ditch the chaos and bring peace back into our lives.
There is something - a new bit of information - that has recently slowed the focus-shifting process for me. I have never had an official diagnosis -- it was always "unexplained" until, by process of elimination, we just assumed that my eggs were crap. This is why we wanted to use PGD with our last IVF. After my D&C, we had genetic testing done on the, um, products of conception, and the results came back a few days ago. We were sure that there would be a chromosomal abnormality because we were sure my eggs were chromosomally abnormal. The chorionic villi was obtained for testing, so there was no confusion between maternal and embryonic tissue. The result: chromosomally normal female.
The news took my breath away. Besides the obvious sadness that comes with knowing the sex of the child I might have had, I am left to wonder - AGAIN - about the cause of my infertility. If that one egg was okay - and, yes, I do understand that only certain chromosomes are tested, so there's a chance that an abnormality actually did exist - but if the egg was normal and the embryo was normal, then my body is to blame for this loss. But why? How? I've been tested and retested and nothing appears to be broken. How is it that we've spent so many years and so much money on tests and treatments and not one goddamned doctor can give us a clear answer?
Of course, the test result has been making me hold on to a tiny bit of hope that it still may happen the old-fashioned way [insert hysterical laughter here] and I'm not sure what I can do about that. I'm determined not to obsess over it, but I don't plan on trying to prevent it, either. I know it's highly unlikely given my history and my age, so I feel silly for even mentioning any of this. But you can't expect to have a healthy relationship with the Internet without complete honesty, right?
So what's next? Well, I'm an artist whose brushes are dusty, and I plan to change that. There's an empty space on the wall above my living room sofa that could really use a big, colorful picture. Art used to be such a huge part of my life; a great passion of mine. I loved the feeling of the brushes between my fingers, the earthy smell of the paints and the intense joy of losing myself in the creative process -- sort of how one feels while reading a great book: the world melts away and time passes without making a sound. Then one day I opened my eyes and my art had been replaced by ART, which sucks because do you know how many cool paintings I could have made while in the midst of those dark, crappy days? Eh, I'm not too worried, I still have a lot of heavy-duty emotions to work with.
So that's where I am right now. I think I've covered just about everything, haven't I?
Oh, except I wanted to say that if you've emailed me and I haven't written back yet, know that I haven't forgotten about you, I promise. I'm just really, really sloooooow. Also, I haven't been reading blogs lately, so I'm feeling out of the loop, but know that I'm always thinking of you and wishing you all the best.
