Death Lives On

It's official. Failure. Again. There's nothing more depressing than to fail at such a fundamental thing as keeping your children alive, and at this point, even managing to conceive at all. I try distracting myself from this failure by trying harder to succeed in other things I have some control over, but I seem to fail at everything. And even if I did have some small successes, no success can compensate for the failure to fill my home.

This cycle generated more hope than I've had in quite some time. Four follicles - my personal best. Still, hope disappeared rapidly once The Wait began and by the end of it I couldn't even muster up enough hope for the one second it takes to, um, administer the progesterone. Just couldn't do it. I HATE that progesterone, not because it's icky, but because it encourages false hope with its evil side-effects, especially sore Milk Cups (this is what my four-year-old daughter calls breasts).  How pathetic is it to obsess for days over whether my boobs are sore from the drugs, from pregnancy, or from constantly being poked at to see if they're sore?

Hope is simultaneously killing me and keeping me alive. Every time it dares rear its increasingly ugly head, I do all I can to smash it down. It entices me with visions of happiness, and then drops me into progressively lower levels of hell. And yet I keep falling for it because sometimes that vision of what may be is the only thing that keeps me going on the darkest days. I have only one cycle left to try, maybe two. With Hope out of the picture, I'll be left to hang out alone with Despair. How's that going to work out?

WHY can't I just quit and do what soooo many people have told me soooo many times . . . "just be happy with the two you have". Ah, there's that "just" again - as if it could all be so easy if I'd only heed the advice of people who have no idea what they're talking about. My family is my greatest joy and I bitterly resent it every time anyone dares imply that if only I were more thankful for them, everything would suddenly be fine! I AM grateful for my family - I love them and live for them (though some days I feel I'm not doing them any favors by doing so). If I'd known what was going to happen, I never would have gotten pregnant again after I'd had David and Tania. Then I believe I could have been HAPPY with my two. As things are now though, with a body full of pain and a head full of horrific images, happiness is only a distant memory and my love and thankfulness for my two living children doesn't change that. I wish it did.

The last few years have destroyed me. The truth is that this is not simply about having a baby. Yes, I desperately want a new life in me and then in my arms, but I also want to be alive again myself. I felt death inside me when it came to take my babies and even after they were delivered and buried, death stayed with me, casting a cold dark shadow over every aspect of life.

One woman who has lost many babies once told me that the experience taught her a lot about death. Truly, you can't get any closer to death than to have it inside you and not die yourself. I've grown weary of having such a close relationship with death. Death lives in me, killing not only any child I manage to conceive, but also my friendships, family relationships, faith, and functionality as a wife and mother. Everything I touch seems to die.  Quite simply, I want life to drive death out of me. And that, quite simply, just isn't happening.

The Answer to All Your Problems

Hope has been steadily declining since Whacking Day, as typically happens during the seemingly interminable Wait. Thus, I was not my usual cheerful self (heavy sarcasm) during last Sunday's obligatory chat with my folks. My dad called back later in the week to see if perhaps things weren't all sunshine and lollipops around here. Answer: NO!!! But can I say that to my parents: Hell NO! They are kept as far out of the loop as possible regarding our unproductive reproductive efforts. Our relationship is deeply shallow. Other contentious topics include: medical issues of any kind, church, parenting, politics, and the economy. Therefore, I take Jane Austen's advice - "If you cannot think of anything appropriate to say you will please restrict your remarks to the weather."

I wouldn't mind my dad having a limited knowledge of our situation, but my mom was such a spectacular jerk after our losses (and on many other occasions as well) that I don't wish to open myself up to further destructive drama. They both have been kept in the dark because I can't have Dad spilling info to Mom, nor can I ask Dad to keep secrets from his own wife.

My mother has a nasty habit of looking down upon anyone with health problems. She has never in all her 60 years suffered from any serious or chronic illness and believes that if someone is ill, it is somehow their own fault. For example, when my father-in-law was diagnosed with cancer, she whipped out a list she keeps by the phone by "healer" Louise L. Hay. It lists hundreds of ailments, their supposed metaphysical causes, and the magical affirmations you must repeat to yourself ad nauseum to make your troubles disappear. I will share a few for your enlightenment:

Bowel problems - fear of letting go :D
Burns - No, not hot stuff! Actually they're caused by anger burning up inside.
Diabetes - longing for what might have been. Make sure to share this with the next diabetic that you meet. They'll surely appreciate hearing that their disease is their own fault.
Poison Ivy - feeling defenseless and open to attack. To think I've been avoiding a certain to plant for all these years! From now on I'll go skipping barefoot through the forest while muttering affirmations.

It's astonishing how many people really believe crazy stuff like this. There are even crackpots out there who think pregnancy is caused by HAVING SEX! Don't I wish!

Sadly, no quick fix is listed for infertility or miscarriage. I'll make sure to contact Louise about this oversight. So stay tuned - I will let you know what affirmations fix these problems just as soon as I hear from her.

In a Happier Place, If Only Briefly

Well, we've survived Whacking Day again and arrived at that happy place, Week One of The Wait, with some hope of good news in twelve days' time. The stats this time are as follows: 4 mature follicles in me, 43 million swimmers from hubby delivered via catheter, plus two deposits at home the fun way.

Last year at this time I was pregnant, but didn't know it yet. That of course ended in yet another loss. Will I still be in this awful place next February? It's all I can do to think positively for even a day, but assuming my anatomy hasn't been too severely damaged by the endo and cysts, we may have a shot at it this time. All I can do now is hope and say a little prayer: Dear God, gimme a break, man!

Also, I'm putting up a pic of the T-shirt hubby got on a recent business trip. Funny, but I don't think I'll let him wear it out in public: