(I meant to write a 9/11 entry. Maybe to tell you about how I was trapped in traffic on a bridge in D.C. when I saw the fireball at the Pentagon and felt like the world was coming to an end. Or maybe to tell you how I drove to work anyway because I didn't know what else to do, and how I watched another driver at a red light singing along to a CD, oblivious to the horror unfolding on the radio waves. Or maybe to tell you how my brother-in-law was on the subway when the planes hit, having just left the WTC a few minutes earlier and how I remember my ears ringing when I heard this news. Or maybe to simply say that I remember that morning like it was just this morning, and that I hope you do too. That's what I should have written. I wrote this instead.)
I get a lot of hits from Julie’s monster master list of infertility blogs. I'm linked under "Trying."
I guess I’m not really in that category anymore, but I haven’t asked to be taken off the list. Partly because, hell, I get a lot of traffic from it and, you know, I’m a whore like that.
But mostly because I refuse to think about it in black-and-white terms. No, we’re not actively trying to conceive. Yes, we’re using birth control. No, there’s not going to be a change in this arrangement anytime soon.
I’ve gotten used to this idea. When my psychiatrist told me that I would need to put all thoughts of pregnancy on hold for at least nine months, it hurt. Like hell. But at that time I was completely, utterly and batshittily sick and out of control. I was threatening to leave Jason and run away with someone else or maybe simply RUN AWAY, far away, where no one could find me. So the whole plan of having a baby was already starting to crumble. Just a bit.
Thank God, we're past that whole breed of Crazy, and recommitted to the idea that we WILL have a baby together and it WILL be wonderful and it WILL happen for us, as God is our witness, shaking our fists at the sky, etc.
Setbacks in finding the right combination of medications have pushed back our plans to a full year or so. I accepted this news with a shrug of the shoulders and a weary “Well, duh.”
I’m in no shape to be anyone’s mother. Even my puppy annoys the living shit out of me with the neediness and the hyper and the noise and the mess and I weep openly when I can’t get her to eat and once the cat starts in with the howling for food I start thinking that chucking them both out the window sounds like a damn fine idea.
(And oh, my God, to everyone whose fingers are already itching to fire off an indignant comment or email or threaten to call the ASPCA on me or whatever: I WOULD NEVER THROW MY ANIMALS OUT THE WINDOW. Both pets are well-fed and loved and showered with attention and toys and expensive, organic, all-natural treats because nothing on God’s green earth is too good for my precious babies. Okay? Good.)
But you get the idea. Am hanging on by a thread as it is. Baby? No fucking thank you. The idea of post-partum depression or relapsing in future years scares the shit out of me. I wonder if I'm being irresponsible even considering becoming a parent. Perhaps it is all Meant To Be This Way.
And yet when our next-door neighbors came home from the hospital today, bearing baby girl number two, flushed with excitement and pride and the joy of being a family, the old wound was reopened. And the longing for one of my own was rubbed raw.
Ouch. OUCH. I cried. I sat on our stupid second couch that we STILL have not gotten rid of and cried. I cried when my mom called and asked, “How’s the baby?” even though I knew she meant the puppy.
I cried when I wrote that just now.
I just feel so…DAMAGED. The infertility could be a result of the chemical problems in my brain. The infertility drugs could be responsible for my rapid decline and resistance to medications that worked for me in the past.
So if I get better, maybe I’ll conceive more easily. But if I don’t, and I go back on Clomid or some other hormone-charged drug, maybe I’ll get sick all over again.
My head hurts just thinking about that vicious little circle.
So I try not to think about it. For now? I’m only trying to get better. I’m trying to get better, and then I will try to get pregnant.
So I’m not asking Julie to take me off the “Trying” list. Because I still am. Harder than ever.
I’m still going to cry about the baby next door a little more though.