We’ve been down this road before, more than once. Ovulation charts, fertility monitors, basal thermometers. The overwhelming sadness and defeat that comes with negative pregnancy tests. The wave of hope that comes with a new pill. The nights laying awake, imagining the moment when I can finally announce to the world that I am with child.
When Brian got sick in 2010, all those plans went on the back burner. Birthing plans turned into survival plans. Daydreams about a tow-headed toddler were replaced with nightmares of losing my partner. The constant chirp-chirp-chirp of the monitors were for my husband, battling cancer, not for me, a new baby in my arms. Priorities were rearranged. The bottle of Clomid was shoved into the corner of the medicine cabinet, replaced with pain pills, stool softeners, vitamins and Scarguard. When your husband is fighting for his life, the last thing on your mind is where you are in your menstrual cycle.
Here we are, almost a year and a half after Brian’s surgery, and that familiar yearning, that tug on my heart, that desperate desire to be a mother, has returned.
It never really went away. I’ve always wanted children, for as long as I can remember. We were distracted for awhile, by an ugly monster named Cancer, but that distraction is over. And now, the time to start over, to try again, has arrived.
As the end of the year approaches, and with it, Brian’s graduation from nursing school, my anxiety increases. I point my browser to all those familiar websites, rereading articles on infertility treatments that I could already recite in my sleep. I find myself flipping through the pages of the numerous pregnancy books already on my shelf. My list of baby names has already started growing again.
Every day, as I jog around our property, iTunes in my ear, my mantra has changed. No longer do I hear “breathe in, breathe out” as my feet pound the ground. Now it’s “baby, baby.” With every inch I lose, every pound I drop, I feel like I’m closer to my goal. Not to fit into a pair of jeans. But to get my body healthy. So I can carry a baby.
At least once a day I find myself standing in front of a mirror, hands on my stomach, lost in a daydream of “what if” and “when.”
For now, the timing still isn’t right. There are tests to be taken, finals to study for, and projects to complete. It gives me time to get myself ready–mentally, physically, emotionally–for the road we are about to travel again. To prepare myself for the roller coaster that goes with trying to get pregnant when you’ve failed so many times before.
For now, we proceed without the aid of doctors. No drugs, no treatments, no hormones. Just us.
For now, I pour myself into the other children in my life. I am actively spoiling my godchildren…
…and I will continue to champion little Everett, until he is well and home with his family again.
For now, I am simply in the planning stages. Thinking over my strategies. Hoping beyond hope that we won’t need medical intervention. Trying to stamp out my fear of failure and, ultimately, the inability to get pregnant at all.
I will face my fears and start over. Again. Because I must. Because destiny tells me I must. And because this time, just maybe, we will be successful.