I used to be funnier.
I used to be happy. All the time. I was one of those…
I used to laugh and smile and joke.
I used to skip and jump in puddles and stop to smell the flowers.
I used to be sweet.
I used to have this convoluted notion that one day, when the husband and I were ready for it, we would have a spontaneous, romantic intimate encounter and a few weeks later I would wake up just knowing that something was different.
I would go out and buy a pregnancy test, and get a positive result. I would wait till the husband came home and surprise him with the news. We would laugh and cry and hug and call to tell our families the joyous news. We would plan out some elaborate way to announce our pregnancy to our friends; maybe a Facebook photo of the ultrasound or a clever shot of a bun in an oven.
We would make plans for that empty second bedroom. We would talk about names and paint colors and finally choose a church. We would warmly embrace the life that was so generously given us, and make preparations for our new family.
Now I laugh because I realize how naïve I was.
It’s a bitter laugh.
Even just a year ago, I was far more able to handle the thought of pursuing more aggressive treatments. A year ago I felt hopeful that a different approach would do the trick. A year ago I never thought I would still be doing this.
I think the hardest part of infertility is the grieving process.
I’ve grieved the thought of having three kids by age thirty. Or having any kids by age 32.
I’ve grieved the idea of my kids having cousins their own age.
I’ve grieved the dream of calling to tell the doctor I’m pregnant, rather than the doctor calling to tell me.
I’ve grieved the experience of creating a child out of a loving act between husband and wife.
I’ve grieved.
It doesn’t get easier.
It hurts so much sometimes that it’s like a burning in my chest. Sometimes I hold my breath just to keep the tears from falling. Sometimes the happiest dreams leave me feeling bereft when the morning comes. Sometimes I just want to quit.
I feel like I’m on a train.
I’ve gone through some beautiful countryside on this journey, but recently I’ve been taken through rocky canyons and along steep cliffs. I’m in a dark tunnel and have no idea what’s on the other side.
It might be more beautiful countryside, a place where a young family can skip and jump in puddles and stop to smell the flowers.
Then again, there’s also a good chance the tracks may run out. I could emerge from this in a free-fall into darkness.
Never again to be the girl of light and laughter and love, destined to live out the rest of her days in darkness and despair and depression.
I pray that’s not the case.
I know that God has a plan for me. I know that God wouldn’t bring me to a challenge I wasn’t built to handle. I know that God loves me and is preparing me for something bigger than all of this.
I know.
And yet, it’s hard to have faith some days.
Still though, faith is what gets me by.
I have faith that I will have a child; perhaps not by age 32, or 33, or even 40, but I will. One day.
I have faith that my child will be loved by so many, regardless the age of his cousins.
I have faith that the joy of knowing I am going to be a mother will diffuse all of the resentment I have towards my body’s betrayal.
I have faith that my child will know he is loved, regardless if he was conceived in a petri dish or in my womb or in the womb of another.
I have faith, but I also know that I will never be able to be that girl again.
The carefree girl who laughs and smiles and jokes.
The sweet, happy, funny girl who doesn’t have a reason to cry.
I know I will never be the same after this.
But I know that I will be okay.
Even after a long period in a dark tunnel, it takes your eyes some time to adjust to the sunlight.
I won’t be the same, but I will be stronger, wiser, and have more depth than many. I will have experienced loss and longing, and I will have had to fight for the life I want.
I will get up tomorrow and continue down this dark tunnel.
I will find my way out the other side, and regardless what’s there, I will survive.
More than that, though; I will thrive.
…I used to be funnier. And I will get back there one day.
Just Stop Trying and It Will Happen... 
Beautifully written! I hope you get back there soon…
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I just noticed that you followed my WordPress blog, but it’s not really functional…it just links to my real blog: http://babymakingmerrygoround.blogspot.com/
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I realized that after I clicked though. I follow your TTC blog already. 🙂
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I’ve been a lurker for a while but needed to say this…
This is amazing. I was nodding my head while reading. I’ve felt so many of the same things you do. This post has helped me find the hope that I’ve lost. Thank you for this. It really is so wonderfully written.
We’ll get there. We’ll all be mothers someday.
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Beautifully written. (((HUGS))) to you.
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Seriously beautiful and well written piece. You nailed so much of what I have been feeling for so long. This reads straight out of a magazine. In fact, you should consider submitting this somewhere – seriously! I never really thought of the whole doctor calling me thing vs. the other way around.
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This just about sums it up! I always feel like I’m being dragged along this nightmarish path and I just want to claw my way back, but there’s no turning back. If I could turn into it and go headlong into the darkness, maybe that would be easier. I guess I’m still in denial.
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I think the loss of innocence is something else to be grieved. You can never un-know the things you are now painfully aware of…
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I totally relate to that sentiment. This journey changed me so profoundly that there are days I barely recognize myself. I wish I had your faith, I think it would make things easier.
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You are one of the bravest women I know.
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You and I both know some extremely brave women, and I happen to think the same of you. Back atcha, sister!
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Such a beautiful post. *hugs*
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The only thing I can really say is DITTO! You captured so beautifully exactly how I feel.
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what a beautiful post. as so many here, I completely understand exactly how you feel and, unfortunately, how so many others feel too. All I can say (and have to remind myself) truly is “one day”.
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I can relate to this post in so many ways. You have so much love coming your way. We can get through this. ❤
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That was beautifully written. I can completely relate to what you are feeling. Not that it helps, but know that many of us are on that train with you, hoping that we’re through this tunnel soon.
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This is perfect. You are so right about how it is so hard to nt fall into a dark place, no matter how bright your outlook used to be. I wish you all the future happiness that you so clearly deserve.
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Reblogged this on Just Stop Trying and It Will Happen… and commented:
Rewind :: A Post I Love
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Thank you for reblogging this post. As I read it I kept thinking “Me too”…here’s to getting through that tunnel and finding lots of happiness on the other side. *hugs*
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I love this. I try to hold on to the idea that no matter what, I will love my baby more because of what I’ve been through. I’m sure you will too. You are an incredible writer!
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I love this! Thank you for putting into words, what I have thought so many times.
An ICLW Visit from #63
liddy @ the unfair struggle (mfi, speedskating, 1st 2ww)
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It’s like you took the words right out of my mouth. Hugs to you, stay strong, we are in this together. xo
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Beautiful. This is exactly what I have been trying to explain to my husband! It may ‘happen’ for us, and I have faith that I will be a mother someday. I had just always imagined we would decide to ‘try’ and it would happen. It would be a happy time…announcements would be made, baby would come, life would go on. I didn’t plan on getting stuck in this tunnel…
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It’s not easy, and none of our mothers ever told us that there was a way we could have the most miserable broken heart EVERY. SINGLE. MONTH.
Your husband will come to understand one day, and by then you will be strong enough to support him through his loss of innocence.
Stay strong, friend!
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I just found this post linked on pinterest. I’m so glad I did.
I could have written this myself. Every word. Thank you for allowing me to feel understood by expressing yourself. You are strong and you are brave.
I pray that you grow nearer to the end of your tunnel and you can finally start to see light flicker in the distance. I’m sorry you’re experiencing this. It’s hard and it’s lonely and it’s helpless and oftentimes hopeless. But your faith is encouraging, even if it is through tears.
God loves you. Thank you.
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I’m glad you did, too, Mindy! I’ve been checking out your blog as well, and feel like we both have so much in common in this journey.
Stay strong, and feel what you feel without shame or apology. Every word you put out there can help someone else to feel less alone and isolated in their journey. We will both get to the end of our tunnels at some point, and we will be the most gracious and grateful mothers in existence because of how far we’ve come. XOXO
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Beautifully written and poignant…and inspiring too. This just captures what so many of us are unfortunately battling through – the long dark unknown tunnel.
Thanks for putting it into such lovely words.
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I’ve been reading your blog all day since discovering it this morning. This piece you have written is beautiful, it resonated so deeply with me.
I too have been married for almost 5 years (anniversary next week) and have battled to have a child. Three angel babies later I refuse to give up, no matter how much losing them shatters my world each time. As my friends around me keep falling pregnant serendipitously I grit my teeth and smile for them and wonder how my life would have been if it turned out the way I imagined when I was 25 and engaged.
You gave me hope today, thank you.
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