In the back of my mind, wedged in between perpetual grocery lists and new tricks I want to teach G, is the theory – that has morphed into a belief – that it is impossible for any pregnancy I may have to progress past the 9th week. I’m reminded of this when I hear of others who have made it to 12, 15, 20 weeks and beyond. It seems completely abnormal and atypical to me. There are people who can do that?, I think. Much like when I hear that someone gets pregnant without medical intervention. You can get pregnant without an RE and an embryologist? Where is this fantasy land?
I am so far down that rabbit hole of infertility and miscarriage that my new normal now resembles most people’s abnormal. The irony of this is not lost on me. For as normal a life I have in many other respects, I am constantly reminded of how much of a minority I am when it comes to my uterus (and what does or does not happen in it). But, the farther into the struggle I get, the more perversely proud I am of myself for making it that far and still being a relatively well-adjusted, functioning person. And, perhaps, still willing to take a gander at whether the third time will be the charm.
It’s not even that I don’t think that I’ll get pregnant again. It’s that I can no longer even imagine a scenario where I am at my 11 week or 12 week appointment and I hear that everything looks good, is progressing and now you need to find yourself a nice, normal OB with no drama. Perhaps this is my defense mechanism to help shield myself from the pain, or the ultimate in pessimism, but I can honestly say that I cannot even envision it, much like people could not imagine a man on the moon or flight.
But, these things did happen. After many attempts and many failures. The question, then, is am I willing to keep going knowing that eventually it may work but that failure is also probably in the cards?
image: Steve Rhodes