I have read many posts written by fellow infertiles that say what I am about to – indeed I’ve written at least one myself. And, very few have managed not to stick a dagger right into my heart. Those that did manage to insert knife into tender heart were not call-outs, or insults. The stab came from their suffusion with emotions that I wasn’t able to experience very often – utter, indescribable joy at the happening of that which seemed to be impossible.
My problem, of course, was that it still seemed impossible for me and so I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable to the person who was able to write of joyful news with undertones of “finally, it’s my turn to get out of his hell hole and get back to a normal life” – whether they were there or not. I still remember very, very well the bittersweetness (with a lot more bitter than sweet, I’m afraid) with which I read those words. So, I knew that should I ever have cause to write a post like that, I would do my level best not to break anyone else’s heart with it.*
And, that moment has appeared to come to pass. Wednesday brought a faint second line, Friday a darker second line and today a number: 158. All this means for now is that I am merely paroled from this maximum security prison of infertility, but still one violation away from being locked back up again. I will be on my best behavior, but ever mindful that I am not free and clear of the spectre of being sent back to solitary confinement.
So, you can understand if I will not be throwing out the ‘p’ word – I can’t even bring myself to think it, let alone type it for all of the internets to read. I will not be shouting with joy and the exclamation points are just going to have to find someone else’s blog on which to reside because they sure as hell ain’t going to be on mine.
Am I happy about this recent development? I don’t think that happy is the word I would use. Happy implies that I’m optimistic about the future. I’ve burned my hand on that stove too many times to even go near it. No, I think the best I can say is that I am content. Content that, at least for now, we have good news.
I humbly ask that if you are so inclined to respond to this news that you simply share in my contentment. Above all, please no statements that I’m going to be a mom. I know all too well that a positive test does not necessarily equal squalling ball of infant in nine months.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled (and blessedly snarky) episode of The Young and the Infertile.
* This is not to say that the women who wrote those posts woke up that morning intending to impale me. They just wanted to share their joy and I was being (and still am a little bit of) a petulant 5-year old.