Almost three and a half years ago, I encountered a neighbor on my walk who was in full pregnancy mode and looking particularly smug about it. I blogged about it here. I expended more energy than I’d care to admit disliking her, her husband and their perfect life.  I scoffed to Mr. X at the name that they chose for their child. I hated that they had what I wanted.

This evening, around the same time of the evening that I had first run into her, I ran into her again. Her three year old son ran toward me, Rex and G to say hi.  We stopped to talk to her.  I complimented (genuinely) how sweet her child was. She asked after Rex and how old he was.  I asked her advice on when she transitioned him to a toddler bed from a crib.  We talked about potty training and day care.  We talked … as moms.  As much as Rex healed a lot of my wounds, this conversation today helped me forgive myself for how awfully I felt towards her all those years ago.


I had a date this morning with an old friend, the Dildocam.  This was not the panic-inducing wand of Dr. Salsa’s office – it was the one at the OB/GYN’s office.  I had gone to see the Lady Doctor last week because I had two annovulatory cycles in a row and was getting concerned that something was going on.  She ordered bloodwork and, not surprisingly, wanted to get a peek on the screen of the lady bits.

It was as uneventful as it could be and the ultrasound tech and I had a few good chuckles.  She didn’t see anything amiss and I agreed since, I’m so good at looking at scans of my lady parts. Still, part of me was almost wistful for the days of searching for a little sac in the uterus.  There was always that possibility of hope, that this would be the time it would work, that was just so addictive.


Ever since I posted about my re-emerging battle with the impotent rage of unfairness and reading the thoughtful and wonderful comments that were left by you, dear readers, I have been giving more thought to the question of why the why still bothers me so.

It is an eternal question, one that I have fought with before.  I’ve read numerous articles about bad things happening to good people.  I’ve heard the, “don’t ask ‘why me’, ask ‘why not me’?” and I still don’t really understand what that has to do with the price of grief these days.  None of these things really helped me get a final answer – they just gave a short lived high of compassion and understanding.

Of course, this is because no article can tell me about why I feel the way that I do. They can suggest reasons or solutions, wrap them up in helpful bullet-point lists with uplifting words and uses of exclamation marks.  They cannot substitute for me doing the necessary mental gymnastics of really sitting down with myself and having a conversation.  Which I have finally done. Here’s the transcript.

Me: Why does this continue to bother you?

Me: I can’t think about it without feeling that it is all terribly unfair.

Me: You sound like you’re whining. Life isn’t fair, right?

Me: Of course I’m whining. Perceived lack of fairness is one of my greatest pet peeves.  To me, the “life isn’t fair” screed only applies to the little things like parking spaces, bad hair days and a genetic predisposition to thighs that rub together.  It shouldn’t apply to the big things in life, especially when I’ve been taught so often that I can accomplish anything.

Me: So how is it unfair, though?

Me: Because I can’t for the life of me figure out what makes them so special that they get to be normal and happy and ignorant and I get infertility and miscarriages and dread.  I think it’s the part where they get to act like getting pregnant without help and then have the baby like it’s all normal and good that drives me crazy the most.

Me: That’s because it is normal to them.  It’s normal to most people in the world.  You’ve been graced, for whatever, reason with the unnormal version and get to obsess over your inclusion in this illustrious group for the whole world to read.

Me: And, it’s my inclusion in this group that I cannot explain.  I can’t explain it going backwards looking at my past misdeeds, I can’t explain it now and I probably won’t be able to explain it going forward.  And I want an explanation because I can’t stand thinking that it is just random or bad luck.

Me: You’re going to need to work on that because unless you become omniscient, you’re never going to know why it happened to you.  And, I would like to posit that maybe that’s ok.  Maybe it doesn’t make you a lesser person than those ladies, maybe it doesn’t make them luckier or more blessed.  Maybe it just is.

Me: Damn, damn, damn.  That is way too esoteric for me.

That Same Old Feeling Again

I really thought I had left my bitter infertile lady days behind me.  I beat infertility to have the most gorgeous, amazing child about whom there are not enough adjectives to describe his awesomeness.  I kicked IF’s ass after a long, drawn out battle on multiple fronts.  I won.

So, why was I pissed off to learn that our neighbor is pregnant again? Or my sister-in-law?  Or random celebrities?  It’s because I know at least with my sister-in-law and neighbor that they just decided to have another one and poof!  No IVFs, no beta following, no waiting for shoes to drop, no miscarriages – in other words, the complete opposite of my experience with pregnancy.  They got and get to have again the happy, ignorant experience that I don’t think I’ll be able to experience.  And, it makes me angry.

The problem is that it has always made me angry.  I initially thought having Rex would fix this, but it only temporarily buried it.  It’s back now and showing no signs of going away.  Part of the problem has always been that I feel like I need an explanation for why infertility and repeat losses struck me, not them.  And, I’ve never been able to come up with one.

Have you?