I go through cycles of acceptance and denial about our inability to get pregnant. In this case, acceptance feels like total devastation. I feel emptied out, hopeless, and a little afraid of the future. I cry, and I try to decide on alternate plans. Will we foster? Adopt? Travel?
Denial manifests itself through charting, which I haven't done in about a year, plotting my cycle in my calendar, noting which days were "active" days and which were "fertile." I feel hopeful and determined.
I think I've lost hope, though. I'm 34, almost 35. It's pretty clear that without serious medical intervention, we're not going to have biological children. We've done all the basic tests and ruled out the obvious, simple things. It's down to either clogged tubes or inexplicable infertility.
I wish I could say that I trust God's timing. I suppose that in a way I do trust it. I think what I really mean is that I wish I could appreciate it. Instead, I find myself thinking about how I'll never know whether our children will have curly hair like Mark, blue eyes like mine, will be tall or short, skinny or fat. I can't know how Burgundy will interact with a sibling. I'll never be able to say, "Oh man, I remember when Burgundy cried like that." I will never breastfeed again. I'll never co-sleep. Wear my baby in a sling.
No, I can't appreciate this. I can just . . . move on. Maybe we'll foster. Maybe we'll just get Burgundy through college and then. And then, well, I don't know. I just can't see life beyond my child.