My Heart: the Colander

First off, thanks for all the love from yesterday. Your texts, comments, and FB messages mean a lot. While nothing "makes it better", it is nice to know that there are people praying for you and that the IF community is literally in the trenches with you. May we all crawl out one day.

You know those things, the ones with all the holes, that you wash lettuce, or drain pasta in? That's what my heart looks like these days.

My husband says I'm too pessimistic about this whole process. I'm not. Honestly, I'm not. I'm realistic. If I come across as pessimistic, it's because realistically our chances are just that bad. 5% is not betting odds. 10%: still not betting odds. So no, I don't get all "this is it, this is it" each cycle. I did that for months. I peed on sticks like the more I used, the better my odds got. I balled my eyes out in public bathrooms and at work when I would see the first hint of red. I used to get all worked up about each cycle, believing that this was my miracle month. That's why my heart looks like a colander now. A new hole gets punched each time I watch my dreams get flushed away.

I feel like each month, I get filled up, dipped under the water: a fresh start. But I know that the odds are that this cycle will end, and not in nine months with a take home baby, but in 30ish days with tears and tampons. Just imagine lifting the colander out of the water… it all drains away. (loving the imagery today, or what?) That's pretty much what each cycle feels like. At the end, all the life just drains right out of me. I guess after all of this pain, all of the fear, all of the broken dreams, I'm trying to guard my heart. I'm not great at it. I play it off like I'm more "negative" than I am. But if I really wasn't hopeful, then I would sleep the night before test day. If I wasn't hopeful, I wouldn't anxiously wait for the phone call from the doctor's office. And if I had no hope left, I wouldn't throw myself into the pillows and sob after another "unfortunately, it was another negative".

But I do my best to keep my heart as grounded as possible. There is no reason to blow more crater sized holes in it's surface. There is no way you can try for a baby with infertility and not hurt, not feel pain, not have heart damage, so I just try to limit the carnage left behind. I try to tell myself that any "symptoms" I experience each cycle are common everyday things. Sore breasts could mean baby, but they could also mean progesterone suppositories, or period, or uncomfortable bra for crying out loud. If every time I "feel" something I allow myself to believe "this is it", I will literally be goo on the sidewalk. I will die inside so many times, I will become a shell. I know depression intimately; I've walked that road before, and let me tell you, infertility is one of the easiest ways to jump on board that train.

So no, I'm not the most glowing, radiant, "I can feel it", "this is our month" kind of person each cycle. Because history has shown me that that hurts waaayyyy too much. Is there any optimism left in me? Umm, maybe it depends on the day you catch me. Yesterday? No, no optimism left. CD 1? No, no optimism left. I guess at this point I'm trying to be brutally honest with myself. I've played the "we're just a little infertile" game with myself enough. We have about a 10% chance of getting pregnant with this last cycle of IUI; the same as the previous two. After that, we have about a 5% chance each month of pulling this off on our own. And if we make it to IUI, we have about a 60% chance each transfer of success. Would you be optimistic about any of that?

You might also wonder where my faith has gone. Don't I believe that God trumps numbers? Yes I do, and my faith is still here. Sure I feel like I'm in my very own wrestling match with God some days, but I still fully believe that He is the miracle worker. However, I also know that just because He can doesn't mean He will. I have 100% faith that God can make me pregnant any day. If He can pull off immaculate conception, then my little ol' infertility is NOTHING. But I also recognize, that pregnancy, in this season of my life, or ever, may not be the plan He has for me. Does that make Him mean? No, it makes Him God. He's not Santa Clause. So I'll keep praying. Praying that He will bless me. Praying that He will take my pain. Praying that He will heal my heart, heal my broken body. But for me, faith doesn't equal optimism. It equals peace. I'm not there yet, not by a long shot. But I'm praying that "the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard [my] heart and [my] mind in Christ Jesus" (Phil 4:7).

I'm off to wait for AF. My consolation prize this month: Dr Pepper. Hoping CD 1 is near so we can get this show on the road.