For all the hardest roads we have to walk alone

Is it odd that I, often times, think dead flowers are prettier than the alive version?

Tuesday night was the video shoot for the ultrasound place my company recently opened. Thankfully, unlike I posted here, I did not have to actually participate as an actor in the shoot. I remained behind the camera, much to my delight.

There were three pregnant women there, and a handful of children. Initially, I was way too busy playing director to pay too much attention to my feelings and emotions... which was great! I wallow in self-pity enough, no need to do so when I'm supposed to be working!

But... fast-forward to the "pregnant lady on the ultrasound table with husband holding her hand" scene. The preggo in question was 21 weeks, which is apparently a bit too early to have a 3d/4d ultrasound. She had yet to feel her baby kick, and was getting worried. I had my camera set up and had a nice tight shot of the couple. There is a huge TV in there on the wall that the couple was looking at, and when the baby showed up on there, moving and wriggling around, the relief was palpable. The joy on the faces of the parents was incredible.

And in that moment was my first pang of sadness/wistfulness/jealousy for the evening. The husband almost looked more excited than the wife! I couldn't help thinking about how Buster will react someday if we are ever lucky enough to see an ultrasound image of our baby.

But, as enticing as it is for me to lose myself in my wishful thinking, I had to pull my shit together so I could finish up this video shoot. After I got enough footage, I left the room and headed to the waiting room. Several others people involved in the shoot were in there, so I just waited with them.

One woman, who I used to work with, says to me, "That could be you someday," as she points to the ultrasound room.

I respond with, "I can only hope!"

She looked at me a bit strangely, but nothing else was said.

This led me to think (again, I know. I really need to curtail this bad habit somehow) about infertility statistics. I believe the latest is that one out of ever six couples has trouble conceiving a child. I looked around the room, and wondered if anyone else had struggled, or was currently "afflicted" (yes, afflicted. Much like the plague or some kind of black magic sorcery!).

I doubt anyone else there was infertile. I know there's always a chance, but I really doubt it.

So, why me? Not in a dramatic, "Why meeee???" But, a real question. Why me?

Maybe it's because I'm not modest. I'm not a shy person, I never have been. Perhaps, in some kind of sick way, it's better that I'm afflicted, rather than a shy version of myself.

I like to think that conversations I have with people who have no idea what infertility is or that real people even suffer with it are somewhat helping the IF community, and the world at large. And I truly don't mean to sound like what I say is profound in any way, but I think it's helpful for people to know, to learn, and to be made aware.

Who better to spout off about incredibly personal details than me? I can't think of a better candidate, personally.

I remember a time when I was embarrassed to be purchasing tampons. TAMPONS! Can you imagine? Fast-forward to today. I'll gladly talk to any stranger or passerby about my insides and about periods, ovulation, and semen.

Perhaps this causes people to pity me. So be it. I don't care! I won't really know that they pity me, unless they tell me. And if someone tells me they pity me, well, I would pity them, for the response they would receive from me would not be pleasant.

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I posted yesterday about my friend Lisa, who has recently gotten some horrible and devastating news. In this aftermath, I have found it odd how some people respond. She has gotten so many offers (who knows how genuine) from people who would gladly surrogate for her.

I realize that those are gestures born out of kindness. But, with a wound so fresh, give her some time to heal! To come to terms. To even THINK of what steps to take next.

I just feel so bad for her, and wish that there were words that could heal. I know there isn't anything I can say to make it better, and I hate that.

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 My post title today comes from the Avett Brothers song "Pretty Girl at the Airport"