It's ironic, isn't it? Infertility. The fight to have a baby.
I've tried so hard. I've exhausted my bank account, my sanity, my patience, my hope.
The longer I'm at it, the less I remember what it is I'm trying to achieve. And the more I think it's less likely to ever happen. And therein lies the irony.
This summer marks five years of trying.
And I'm sad.
I'll never be able to surprise Buster with a cute way of announcing a pregnancy. He knows way too much about the process now. Surprising him is practically an impossibility at this point.
I've thought about how I could try to surprise him, if FET#3 or #4 or #billion works. But in order to surprise him, I'd have to tell him I was getting negatives on tests. And I don't think I can put him through that pain. It's bad enough having to go through it legitimately. Why on earth would I subject him to that just for fun?
Yesterday would have marked the coveted viability milestone for me, had I not lost the baby.
And honestly, I've been doing pretty well. I have two frozen embryos left, and two "free" FETs remaining. I have a little puppy to look forward to. I have an amazing husband and wonderful friends. I have a lot to be thankful for.
But sometimes, even still, the sadness hits me like a wave. Like a wall of grief. And there is no way around this suffocating wall of pain.
And it hurts.
Death Cab for Cutie: Lightness