Six women, one great morning. We commandeered a corner of Starbucks, suffered dirty looks from a blue hair and spent an obscene amount of time chatting about anything and everything.
I’m so terrible about getting distracted by fun times and completely forgetting about my camera. Instead of seeing a picture screaming out what a fabulous night I had celebrating the birthdays of two very dear friends with a group of five amazing women, you get this one shot of me, my buddy B and our two empty martini glasses.
I was devastated to hear what I feared confirmed today: Our latest attempt to beat infertility failed.
What was worse than receiving the call from my doctor’s office was placing the call to Rob shortly after. Those calls require steel balls of strength and courage – two things you can imagine are hard to muster up when you’ve just managed to pull things together from the point of hysterical sobbing to solid, unwavering strength.
I know my husband hates this just as much as I do. I know he holds his shit together because he feels responsible for being the one to help me hold my shit together. And so I know I owe him the kind of phone call that allows him to absorb the information without worrying more about comforting me than taking things in for himself.
Rob and I watched “Couples Retreat” on DVD last weekend, and we actually fist-bumped after the movie because we are so much better, so much stronger than one of the couples in the film. They are teetering on the edge of divorce because infertility has attacked their relationship, and they lose sight of each other in their battle. We fist-bumped – not because we’re better than a fictional couple – but because we can both see that route being so easy to fall down. Infertility is ROUGH.
One positive thing I can say about our own battle with infertility is that I’m pretty sure it has brought us closer together.
Before we started down this road, I would have told you that was impossible. Rob and I have known each other since we were 13 – nearly 15 years now – and we’ve been the closest of friends since we were 16. We started dating when we were 17, and there has been no other person in my life with whom I’ve been able to share every single thing.
Now, 10 years into our romantical relationship, I can’t imagine going through this with someone who didn’t compliment me as well as Rob does. He knows when to cheer me up (and how to do it), and he knows when I just need a hug – no jokes allowed.
The amount of guilt for being The Infertile One sometimes feels impossible to carry. Rob never lets me apologize for having malfunctioning reproductive parts, and he won’t hear a word about how I don’t deserve him – well-functioning and understanding and perfect.
“Danny’s Song,” by Kenny Loggins, has always been one of hope that we’ve sung along to together while slumming about the house or on one of our countless road trips. I heard it today in the mall while drowning my sorrows in a waffle cup of Cold Stone Creamery, and it took every ounce of my being to choke back the tears.
While this business of infertility sucks the Royal Suck, I am beyond blessed to be fighting the battle with my favorite person.
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It isn’t the entire story, but it’s a decent chunk of it. This sums up my day better than any photo ever could. Of course, if I get a brilliant idea to illustrate this day, I’ll grace you with TWO 365 photos today. Read from the bottom up. What, that’s not normal?
I had a blue raspberry Icee tonight from Target. It was delish, and it made my tongue blue. As you can see, I’m all about bright colors today, so my blue tongue was perfect.
As you can also see, I’m holding back a cat’s tail, as Rocky was pacing across the sink in front of me as I attempted to take this photo in the bathroom mirror. Have I ever told you how he only drinks from faucets?
