You. You are so tricky.

God, the past 10 days have been too full of emotion. I have a serious love for rollercoasters, but it’s the ones with seatbelts and a defined beginning and end that get me jazzed.

Not this emotional rollercoaster you have me riding.

This recent ride started with what felt like a brief intermission – you know, the break you take around a big curve before zooming into another quick series of ups and downs. Instead, it was a break before a tall, soaring view of the world.

When that second line showed up on Saturday morning, I was sitting on the top of the world. God, the view was AMAZING.

Then Monday afternoon’s news of a possible second chemical pregnancy came, and I was plummeting down to the ground, feeling like my seatbelt had come undone and waiting for my body to smack into the ground, hoping someone would be kind enough to clean up the pieces.

The time between Monday and Wednesday is a blur.

Outwardly, I had accepted that the pregnancy was ending. That is what my body was telling me, after all. It’s hard to ignore the pain I’ve only ever had when my body is ridding itself of a failed pregnancy. I let others do the out-loud hoping for me, not wanting to participate in their hopefulness. It just hurt too much to show them the truth.

Inwardly, I clung to every speck of hope, despite what was so obvious. I begged and pleaded. Then I fell silent.

I don’t know if it was the peace and comfort I (and so many others) had been praying for or if it was my mind’s way of protecting itself from pain. At first, it might have been protection, but on Thursday, it was pretty clear.

Comfort. Peace. Acceptance.

They were all there, ready and waiting. Waking up Thursday felt like someone had laid out a crisp new outfit for me to wear. The old outfit was crumpled on the floor at my feet, but the new one was clean and beautiful and perfect for the day.

God, 10 days ago I knew I couldn’t go through the motions of another medically assisted cycle right away. I knew I needed a break – at least one cycle. On Wednesday, I couldn’t fathom jumping back into it after only just one cycle away from the stress of trying and the pain of another loss.

On Thursday, one break cycle seemed like it couldn’t come and go soon enough so I could get back to business. If it weren’t for the consultation we have scheduled on April 19 and not wanting to feel pressure to make a quick decision based on the visit because of a ticking clock, I would be excited to try again.

So soon.

God, how do you do it? How do you tear me down and build me up in a matter of days? I hope it’s you and not me. If it’s me, I’ll be forced to question my sanity. If it’s you? Wow.

I’m not sure how this loss will affect me in the days and months to come, but I know the pain from the first is still fresh. That due date is still set in my mental calendar. The countdown is still ticking away. I’ve made peace with you for our losses, but I still have to make peace with the would-be babies and with myself.

That’s kind of strange, isn’t it?

All of this is strange, this business of infertility.

Don’t be too jaded; don’t be too hopeful; don’t be so cautious that you don’t enjoy any of the good; don’t be so carefree that you take the good for granted. Trust enough in you to help but don’t expect you to do everything for me.

God, I am so thankful for the strength and ability I have to write about our infertility. It’s a subject that is near impossible to talk about with others without first dragging them through a rigorous screening process. The hurt, the sadness, the helplessness – they’re so raw in those fighting infertility. Any caring person granted audience to a person’s battle with infertility must find it so difficult to be patient and just listen. I know from experience talking with some that just that is impossible. They are so quick to jump in and interrupt with murmurs of comfort, reasons they grab from thin air diagnosing the cause, uneducated suggestions on how to fix all the problems.

Such conversations are hurtful because it’s painfully obvious the words meant for comfort are nothing more than a tourniquet. They wrap the words around forcefully in an attempt to stop the pain they see, not realizing the remedy is doing more bad than good.

I realize that I’ve received more thoughtful, effective comfort from the people who read this blog – friends, family and strangers alike. My words written here force readers to be patient and digest what I’m saying, what I’m feeling. Facing a computer screen rather than my face relieves them of the pressure to say or do something to help right then and there, to stop my pain.

People get it when they take the time to listen.

God, I pray for patience in others who know and love someone facing infertility. I pray that they can detach themselves long enough from having to bounce emotion back to actually listen to and understand what their loved ones are going through.

Not everyone has the courage or drive to write like I do, but everyone does have the need to be understood and comforted.

Without this blog, I would feel so alone. I know it isn’t the platform I put myself on, though, that gives me the sense of understanding. It’s the time this blog forces people to take to relax, read and understand what I’m going through. It’s the patience that’s forced on them that allows them the time to form good, sound advice and words of comfort rather than the quickest thing they can think of to fix the pain.

You’re teaching me a good deal of patience on this journey, so I pray that you grant the same lesson to others – both those facing infertility and those who can help their loved once not face it alone.

Yours,
Jenny