But she's two now. She's two, and she loves babies. She's two and she talks to her stroller. She's two and even though she doesn't understand the concept well enough to express it, she desperately wants a sibling. And I desperately want to give her one. So we started the journey again. I was a little hesitant at first. I wondered if it would be as emotionally difficult as it was the first time, and how I would manage that and motherhood at the same time. I didn't want my struggles to dampen my relationship with my sweet girl.
After my first appointment with my new doctor however, I threw caution to the wind. Not only was she knowledgable in infertility and PCOS specifically, but she listened to me too. Because of my past experiences, I knew what worked with my body and what did not. I didn't want to mess around with anything that was just going to be a waste of time and she was totally on board. I told her that I knew it was a long shot, but ideally I would like to be pregnant within the next three months and she was in my corner ready to "get aggressive". I left that day walking on air. I just *knew* things were going to be so much easier this time and I would be pregnant in a few short months, certainly by fall. That was in March of last year.
We've had mixed results with the treatments. Sometimes they get my body to do what it's supposed to do, sometimes they don't. Then, one time, success! It was a very happy time; unfortunately it was also a very brief time. It ended in July. I didn't deal with it very well, in fact I didn't really deal with it at all. Except for Allen and my mom, I told no one. I don't like pity and didn't want any sympathetic "how ARE you?"'s. I also tried to pretend it didn't happen by just keeping my nose to the grindstone and soldiering on. If I stayed busy enough I wouldn't have to acknowledge that it happened.
Which made it convenient that just a couple of weeks later Lyla and I would take a long car ride and two airplanes to a week and a half in South Carolina for a family reunion. It was wonderful and horrible all at the same time. The stress of that kind of a vacation, essentially on my own with a toddler, was enough to make me a little crazy. Getting away was nice and spending time with family we rarely get to see was fun of course. It was the first time for most of them to meet miss L which was so fun, even if she did spend the majority of the time with her face buried in my neck. But I could never really relax because even if I wasn't getting Lyla bathed, or dressed, or just not crying, or trying desperately to get her to eat ANYTHING other than fruit snacks, it was there. Even if she was happily playing with her Papa, and I was fed and dressed and managing, barely, to keep up with my large extended family (none of which had had babies in over a decade) I could feel the grief right on my heels. Even when I had nothing to do but sit on the beach and relax, I was exhausted with desperately attempting escape.
Now that I think about, I don't think I ever stopped running, I just got better at hiding.
In October we took a break from treatment. I didn't want to, and it was only after many tears and a couple of fights that I agreed to it. My reasoning was that I could deal with disappointment as long as we continued to be proactive. I've never been good at sitting on my hands when there was a problem to be solved. Looking back I think I was afraid that if I stopped running full speed toward my next baby, the grief of the lost one would finally catch me. And boy did it. But my poor husband. He had been so strong for so long. Through the two years of trying to conceive Lyla he had been so stoic. Every time I fell to pieces he patiently helped put me together again and not once during that time did he fall apart himself. Even after our loss in July, he was nothing but support without ever asking or requiring anything of me. But infertility is hard and it takes its toll in so many ways. It's one of those things that I don't think anyone fully understands until they've been through the trenches of it themselves. It sucks. And this second time around was getting to him much more than the first time did.
The doctor said it was fine as long as we didn't wait more than three months to start treatments again. It did turn out to be nice timing to take a break for the holidays. If you don't have any experience with fertility treatments, even the most basic approaches require a lot of time, energy, and mental space. In my case I take one pill for 5 days, urine tests for 7 days, another pill for the remainder of the cycle, go in for a blood test a week later, and back for an exam a week after that. Every month. Not to mention trying to precisely time things that, let's face it, are much better left to spontenaiety.
The last three months have been difficult, to say the least. Aside from the stress and usual blues that accompany this time of year, I've struggled. I don't really want to go into much more detail about that. I only mention it because it relates to the title of this post and my request. Through both of my infertility journeys I have struggled, especially in my darkest times, with finding hope. Before Lyla, I had reached a point of desperation. The struggle I had kept so close to my chest, I was now willing to tell to almost anyone who would listen. When I shared with family, friends, visiting teachers, etc. what we were going through I asked for the only thing anyone can really give in these kinds of situations. Hope. Prayers. Fasts. Good thoughts and wishes sent out into the universe. Whatever it is you do to find hope, would you do that for me? For us? The difference it made last time was tangible. I could literally feel the wave of hope swell within my heart. Now that same hope walks and talks and breathes. She loves butterfly kisses and tells me I'm her "bes fren". When I come home from somewhere, anywhere, she looks into my eyes, strokes my hair, and whispers "Mommy, you home".
Today I started treatments again. The truth is I wrote this more for myself than anyone else. To process some pain, but also to remind myself. To remind myself to seek hope and to remember that miracles do happen. Have happened, to me, in my life! And will happen again. But if you have a moment, and you think of me, would you hope for me too?
