by The Wannabe Mom
I was cleaning out my inbox today and I found an old picture my girlfriend took and e-mailed me last spring.
She titled it “We Are Margaritas!!!” because we probably drank 20 between the four of us that night. It was the first warm night in a long time and one led to two which led to three…mmmmm.
You know those nights.
Anyways, as I opened the file and looked at that picture of my hubby and myself, I started to cry. Right there in my office — tears streaming down my face.
That seems like ages ago. We looked happy. We looked carefree. We looked alive.
That picture was before we were really trying to get pregnant. It was back when I thought we could just have some sex and make a baby. It was before I was nervous, on-edge, crabby, hormonal and mentally drained.
All. The. Time.
Trying to get pregnant for months and months drains you. It drains your husband. It stomps on that fabulous-fun girl and happy-go-lucky guy you once were. It takes away all the pleasure in making love to your mate and replaces it with counting and timing and drugs and worry and despair and sadness and loss.
Every month when you start your period there’s bleeding, and that bleeding brings emotions that are indescribable. And it’s a loss. Every month. A loss.
Since that picture was taken, I’ve transformed into a machine. A bad machine. I only go through the motions. I’m so focused on the prize (a positive pregnancy test) that I’ve forgotten the reason for all my hard work.
I love my husband. I love myself. I want to produce a little piece of both of us for the world to enjoy. But, is it worth turning myself into a bad machine to get there? And, once I get there will I revert back to that fabulous-fun girl in the picture?
Or what if IT NEVER HAPPENS?
What then?
I’ve stopped counting days and taking my temperature every morning. I’m protesting online message boards and reading any book about fertility. I’m trying to have sex with my husband whenever the urge strikes, and not just because it’s “Cycle Day 10, 12, 13, 14 and 16.”
I’m trying to relax.
Although hearing anyone suggest I “relax and not try too hard” makes me want to spit nails — no offense. I’m trying to work-out again and hoping to bring back those rosy cheeks I had in that picture and get rid of these new rosy “cheeks” I’ve had growing on my backside since then.
It’s tough, though. I don’t know that any of those changes can bring the fun girl back. Infertility is something that changes you — I hope not a forever-kind-of-change.
But, a change nonetheless.
It sucks the fun right out of you and your mate. It robs you of your fabulous-fun life. Now, I look at recent pictures of us, and instead of “We Are Margaritas!!!” I see “We are Infertile!!!” Ugh, that’s not a picture anyone wants to see.
So, help me out. In honor of warm spring nights on outdoor patios and yet another cycle — bust — raise your tequila-filled, salt-rimmed glasses and join me in a toast. Here’s to all of us–The Fabulous-Fun-Girls.
May this next cycle (or this tequila) bring us back to life.
Cheers.