I know what I want to say in this post but I don’t want to write it because it’s difficult to actually verbalise.
You see, the word “can’t” isn’t usually in my vocabularly. I don’t like to say it about myself, it makes me feel weak. If I “can’t do something” then I’ll learn. I’ll do it, there is no such thing as using the word as an excuse in my life.
However, lately, I’ve been admitting that I can’t do something and that something is to have another baby.
I find myself in a place where I have to acknowledge it is most definitely not going to happen. If someone could guarantee me that after six or twelve months of naturopathy, accupuncture and fertility meds that I would get pregnant and nine months later hold a healthy baby in my arms then I wouldn’t hesitate. Twelve months of hell for a baby? No problem. Except, I can’t be guaranteed that.
I recently heard myself admit to friends that “I can get pregnant but I can’t keep them”. This kind of hit me and I had to break eye contact and quickly compose myself. That sentence, that word.
I. Can’t. Keep. Them.
And yet I did. Once. A miracle. My world. My Little Man.
But that doesn’t change the here and now. The fact that I have to go on birth control due to my PCOS means I am firmly closing that door. The day I get my prescription will be one that takes the wind out of me.
Oh how I wish I could be one of those people that could just wait and see what happens but no. The journey of infertility and losing four babies doesn’t create enough grief for people like me so one last sucker punch to the heart is in order.
Combine this with a few pregnancy announcements and it’s like falling overboard into the salted sea with a huge open wound that is your entire body.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay. I just need a big cry before I make that doctors appointment.
Until next time,