Two Years, Two Pregnancies, Two Miscarriages
Trying to conceive has been — among other, mostly shitty things — a case study in jealousy. Of course, it didn’t start out that way. But two years later, what began as a hopeful, romantic, beautiful thing has turned desperate and dark.
But let me start at the beginning.
Me and the best guy I know started trying to produce another above-average person after our third wedding anniversary. At that point, we had each other, the house and the dogs. And although I knew miscarriages and infertility were a possibility, I hoped that for us, conceiving would be the simplest, quietest thing.
And it was for a moment. I got pregnant the first time pretty quickly — three or four months in. That seven-week pregnancy existed in my consciousness, in our world, for 17 days. Throughout these 700-plus days of trying (and mostly failing), those 17 have been the best of them all. And they are what all of my remaining hope is tied to.
For months after my miscarriage, I teeter-tottered between anger and emptiness, all the while we kept trying to conceive again. I got pregnant the second time a few months later, just as I was starting to feel like myself. Clearly, I thought, I must actually be good at this pregnancy stuff and that first incident was just a fluke. Quickly I came to realize, or at the very least to feel, that yes, that first incident was a fluke, but not in the way I had hoped. My second pregnancy ended before I even got the chance to tell my husband that it began. But I didn’t mourn that loss, not like I had the first one. I didn’t have the energy.
I thought I was emotionally drained then.
That was over a year ago now and my second miscarriage, that second, unintentionally secret pregnancy, was the last positive we’ve had.
Despite these two pregnancies, I’ve never heard a heartbeat or felt a kick. I haven’t made a joyful announcement to family and friends. I haven’t bought maternity clothes or diapers. And despite two pregnancies, I am not a mom. No, I do not have children.
But I have seen sonograms, seemingly hundreds. And I’ve bought baby clothes. So many tiny onesies for kids I can love, but can’t claim — kids that won’t have my husband’s smile or my screeching laugh. I’ve been to more baby showers than I can count, and at any given time I can name every pregnant celebrity couple and every pregnant fictional couple like a prodigy staffer at E! News.
Most of the time, I am okay. I love my family, and my friends, and even my unbelievably fertile Facebook friends. More often than not, I know that the world will be a better place because of these children born to really lovely people.
Watching good things happen to good people should be… just simply good. But sometimes it hurts like hell.
As I type this, I’m sitting in a coffee shop not so discreetly staring at a beautiful blonde woman with her maybe one-month-old son, while the Clomid prescription I’m supposed to start tomorrow rattles around in my bag. Oddly enough, the narrative I write in my head for her is one of struggle, her and her partner fighting tooth and nail for years to get that gorgeous, toe-headed boy. Not that I would ever wish this shit on anyone, but I want to feel good things toward her, and that’s the thing about infertility — it forever endears you to the reproductive underdogs. Likewise, it can drive a wedge of resentment between you and those for whom it comes easily, and even accidentally.
When my brother and his wife announced their own pregnancy at a family dinner out in March, I had to excuse myself to the restroom. That night was one of the lowest I’ve had. Not only did it feel like a punch in the gut to know that everything I’d been dreaming of experiencing throughout a pregnancy with my family would happen, just not for us, but I also felt guilty about my complicated feelings. Their baby is due in November and I can’t wait to meet my niece or nephew, but I am still jealous.
I’m learning to accept these complicated feelings as a side effect of my condition. Other side effects include but are not limited to: changes in vocabulary (basal body temperature, luteal phase, anovulatory cycle, etc.), obsessive calendar tracking, decreased Target desires (if you haven’t noticed, Target is all babies, all the time), spontaneous intoxication, decreased patience, unusual mating rituals and an uncontrollable full body spasm triggered by the phrase “just relax.”
On the upside, I no longer covet that $400 handcrafted bag you posted on Instagram or anybody’s fancy new phone/tablet/computer/watch/surgically implanted tracking device. Maybe I haven’t become less jealous, I’ve just shifted focus. The reality is, infertility has changed me. One day, hopefully, so will pregnancy and parenthood.
For information on infertility, visit Resolve.org.
And for what not to say to someone battling infertility, start here.
