And the sun sets...

"I guess I really am infertile" ~Tamara Blaich

"Well, your test result is negative."

Just 6 words is all it takes to bring your world crashing down, smash your heart to pieces, and bring worse pain than any endometrial biopsy or endometriosis ever could.  I can honestly say I never thought I'd be here.  Although, I never thought I'd have trouble having a baby to begin with, so I guess it's a given.

I've just gone through the granddaddy of all fertility treatments and failed.  This must put me in a new category of elite infertile.  It's not like I fizzled out and failed.  I crashed and burned.  I have nothing to fall back on, no frozen embryos.  I've almost killed as many babies as the Atlanta Child Killer. I've lost 17.  I'm no closer to being a mother than I was 18 months ago.  So what now?

Now, you just cry.  You try to get it together long enough to ask the doctor a few questions, but then you can't remember what you asked or what was even said.  You clutch your chest as if that will hold the pieces of your heart together.  You bawl when your mother packs up your medicine and needles because it really is over.  You offer your husband a freebie divorce, again.  You wait for your period/miscarriage to start, again.  You pray you survive it's wrath, again.  But mostly you just breathe.

It's a chore right now, breathing.  I have to concentrate to pull enough air in because it feels like someone is sitting on my chest.  I have to think about taking one breath at a time.  I'm not bawling when I'm focused on breathing. So that is what I do, just breathe.  Despite the struggle and stopped-up nose, I'm a successful breather, and that is something.

You can't distract yourself with television.  There's a Pampers ad, a Tampax ad, a First Response ad, and even a Plan B ad as if you'd ever be so fortunate to have an unplanned pregnancy.  All reminders about how everybody else can have what they want or hell, don't want, and you can't.  You, ma'am, you are different. You must wait because it is still not your turn.

You can't walk because the children in your neighborhood are playing and laughing and you'll just have a panic attack.  You can't have a drink because that is something you can do differently this time.  You can't go shopping because someone is pushing a stroller, patting their pregnant belly, and holding their screaming child's hand.  You can't go out because you look and feel like hell.  You can't call anyone because you can't complete a sentence.

Your mother longs for you to get over this hurdle because she has a sneaky suspicion you knew all along anyway.  Your husband wants desperately for you to be happy again.  You just want to live through the minute, hour and possibly even the week.  Your doctor wants you to take some time.  As if 16 months is not enough time.  What do I do with this time?  Think about how hard my life has become?  Think about how many of my teenage students will get pregnant this school year?  Think about all the abused children out there? Pray to a God I'm not sure is listening?

That's not fair...He is listening.  I'm pretty sure He's the only thing keeping me going at this point.

For now we mourn that which will never be.  Those two clumps of beautiful potential.  The only children I've ever had the honor of carrying if even for such a short time.

We love you and can't wait to meet you on the other side.

So I move forward.  I keep breathing.  I understand that I have an army of 17 little angels who will all be behind their mommy and daddy for the rest of their time.  I have a husband who wants to fight this with me a little more.  I have breath, therefore I have hope.

"We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey." ~Kenji Miyazawa

Mary Katherine