I turned thirty-one last Sunday. I am no longer a newbie on the thirty train, I just passed the first station and while some people got off, other people got on. I was supposed to be thirty-six weeks along if my first pregnancy had not been lost and we would have our baby about a month from now. Back in March and April, I remember how I thought about my next birthday and how I would have a belly that was so big, it would look like a balloon that was about to burst. I imagined myself awkwardly walking along, grabbing my back and huffing and puffing, yelling obscenities to everyone to make them slow down. I vividly imagined myself as an almost due character in The Sims. But I would feel so proud. And I could not get my mind off celebrating Christmas while nursing our baby. Sitting next to the decorated tree and marvel at the beautiful being we had created. But he/she will not be there.
We celebrated my birthday on the 20th. We met my close family–grand mum, dad, mum, sister and partner–went to shop and had a nice dinner together. I even got my own name and sparklers on the chocolate cake my husband organized. I love sparklers. It was a great time, but I had this strong feeling of sadness. I did not want my family to see me cry, so I cannot count the times I had to fight back the tears that afternoon and evening. I walked around and shopped as if I was just a spectator, watching myself go into all the shops, feeling like the arm that stretched out to have a closer look at a dress was not mine… I was noticing pregnant women and maternity clothes everywhere. I was seeing young mums push around prams that had tiny hands and feet sticking out. I felt like nothing could get worse, if it already was this bad. Except when I tried to fit myself into some clothes. I would look at myself in the mirror and feel disgusted. I would see my stomach and my tummy and feel super-sized. I would stare at my pimple-ridden face and wonder why in Dickens’ name that acne kept popping up. I would notice the blue veins on my breasts that have been there since August and lose all hope for the validity of any future pregnancy symptoms. I would look deep into my own eyes and think: ‘What a waste!’ And I felt sorry for myself.
I stumbled upon a post written by Sunny from Cease and Decyst and agreed totally. The worst advice you can give someone with infertility problems is ‘try and not to think about it.’ I know my grand mum, my mum and my sister, who all dealt with miscarriage themselves, are just trying to help and be nice about it—The one month I did not think about it at all, is the month I fell pregnant—but in all honesty, it makes things worse for me. How can I not think about it, when it is the one thing I really want? When I put it over career opportunities? When, when people ask me what I would like for my birthday, the only thing that comes to mind is a sticky bean? And when I would not care if they would take everything I own away from me if I could just have a healthy baby. When it is haunting my every being? Every moment of the day. Every single second.
The problem with me, I think, is that the people close to me do not see it as an infertility problem. I fall pregnant every single try, so how can it be infertility related? The other day, I got very upset with my dad, who is a male nurse, when we were instant messaging and he wrote: ‘I think you should just continue to try to conceive for about a year. If you are not pregnant by then, you could get help.’ And later on he added: ‘Maybe they might find something. APS or a blood clotting disorder. Or maybe you are just ‘too fertile.” Too fertile? My body does not make a difference between low- and high-quality embryos and is very good at letting everything implant? Well, that is some consolation!
I am too fertile? Really?