The last time I wrote a post for this blog was the first week of December. I wrote about how I'd really love to just tell someone flat out how inappropriate her asking me every month if I was pregnant was.
The ironic thing, I was actually pregnant at the time. I was five weeks six days pregnant. Miraculously our first round of IVF had worked. We would see our baby's heart beat for the first time two days later. And in two weeks I would have a D&C because our baby had died at seven weeks three days, one week before Christmas, one week before we had planned to surprise our families with the wonderful news we'd been gleefully keeping secret since Thanksgiving.
Two months later, a month ago Saturday, our second round of IVF would also miscarry.
Part of me wants to scream it all from the roof tops. Women need to know they are not alone with infertility. People need to understand why it is I won't go to that activity or can't do them that favor right now. I'm barely keeping my head above water most days, and the other days I'm only not drowning because my husband is holding me above water.
And the other part of me does not want to deal with the constant pity and questions and platitudes that don't do any good and often times actually hurt.
The two things I want right now are to be pregnant with a baby I'll get to wrap in a quilt and finish my dissertation proposal (in that order). But I'd settle for insurance coverage that covers more than just two IVF tries in your lifetime.
This was so not the post I planned to write today. Which means either you needed to read it or I needed to write it. I promise my next one will be happier.