Today marks one year since our first appointment with our fertility specialist. Four or five years of trying, depending on your definition or perspective.
One year, one miscarriage and one, so far, very successful pregnancy.
When we started this process I was devouring information in forums and infertility sites and had gotten so pessimistic about our chances given my personal reproductive challenges. Every day I read about multiple miscarriages and failed cycles. Every day I sat reading and trying to figure out how to get my head around the possibility of not having kids and the life I would create once that became a fact. Every day I belonged to a club I didn’t want to belong to along with millions of other women.
Well, this is for those ladies.
A success story. It worked. Four cycles and two pregnancies. This after being told that it would be nearly impossible since I was 25 and not concerned. Being told it would nearly impossible once I was concerned and wanted a family. I faced new issues every time I conquered an old issue. I had multiple D&Cs. I lost so much weight to make my body more susceptible to the pregnancy. The weight loss, as dramatic as it was, stopped all hormone manufacturing and never bounced back. Those hormones I stopped producing were the ones I needed to get pregnant. Fibroids, heart-shaped uterus, acute hyperplasia, uterine cancer, hormonal deficiencies, early on-set menopause. All words I would Google to try an assess my chances. All words that would lead me down the “it’s just not meant to be” path.
I had/have one doctor who would not let me give up and she gathered the best Germany had to offer.
I sit here and bitch about being uncomfortable and tired and sick and unable to have a cocktail that I so desperately want right now. But I bitch because I can. I am very grateful for this pregnancy and all the work my team of doctors did to get me here. Without medical intervention, Loki would never have been and I wouldn’t be worrying about birth or his head size or how cute his little paws are when they push out on my stomach even though its really uncomfortable.
Even though I’m scared shitless, even though I complain incessantly about not sleeping or sore hips or gigantic boobs, I’m just so grateful I can’t express it in words. I get all choked up. It’s not the pregnancy hormones, its the depth in which I feel so lucky, like I missed a bullet, like I was good enough. I never feel good enough.
Today, as I sat with the midwife going over how breathe through the pain, I reflected back one year and thought, “Wow. I never would have thought I’d be here, planning the birth of a kid, my kid.”
Well, I am.