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Good Morning, Infertility

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a blog by Murgdan

It is unbelievable to me how much my life suddenly seems to revolve around infertility. I see the world through infertility-colored glasses, yet struggle not to define myself by it. It seems to be the first thing I think about in the morning, and the thing that leaves my mind racing and unable to rest at night.

Right now there is no testing. No treatment. There is just me and my husband . . . and our infertility. Infertility is in the bed when we wake up in the morning. She is a part of every conversation, mentioned or not. She is there when we go out to dinner with friends and watch their children run around the house with an energy we are not familiar with. She is in the sideways glance and pitying gaze of acquaintances when the subject of pregnancy arises.

She comes to work with me. Infertility walks with me through the doors of my hospital where, as a nurse, I see groups of very pregnant women taking a tour of the Women's Center, planning their birth experience. She is with me when I meet new colleagues, and answers defensively when they ask me, "So, do you have any kids?" She then leaves work with me and watches new families tuck their shiny new car seats loaded with bundles of joy into the back seat of the family SUV.

Infertility sits next to me at every meal and tells me what I should and should not ingest. She shakes her head disapprovingly at my carbohydrate intake. She wags her finger at every alcoholic beverage I drink. She steps on the scale with me as I struggle to reach a BMI that won’t leave my RE shaking his head when he looks at my chart. She inspires a new diet, and then gleefully sabotages it after just a few short weeks.

She sits at my desk. She writes with me. She hopes with me. She cries with me. Infertility is closer to me than any person has ever been; a constant companion that I can’t wait to banish from my existence. She is a life-changing book that I long to bury on the bottom of the bookshelf. Infertility has simultaneously killed me and given me life.

She has taught me about despair . . . and hope.

Comments (4)

Okay, I don't actually keep a diary. I know exactly what you're saying here, though. I am so tired of it. That's why we're taking this break right now.

I can tell you, though, that it will get to the point where you just roll with it. You'll do shots and whatnot without really thinking about it much. I don't know how it happens, but eventually it becomes an automatic thing, and you are free to think of other things.

Then, if you're unlucky enough for it to take more than one or two tries, it creeps up on you again. Of course, we're not going to let that happen to you! I'm hoping with all my heart that you succeed the first time. You so deserve it!

~ Dawn

And, yet again, you wrote it perfectly.

Infertility is my shadow that follows me everywhere. I try to ditch the bitch, but she seems to find me no matter how many alleys I try to run down and garbage cans I try to hide behind. She is there. I hate her.

She is a bit omnipresent isn't she.

But whilst I would much, much rather we'd never met, she has taught me a lot.

Damn her.

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