Um. Hi.

December 8, 2011 at 2:25 pm | Posted in And I ran (I ran so far away), Infertility, Moving On. | 21 Comments

I realized this morning, as I was doing lap swim at my gym.

I miss this space.

I started another blog – one that’s more fitness related. I do talk about O and J and our life together, but mostly it’s about my running goals. (Well, mostly the fact that I can’t run right now – tendonitis from the marathon I ran in October.)

I did a post on it about the whole Penn State/Sandusky scandal, and decided to post it on Facebook.

Turns out the Internet is a really big place. I had a ridiculous amount of hits that day. And comments.

And that blog had its 15 minutes of fame.

Thing is. Strangers read that post, and comment there. So it doesn’t really feel SAFE there, not really. I miss this space, where I know my readers.

And I miss being able to be open about IF.

I miss you all.

Last night I had dinner with a friend of mine, who is also struggling with IF. And over dinner, we talked about cycling, and how after being knocked down so many times the idea that hope is a good thing is totally turned upside-down.

Because when you’ve gone through so many years with so much failure, it’s hard to believe in hope. Instead, when you look at an upcoming cycle, you just see overwhelming sadness.

Because hope is just another way for you to get hurt again. You’re left at the end of a cycle beating yourself up for hoping that maybe this time was the time that you might get lucky. When instead, you should have spent that time, money, and energy into doing something that makes you feel GOOD.

Like maybe running a marathon.

Because that’s what happened to me. Thirteen transfer days with three positive betas.

One living, gorgeous, part-of-me child to show for it.

And back in May, when I got that last negative from our fresh cycle, I lost all faith in ART. I lost faith in my doctor. In my body. In the universe. In everything.

It’s taken months for me to work through the Suck of Failure.

I channeled it into my training program. And though running the Marine Corps Marathon in October was by far the hardest thing I have ever done, physically and mentally… it gave me some peace to know that I wasn’t a complete Failure.

And once I started feeling better, nailing long runs, seeing the shorter runs get faster, feeling the flow of endorphins after a long hard workout, I started to understand.

I had no control over our infertility.

Getting pregnant. Not getting pregnant. There’s NOTHING I could have done to change what happened (and didn’t happen).

I think I’m finally beginning to understand that.

I’m not okay. Not really. I wish I could come back and be like, Yay! I’m all better!

I am in some ways. I’ve started to part with baby clothing and items, donating them to family and friends in the hopes that someone will get use out of them.

I’ve started to really accept that our family is the three of us, Me, O, and J, and start to look forward to the trips we can make.

I’ve planned new running goals in 2012 (time-based personal records in distances from the half marathon down to 5ks) and 2013 (another marathon. I wanted to do another within 48 hours of finishing MCM!).

I AM moving on, slowly but surely.

I’m not okay, though, too. Like when I got to hold J’s cousin’s new baby, a tiny bundle of newborn sweetness that fell asleep right in my arms.

I’m not okay when I see pregnancy announcements on Facebook.

I wasn’t okay when I tried to go through O’s newborn – nine month clothes and saw all the sleepers and onesies I remembered sorting through when I was pregnant with him and his room was The Yellow Room Which Will Be The Nursery. It hurt so damn much. So I just closed up the bin and put it back in the attic.


I wasn’t okay when we got the notice from our clinic that we had until January 1 to decide what we wanted to do with our three frozen embryos.

I need to move on. I need closure.

But. I can’t discard the embryos. Or donate them. What kind of mother would I be if I just threw them away?

So we decided to do one last transfer. Discard them in the only place that gives me peace. My Ute.

I’ve spent the past I don’t know how long pretending that this wasn’t happening.

Until yesterday, when they called me to tell me that the transfer will be happening tomorrow.

I cannot bear to even pretend to hope that this will work.

Because for me, hope is sadness. Overwhelming sadness. Sadness for all the hopes dashed, the babies that weren’t. The hopes and dreams for my family that were dashed in pieces on the floor so many times.

But I’m sucking it up and doing this last transfer. And when it doesn’t work out, I’ll know that what we have now – me, O, and J – is what I was meant to have.


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  1. I understand not wanting to hope. I can hope for you though.

    And I do hope that the outcome you get from this cycle is peace, in whatever form that takes.

  2. I’ve missed you, and I’m hoping for you. xo

  3. Well, that’s a hell of a secret you’ve been keeping from all of us! I can understand the need to do this to bring closure, though. At my old job, clients or staff would screw up, and I’d always give them another chance, and they’d screw up again. Then my boss or HR would chide me, “see, you were too nice! you didn’t really need to give them another chance!” But I did, because then I was sure the outcome was the right one. And I think it’s the same for you, here. Of course, I am *really* hoping we’re in for 9 months of hearing pregnancy worries, but barring that, I’m hoping this transfer gives you a sense of closure and no more wondering “what if”.

    I also hope that in time, the strangers go away from the other blog, and it can be a place you can really express yourself. I think it’ll happen.

  4. Well I AM hoping for you!!! I have tears reading this post, because I could have written it.. I need to email you.. xoxoxo!

  5. Oh gosh. You know how to come back with a wallop…I am in tears for you. I think several of us have said this…we will hope for you.

    I believe you are right–no matter what–you have done what you can. And more.


  6. I understand the feeling of hope turned upside down…and how hard it is to hold onto true hope.

    So, I’ll hold on to hope for you. And pray for you and J for whatever the future holds.

  7. I can understand how it feels having embryos frozen and doing that mental tango. It’s not an easy choice, but at least you will have seen the journey to completion. I wish you strength. Please keep us updated.

  8. I have missed you- I read your other blog, but it hasn’t been the same.

    I will hold some hope in my heart for you. I totally understand needing to give the embryos their chance.


  9. I can understand not having hope anymore amidst all the cycle failures. So let us hope and believe for you as you focus on getting through the next couple of weeks.

    And, however this turns out I hope you get the closure you need.

  10. I hope peace for you, in whatever form it comes.

  11. Miss you too. I understand the need for closure, and why those embryos are an important factor in getting closure. I’ll step up and hope for you as well.

  12. I was excited to see you pop up on my reader — never thought that it would be about this. Keeping you in my thoughts.

  13. Hugs man. Nothing but hugs! Here’s to peace replacing sadness in whatever way that happens.

  14. This is my first time reading your blog, and it struck such a nerve. Thank you for your honesty. I’m in a different position. I probably could conceive, but my husband doesn’t want to. The reason may be different but I suspect the “how” we each come to terms with having only one beautiful child will be quite similar. I’ll pour myself into my daughter. I’ll give myself the gift of exercise, I’ll savour the smell of my friends second and third children.
    I hope that this transfer works for you tomorrow… If it does not, at least you don’t hold it against your husband for saying no.

  15. I miss you too. I have the same problem deciding what to do with my frozen embryos. Good luck. I hope you find the peace you are looking for, whatever the outcome.

  16. I think you are absolutely doing the right thing. You will never have to say “I wish we had” or “what if we did”. There will be a sense of finality (one way or the other) that will help you get another little piece of yourself back.

    (I can’t believe I clicked the link to your blog today KNOWING that you stopped blogging here.)

  17. I am glad you’re having the transfer and that way, you will know in your heart that you’ve run the entire gamut and done everything you can. And regardless of the outcome, your friends will always be here. Many hugs to you as you move forward, on all of the paths that you have before you!

  18. I kept you in my reader…just in case. 🙂 I hope whatever happens, you find peace. And I hope you have a joyous holiday season!

  19. Wishing you much luck and peace!

  20. So glad to see you post here! I’m behind – as always, but always glad to see you a post from you! 🙂 *hugs*

  21. welcome back! good luck in your cycle and it’s great to hear from you…

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