I'm Trying

Once you have your first child, and that first child starts abandoning infancy for the world of toddler hood, or yet as it is now for me, preschooler age, it's most certainly unavoidable that everyone will start asking you that inevitable question; "So when is the next one coming?" They'll ask with a spark in their eye, innocently prodding for information as a means to make general conversation. And I'm guilty of this too, I've asked this very question to friends and acquaintances alike without a second thought. I know that overall it's a harmless question, but truth is, I never know quite how to answer that question when it's directed at me.

It's not that the question looms over me because I've never yet considered another child, I've sought out parenthood with the intention to include more than one, but because how do I answer the question when I have no control over the matter. I find myself constantly answering with an awkward, "As soon as it can happen," for that's the only hope I have.

From the time Abel was born we wholehearted welcomed the idea of adding to our family as soon as it could happen, because we knew the complications that we face regarding infertility issues, Abel himself being conceived by aid of fertility drugs and months of acupuncture treatments. So we decided directly after his birth that we would let nature have it's way in hopes that surely within the next few years following, we would be pregnant again, and better yet, naturally.

And it did happen!

Once.

I think that is why I still struggle with our miscarriage even though it's been over two years, the loss still felt just as deeply now as then. My body had beat it's odds, and just that once it did what it was designed to do. Only it couldn't carry it. What a slap in the face. I blame myself. Blame this diseased body with which I was cursed. It felt like a cruel joke, especially for it to happen on such a momentous occasion such as Abel's first birthday. Every year my heart experiences the joy of celebrating the anniversary of my first child's birth, and the sadness that it shares the anniversary of my second child's loss.

After that loss that is when my obsession began. My deep, and dark, secret world of closet pregnancy testing. Sometimes several times per day, just because, 'what if...'

What if there is some sort of possibility. It said negative yesterday, but it may read positive today. Just because it showed one line this morning doesn't mean I won't see two lines tonight. I am obsessed. I buy tests and hide them. I use them then hide their evidence in the garbage, every negative reading becoming a constant reminder, almost too painful to look at. I hold each one under every light possible, at every angle, straining my eyes in hopes that somehow, some way, it's really a faint positive. I even go as far as taking the test apart to get to the test strip beyond the plastic window, and do the same.

Robin would think me crazy if he knew just how often this happens, and perhaps I am. Sometimes he'll see a test in the garbage, and offer me his, "I'm sorry." Maybe I should be labelled as crazy. All I know is I'm so terrified of being pregnant and not knowing it, and I've got to know right away. I got to do things differently than last time. I've got to hold onto this one because it may be my last chance.

Looking back, there was not one part of me that didn't believe it wouldn't happen again. I thought for certain by at least now I would have two sets of little hands tugging at my shirt while I stand to wash dishes, and two little voices calling me, 'Mama.' Time keeps on passing, Abel keeps growing older...growing up an only child. I never wanted this for him. I wanted him to have someone to grow up with, to make memories with. Family he'd still have to hold onto even after his parents are in their graves. He deserves a sibling that I may never be able to give to him. I'm sad for him just as much as I am for myself.

Last week I saw a picture of a dear friend of mine surrounded by her four little boys, the youngest being a new born, and I cried. It was the most beautiful picture in so many ways, it was so full of love. She was surrounded by love. You see, I always thought that would be me. When I was a young girl I imagined myself surrounded in children, at least eight. Then as a teenager thought I could settle for just five. That seemed a bit more logical, and realistic for this day and age. Now I find myself trying to convince my mind and heart I can be content on settling for just my one child. I'm not being greedy, and don't get me wrong I know how very fortunate I am to even have him, but I'm struggling. When I looked at that picture I mourned the loss of the very idea, that it would ever be me. It's a hard pill to swallow.

And now we are dealing with the fact that my body is just not responding to the hormone replacement and fertility drugs, and facing the humiliating and invasive procedures of semen analysis, and hysteroscopy. They are only giving us one more cycle before we have to move on to the next steps towards intrauterine insemination because of my age. I am thirty-two. My ovaries are getting progressively worse, coupled with the fact that fertility rates decrease in general after the age of thirty-five. I've got one more cycle, one last chance before things get more complicated, and I'm dreading it. I just do not know if I have it in me to put my body though the ordeal of hot flashes, mood swings, and irritability again. Or to endure all the horrible cramping that comes hand in hand with it one more time.

I feel defeated by this.

Angry, but mostly sad. I was never suppose to be this woman. This grieving, wishing, hoping, praying, empty-womb woman that you hear about, and read about. Not me. Anything but that. I was suppose to be the 'fertile myrtle' type, or at least that's how I always saw myself. Letting go of that vision is so incredibly difficult that no one will ever understand, unless they have too grieved a part of themselves.

So for all who innocently ask me if I'm going to have another...

For they who want to know when we plan to grow our family...

And especially for those who feel the need to constantly remind me of Abel's age, and suggest that we not wait too long before having another because it's better to have them close enough together to grow up together. This is my simple, and uncomplicated answer for you.

"I'm trying."

With every tear shed, every prayer asked, and every possibly resource within my means, I'm trying.

The Weight of the Matter

The bigger you are the more of you there is to love...

That was always my Grandmother's motto when it came to me feeling down on myself as a child over being, for lack of better words, a chunker. At least she always said it with a hug, and it was, believe it or not, with her form of sincerity.

At the age of 7, I began going through that awkward phase where I was free of my baby teeth, and trying to grow into my new ones. And ironic enough, my baby fat had made a triumphant return. You know how they say, kids are cruel? Well, yeah, they totally are, I got teased and was called such things as "fat, and "pig" on the playground, and strange enough, that has never left me. They say that we as humans never remember the positive things we hear, but yet we zoom in on, and never forget the negative. For example, fifty people could compliment you and tell you that you looked nice, but it would only take for one person to say the opposite, and that would be all you hear, all you'd recall. All those other lovely comments be damned. That goes to show, negative feeds negative. Perhaps that was when my self-esteem problem originated, of that I'm not exactly sure. One thing I do know for sure is that was when my battle with weight first began. Or as some call it, "the battle of the bulge." Now true, once I reached that ever wonderfully adolescence stage (sarcasm), and puberty made it appearance, I experienced a growth spurt, and grew up, rather than out for a change....BUT, I still felt uncomfortable in my own body, and that I was still "fat", so hence, cue the early teenage years of eating disorder stage.

Some call it anorexia, but I can't say that I was anorexic, after all I did allow myself to eat one popsicle every day. Always either grape, or orange. I suppose in some twisted way I thought that counted as a serving of fruit for the day. It took some dedication of staying away from food, but I managed to achieve my goal weight of 115lbs. And the real catch? I still felt, "fat." Now upon looking back at old photos of that time in my life, I looked horrible, pale, collar bone sticking out. I simply looked ill and not at all healthy. What was I thinking?

Finally after my immune system took a hit, and getting really sick, I slowly started introducing food back into my diet, or should I say, the lack thereof a diet. Then slowly, and ever so frequently I began gaining weight...and weight...and weight. I went from one extreme to another. By the time I graduated high school I didn't think it was possible for me to gain any more weight, and yet, I still did. I couldn't stop, I just kept gaining. I was always active, always worked nothing but physically demanding jobs, it wasn't as though I sat around stuffing my face with Twinkies all day or anything. True, I didn't have the best of eating habits, but if I was going gain weight at warp speed anyways, I would have rather enjoyed it and went all buck wild on all the foods I love.

For the next few years until the age of 25, I continued my battle. I was unhappy, miserable, depressed, my anxiety was getting the best of me, and I was to my emotional breaking point. Something needed a change. I needed to change. And so, I changed my way of thinking, started adding regular exercise in my daily life, and became more food conscious, and at turtle speed, I started losing weight. To say it was easy would be a lie, losing weight is the hardest thing there is to do, if anyone ever claims different, they're lying. There's no such thing as "dieting", it's a way of life, starting firstly with mental preparation, and self-encouragement. I do not own scales, nor like knowing my exact weight. The last time I was on a set of scales was about a year ago (my sister harped until I did), so therefore I do know for sure that I have lost over 50lbs to that point. At least once a week I have a run in with an individual who comments on my weight loss, or some who have exclaimed, "I didn't even know who you were, you've lost so much weight!" As much as I like hearing that, it also makes me sad, I'm saddened for the old me and all her pain.

I'm still not happy with how I look, so my goal for this calendar year is to lose another 20lbs. I feel that's reasonable, and will not result in setting myself up for a great disappointment. I tell you though, it's so hard! I try, and try, and try, and it's as though I'm at a plateau weight-wise right now. The doctor tells me that with my hormone levels the way they are, and my estrogen gone a-wall, it makes losing weight more difficult. Then come to find out, my condition (which you're born with, to which there is no cure) would have been a contributing factor in my gaining so much weight in the first place. Estrogen causes your body retain a lot of water, and the imbalanced hormones affect insulin resistance...meaning, I've got a lot stacked against me. And get this...losing more weight aids in balancing hormones, but yet, hormones will keep you from losing weight. A real catch-22! So frustrating!

I refuse to give up, and I keep pushing myself - now having been upping my cardio by jogging rather than walking. It's getting easier, my wind is getting better, and I can feel myself getting stronger each time. Also, having an ipod (thanks to dear boyfriend), with some upbeat workout music really helps, too. Just one dilemma now...a bull moose hanging around my running trails. Hmm, I'm not sure if I should be alarmed due to the many tales I have heard about moose charging...they are pretty massive...

Nah, what's more scary, a charging bull moose, or a woman with a hormone imbalance? Exactly! Like any other male, he'd run from me.