Broken Body

I was hoping to tell Karen I was pregnant by the time this holiday rolled around. She was hoping I would be too. Instead, I'm on another course of drugs to try and 'fix' me. One day...

I promised myself I wouldn't turn this blog into a discussion of how much I want a baby. And how hard it is to watch others experience that wonderful journey. And how much I hate my body for not doing what is supposed to come naturally to it.

I can't begin to describe how hard it is to keep that part of my life private. Each of my posts lately I've gone to write something, only to erase it at the last moment. Usually because I think I'll come across as bitter to my pregnant friends; or as a massive whinger to those girls I know who struggle much more than I do.

I never really share how much I want a baby. For ages that was because I hated that I'd turned into one of 'those' girls. Now it's just because there's nothing I can do about it. Wanting a baby doesn't mean I get one.

And I'm so tired of the mantra my heart has adopted as its own. I want a baby. I want a baby. I want a baby. It never lets up. Obviously it doesn't help going to work every day to help other women have a baby. Or the fact that Church is overflowing with newborns and pregnancies right now. Some days are really tough.

I hate the drugs. Right now they don't seem to have worked. And the side-effects were awful. Moodiness so bad I felt like a coiled spring ready to snap every day. Insomnia. Horrible cramps. Migraines. Bloating (enough to have people convinced I was pregnant). Nausea. Overdose of Gastro. I almost gave up. With my body not responding to them, I'm wondering why the heck I put myself through it.

I thought having a baby would be easy. You stop contraception, you have sex, you fall pregnant. That's what you get told, right?

I guess the one thing I am thankful about is the fact I found out early on why things weren't 'normal'. That I had a doctor who was willing to do every test in the book to work out what was going on. That I now know that simply having unprotected sex won't get me pregnant. That my body is stuffed up, and needs drugs to help it do what it's supposed to. That I know what I have to do in order to fall pregnant.

I'm glad that a lot of the serious concerns got ruled out. We were told a lot of possibilities, and to be left with just one thing wrong (instead of four) is good news. Still painful to know I'm a bit faulty - but it could have been so much worse.

I'm glad that it's all to do with me. That Brad got the all clear. That we didn't have to deal with that as well. I always knew it was just going to be me; but it was nice to have that medically confirmed as well.

So I do give thanks in all of this. Small mercies are good things. I hold onto them with such tenacity!

One day...