A few months ago, I sat in bed sobbing. I was an hysterical mess. Recognizing this, I wondered about the root of that word, hysterical. I though about the word hysterectomy: the removal of a woman's uterus. Maybe our emotions are tied much more profoundly to our reproductive capabilities than anyone would care to admit. It was, after all, that very topic that led to my own hysterics. About once a month I go through this, to varying degrees. The easier months are usually so because I am more contented in other areas; I don't loathe my job and I feel like we can pay our bills.
But the really bad months usually come with a hatred of my job, a hopelessness about our finances, and, more often than not, news of another friend's pregnancy. The last of these ticking points is often exacerbated either by the friend's young age or her (lack of) marital status or circumstance...all situations that make me cry, "Why?!"
So, there I was, bawling my eyes out, certain my dear husband must be thinking, "What the hell happened?!" He was consoling and comforting. He held me and let me cry. When I asked him how he felt, he said, "Happy." Happy? I didn't understand how someone in such close proximity could be feeling such an opposite emotion, or how someone witnessing my purge could not take on the residual sorrow. So I think I looked at his smiling face a bit cockeyed, but also grateful that though I was lodged deep in the pit, he was above on the surface, basking in sunlight I couldn't even imagine existed.
The next morning, I still felt the periphery of the pain, though a good cry cleansed me of the overflowing sense of sorrow. The issue still remains and has continued to resurface each month with the ebb and flow of my hormones. At the time, I struggled with knowing what action to take. I knew there were things I could do that might provide answers to the "Why?" of my dilemma. But these actions would focus us intently on our fertility issues. All I really wanted to do then, and still want to do now, is forget about it and have it happen, like it seems to for everyone else. Why is it so easy for others? Even accidental. I don't want to live and breathe this quest. Indeed , such focus only makes it worse in my opinion. Then there is nothing else.
Before I started to pursue answers, when there were only questions and a lot of negative pregnancy tests, I still thought about it all the time. But it was new then, too. It was a possibility that had never before existed. A "might-be" that was impossible prior to that time. So, the question remained, if I were to forgo all testing at that point, would I still think about the possibility constantly, or would I focus on other pursuits? I wanted to think that it would free me to focus on something else--like finding a new job or becoming the writer I always perceived myself to be. But I also knew that my mind could be a terrible place and that thoughts of my reproductive failure can creep up without warning. I stood on the precipice, believing that less focus on the problem might be the solution; but the fear of some actual physical impediment beckoned me away from leaping into what might or might not be freedom from an all encompassing torment. I feared taking a break from the investigation only having to start all over months down the road. More valuable time wasted. Did my desire to give up the treasure hunt make me a bad pre-mom? Mom. I'd always imagined myself in this role. But my repeated attempts at joining the club had been met with consistent rejections. It's hard to come to the realization that I don't belong to a group I had always associated myself with. The perception had become a deception.
This specific incident of hysteria, and the journaling I did the next morning, took place in February. Not much has changed. There are more answers; still the same unknowns. We have been through a number of tests, all in line with Catholic teaching, which is of the utmost importance to us. Next month we take the next step. The first part is a breeze...merely swallowing half a pill. The second part, injecting myself, gives me chills, at which point I relegate the thought of it to the far, far back of my mind. It seems strange to me that they let any old joe schmo stab himself with a needle. Silly, I know. People do it all the time...sometimes not even because they have to. It's a strange world. Anyhow, I'll let you know how it goes.
