Or they can remain exactly the same. You can find yourself right back at square one, even though you know you’ve been running as hard and as fast as you could have away from that point.
There you are. Standing in a spot you know too well. Wondering how it is that you didn’t get any further.
As of last Friday, I have been writing this blog for one year.
461 posts. 12 months. Not a day skipped.
And here I am. Exactly where I was when I started.
I had my last surgery on November 11th of last year. I hadn’t realized the symmetry initially when I scheduled my FET.
It wasn't until after the fact that I thought to myself "It was one year ago today I was placed on this path."
At the time, it almost seemed kismet.
After that surgery, I woke up simply grateful that both of my ovaries had been saved. It hadn’t been a given after all. In fact, for both of my surgeries I have needed to sign off on the possibility of waking up empty.
And it has been my greatest fear both times. I’ve gone under terrified that when I woke up; it would all be over.
It didn't happen that November 11th though. In fact, I woke up rather chipper to find that both ovaries were still in place. I went home in a drugged out haze, completely unaware that there was anything to worry about.
All I knew was that immediately upon waking up; I had relief from the endometriosis pain. All I knew was that for the first time in months, I could breathe again.
The pain from my incisions or the gas used to do the surgery laparoscopically were nothing compared to the pain I had been in during the days leading up to that surgery.
This relief was blissful.
And so, I had visitors that night. The ex’s mom and sister came over, with cards from the kids (cards I still have – because I’m sentimental like that) and flowers for me. I met them at the door wearing nothing but hospital grade mesh panties and a tank top.
Classy class.
I visited with them for a while in my stupor, and after they left I went on to compose my missed connections ad for hot doctor.
For my next surgery, I am officially requesting a babysitter. Someone to sit with me for 24 hours after and monitor my reckless post op behavior.
Everything was fine though. I was fine. I was joking, and laughing, and feeling pretty darn fantastic considering...
Then the next day, I got a call. From my doctor who I had grown to trust so much.
Yes, she had been able to save my ovaries. Yes, I still had one (albeit fairly damaged) tube. Yes, I could still have children.
But not for long.
She informed me that she had never seen endometriosis spread with the aggression mine had. That the growth that had occurred since my last surgery only 6 months prior was more reminiscent of what she would expect to see in someone who wasn’t treating at all over 2-3 years.
And I had been treating. I had been doing everything right.
It was then that she referred me to a fertility clinic. Then that she informed me there wasn’t much time.
That she didn’t know how much she would be able to save when I needed surgery next.
I hung up the phone a total wreck. Still high as a kite, I called the only voice I really wanted to hear at that moment.
And I went on to sob incoherently to the ex for 5 minutes straight.
Poor guy didn’t know what hit him.
And so he got off the phone and called his mother. Who (having had a hysterectomy herself at 26) went on to become a huge source of support for me as I wandered through those next few weeks.
I have to be honest. The weeks following that news were the hardest I’ve fallen throughout this entire process. Every blow since then has felt tempered by that initial knock out. As though it brought me down so low, that there just wasn’t as far to fall afterwards.
I struggled. Struggled to get to work. Struggled to hold back my tears. Struggled to eat. Struggled to sleep.
I just plain struggled.
And I was at a loss for what I was supposed to do next.
Feeling completely blindsided by a disease that had taken so much from me in such a short period of time.
I threw myself into church initially, desperate for anything that might possibly ease the hurt. But I was still withdrawn. Still suffering. Still struggling.
And rendered completely and totally incapable of talking about it.
Everything I was feeling was too raw for discussion. I couldn’t have the conversations those who loved me yearned to have. I couldn’t discuss what I was going to do or how I was meant to proceed without choking on my own words. Every time I tried to have a conversation meant to work through this dilemma, I got stuck.
Suffocating on my own thoughts.
And since it was the only thing that was ever on my mind, my conversations simply ceased. I retreated into my own world; incapable of interacting in a normal way anymore.
It was then that my friend Mrs. King suggested a blog. She had seen me struggle, and had fought herself attempting to pull me out of that hole.
She had also just recently watched Julie & Julia and had come to the conclusion that blogging was the solution for everything.
Plus, she knew me. She knew that while my phone conversations are typically short and to the point, my e-mails are anything but. That while I struggle to find the words to describe the most mundane things in my day to day interactions, when I’m writing those same words just flow.
She knew me. She knew my struggle. And she knew my need for an outlet.
And thus, a blog was born. And my dear friend Mrs. King became my very first follower.
Initially, I had assumed that the only people who would ever read my blog would be friends and family. The idea of making connections online was completely foreign to me, and never the goal at all. I just thought this would be a great way to keep those in my life in the loop, as I grasped at the air for any possible solution.
I figured it would be the best way to avoid those conversations I couldn’t bring myself to have.
None of the options seemed right to me initially. Freezing eggs came with such a low success rate that it felt like throwing money away. Intentionally becoming a single parent felt like it was in direct violation of the promises I had always made to myself; the promise to do the parenting thing “right”. After marriage, with a partner by my side. Planned and precise and totally different from my friends who had struggled so deeply after their "ooops" pregnancies.
I had promised myself that I would give my children the stability I had lacked growing up. And pursuing single motherhood felt like it would be in total opposition of that stability I desired for those babies to be.
But giving up and accepting defeat?
That wasn’t an option either.
Accepting that I would likely never carry a child in my womb?
It wasn’t something I could do.
I was completely and totally lost. Grasping at straws looking for an answer. Absolutely unsure of what I was supposed to do next.
Funny what a difference a year makes, right?
I figured it out then. I came up with a plan. A plan that was meant to end with a baby in my belly by this point. And I worked my butt off to make it all happen.
And now, here I am. Back at square one. Drowning in a sea of possibilities where not one of them feels right. Struggling to figure out what comes next.
What I’m supposed to do next.
It’s like those dreams where you’re being chased. You run and run and run with everything you’ve got, only to open your eyes and realize you haven’t moved an inch.
(Courtesy of Google Images)
And the thing that was chasing you has caught up.
When I began this blog, I never thought I would end up right back where I had started. It never occurred to me that the solution I chose wouldn’t work out in the end. Never dawned on me that no matter how hard you fight fate; sometimes fate still wins.
Not much has changed in the last year.
There’s a new boy.
But there is also over $20,000 in debt.
With not much to show for it.
There is the relief of knowing that at least I tried.
But there is also the defeat of knowing that it didn’t work.
That the outcome I spent the last year fighting so hard to avoid, is the one that has been placed squarely at my feet.
Along with a bunch of options that just don’t feel right.
The only thing that has changed, is this space.
This space that I looked at initially as my sounding board and nothing else.
My way to get it all out, without becoming a further burden to those who loved me.
My chance to say everything I needed to say about this, without feeling like I had to divert my gaze toward the other end of the room to avoid the discomfort of someone seeing that deeply inside of me.
Only, it became so much more than that. So much more than I ever imagined.
It became a Mecca of support. Of information. Of solidarity.
A space where others like me came to let me know that I wasn’t alone. That I wasn’t the only one experiencing the tornado of emotions that accompany infertility.
That endometriosis wasn’t a disease I suffered on my own.
And IVF wasn’t a mountain climbed by only me.
And failure and loss weren’t battles I had to fight in silence.
I never in a million years expected anyone to read here at all. And certainly not with any regularity. I knew I would break all the blogging rules. That I would write too much, and that the rawness of my emotions would more than likely turn people away.
I still write too much. Because while I struggle to find words in my real life, my keyboard gives me a place to purge the ones hiding at the back of my throat.
Choking me.
Vying for a way out.
Too much to simply cross my lips.
I will always write too much.
I never cared though. I wasn’t writing for anyone but me, and I loved this space even when it was mine and mine alone.
But I love it even more with you here. Reminding me that I’m not alone. That I can get through this.
That buried somewhere beneath all the grief of this last year; there is a purpose.
So thank you. For sifting through my ramblings and being here. For helping me to create something I had never really intended to create. For giving me at least one win over the last year.
At least one thing I can point to and say “I did that.”
It’s been a hell of a year. And as I sit here, yet again at square one, I can’t help but think that the inevitable isn’t something I can fight.
No matter how hard I try.
Or how much money, time, and tears I throw into the endeavor.
But at the end of the day, there is at least one thing that this disease won’t ever take away from me.
Because I will be writing until the day endometriosis finds a way to sneak it’s way up and under my fingertips.
Should that day come, I might finally be ready to crawl into a hole and give up.
But until then, I will be here.
Writing.
Ranting.
Rejoicing.
And searching for answers.
Wherever they may be.
