It’s been in my dreams a lot lately.
Or rather, completely absent from my dreams where it otherwise should be present.
The baby bump.
There and not there all at once.
You see, I’ve been having a lot of dreams lately that I’m pregnant.
Like, more often than could possibly be normal.
At least once a week, I’ve been dreaming that I’m knocked up.
And just for the record – there is absolutely no realistic possibility that I could actually be knocked up.
Much to my chagrin.
But in these dreams as of late, there’s always something missing.
No matter how far along I am in my perfect little world of slumber (even up to and including the point of labor), there is no bump to be found.
At all.
Inevitably, this has become a point of contention in each of these dreams. The point when I stop being so naively excited about the impending birth of my child and realize – something is wrong.
Which is typically when these dreams of mine have been turning dark.
The point at which I start to loathe my too flat stomach and all the implications it brings along with it.
In the best of cases – I’m losing the baby. Which of course leads to me waking up on a pillow of tears, confused and upset and angry at my dream world for doing me so wrong.
I say this is in the best of cases, only because the alternative is something I actually fear far more.
Because in those dreams where I’m not losing a baby who never really seemed to be in the first place, the other option is that I’m crazy.
Bat shit.
Full blown nut bar.
Convinced of a pregnancy that simply does not exist.
Pushing through the hospital doors screaming “I’m having a baby!” only to come to the conclusion throughout the course of the dream that there is no baby to be found.
I’m not pregnant.
I never was.
And somewhere in my subconscious – I just made it all up. Convinced myself that all my dreams were coming true, and then went on to pretend so persuasively that everyone who loves me is duped by the insanity as well.
This was the case in my dream last night. Everyone was there. My dad, my friends, the men of both past and future – they were all there. Cheering me on. Excited for me to see this dream accomplished. Anxiously awaiting the arrival of this new life into the world that they too already loved.
And as they are wheeling me off to labor and delivery, I myself am flushed with excitement. Ready for the pain and whatever else may come. Sure only that this is it – that everything I’ve feared I would never have is about to be mine.
But slowly, the apprehension starts to rain over me. As I woefully acknowledge to myself the bizarre fact that I feel no pain. No movement or cramping or any tell-tale signs of a baby in the womb, let alone one about to be born.
I push it to the back of my head. Tell myself its years of infertility weighing in on my doubts. That I’m about to be a mommy. That that’s all that matters.
But then I notice that the bump – the one I know should be so predominate and real at this stage in the game – is practically non-existent on my all too average frame. I start to wonder why no one else has noticed it. Why not a soul, including my doctor, has commented on the absence of something a mother to be should so clearly be displaying.
And then it happens. The doctor starts to strip away the layers I’ve got on, and finds underneath more and more. I’ve created a faux-belly. One I myself didn’t recognize, because it wasn’t my flesh and bones to begin with. One that had served to fool everyone I know (everyone who loves me) just the same though.
I watch their faces drop. See the disappointment wash over them as they realize it isn’t real. None of it is real. There is no baby to be. The life they had already let themselves love never was. I was just pretending. Possibly delusional enough to believe it all myself.
And then I’m lost. Drowning them out, willing the truth away, wanting only to be pregnant – not crazy.
Which is typically when I wake up. Flooded by the panic of losing my grip.
In both the here and now, and that far away dream land that seems equally intent on keeping me from what I yearn so desperately for.
Most days lately, I’m fine. Happy even. More than year has passed since my last failed IVF, and I am doing well. I am strong, and resilient, and content.
Most days, I don’t even think about that emptiness beneath my heart.
But lately, my dreams have been forcing me to remember.
Pushing me back into a heartache I do well at avoiding during the waking hours.
And I have to wonder why. What it is I’m meant to resolve for myself in these dreams where clearly I am losing my grip. Disappointing everyone I love, along with myself. Due in part to my inability to conceive, but due even more to my inability to let that fact go.
Most days, I feel sure of the fact that I’m moving on.
But every once in a while, I have to wonder.
Are these really the dreams of someone who has let it all go?
Or have I simply done such a good job of pretending, that I've managed to convince even myself.
ADSPACE
