It's out of control. There is no pattern of any kind. Probably because I haven't slept more than a solid hour in weeks. The app on my phone that predicts my ovulation said Sunday was the big day. I spent most of Sunday lying on the couch trying to remember what it felt like to breathe out of my nose.
Sometimes, I can't believe that infertility is happening to me. Like it's really just a cruel joke. I always imagined I'd have kids--four to be exact. Three boys, one girl. They'd obviously be athletic, and smart like their dad, maybe a few of them would be artistic like me. I'd coach the girl volleyball. We'd play softball as a family together in the backyard. Foursquare in the driveway.
But in some ways, I feel like I always knew I would struggle to have kids. It took my parents 14 years to conceive--maybe they passed down some defect to me? It took me several tries to lose my virginity. After a lot of tears, doctor visits, and frustration, I eventually learned I had vaginismus. I've always suffered from UTIs and bladder infections, in addition to the occasional kidney infection (one so severe that when the Urgent Care doc came back after a quick glance at my urine sample, his first words were: "How are you not in more pain? Your urine is disgusting!"). I dealt with irregular periods before going on birth control at 16. I've had more yeast infections than I can count--I got my first one only a few weeks after my first period when I was 12.
It seems like most of my life there's been something wrong with my hoo-haw. Infertility is just the most recent.
Sometimes I'm convinced one of these days I'll wake up pregnant. It will have worked exactly like it was supposed to, and I'll wonder what I was so worried about. But sometimes, I can feel it deep in my heart--something whispering to me that I'm wasting my time. Despite no medical evidence, I can just feel that there's something wrong with me. I'll never get pregnant.
Honestly, if I could know that--really, truly know by someone who's looked into my future and seen what happens--I'll never, ever get pregnant, I could be okay. Sure, it'd be a huge blow. I'd grieve for the children I could never have--the smart, athletic children with Bobby's chin dimple and my blue eyes. But I would survive. We'd come up with a Plan B, re-evaluate and re-organize. We'd probably live a little differently. But we would be just as happy.
The worst part is the not knowing. Agonizing over each symptom. The wondering. Analyzing how far should we go to try to conceive. The waiting.
If Future Lilee could just tell me, You never get pregnant. But it all works out anyway. I would be fine.
But until then...what?