It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. Is it?
What about when it comes to infertility and pregnancy loss?
What’s better then? I mean, obviously neither.
Does fertile myrtle have any idea what it’s like, what we go through, every time we hear a pregnancy announcement?
When women around me announce their pregnancy there’s a lot of thoughts and feelings that cross my mind.
I think about what she felt when she found out. When that magical second line appeared on the stick. I smile because I know that feeling. It’s shock and excitement. It’s a bunch of plans being made in an instant. Her heart starts racing.
But then I remember what it feels like to have that happiness literally ripped from me. And my stomach turns. And the smile turns to a tight lipped frown, trying to hold back tears.
Since I’ve been pregnant once I can’t tell you how it feels to hear the pregnancy announcements when you’ve never been able to have one. I can’t describe the utter frustration and anguish.
I keep thinking ‘well at least I got to be pregnant once.’ Even though only for a few short weeks. I got to feel full and sick and eat only ice cream for dinner once because the craving was that bad. So if I never get to be pregnant again, or have a baby, at least I have that. I can hang onto that.
But then I think, what if I didn’t? To never have had that experience. Because being pregnant, and then having it ripped away after it tried to kill me, was like doing heroin. Or so I imagine. I can’t stop thinking about it. All. The. Time. I remember how my body felt vividly. I want that feeling back. I need that feeling back. Now.
If I never had that first hit…
The grass is always greener, right?
Clearly neither is better. They both suck.
Fertile myrtle announces her pregnancy and infertility survivors and pregnancy loss survivors alike silently scream and cry in our heads while faking a smile and enthusiasm. We rage. We ask why not me? What’s wrong with me? When will it be my turn? Will it ever be my turn? In our minds, we are smashing the good china plates. Possibly throwing a tantrum like the child we wish we had.
Then we go home, or just to the restroom if we make it that far, and we cry. For all that we had and lost, for all that we never had, for the fear of what we may never have.
Every. Single. Time.
It’s exhausting. It’s maddening. I don’t know how we all pull it together and keep putting one foot in front of the other.
But we just do.