Monday, April 21, 2014

Maybe Baby 4

Click to read the first, second, and third installments of this series.

Cautiously optimistic.  That has been the name of the game so far.  Cautiously optimistic.

Although I knew in the depths of my gut that my latest lab results were going to be bad, a waste of time really, I was more than cautiously optimistic; I was painfully desperately hopeful.  I knew I didn’t ovulate.  But I was certain that I would have improved enough to keep me feeling cautiously optimistic.

Imagine the drowning wave of devastation that hit when – after more than 24 hours of waiting – I was told that my levels were actually lower than last month.  0.2 to be exact.  The optimal progesterone level for ovulation is between 7 and 10.

I sobbed and ugly cried and bawled and wept and wailed for hours.  Hours.  Mr. B happened to be off work for Good Friday (the irony of experiencing such shattering sadness on Good Friday was not lost on me).  This was the first time he was home when I received the results.  This one was, by far, the worst.

You see, the week prior, we had a conversation about where the line in the sand would lay.  We decided that if the levels were high enough to give us hope, we would continue.  If they weren’t, we would stop.  We agreed that we were both ready for things to go back to normal.  Mr. B was tired of seeing me depressed and hating myself and my body.  I have been just completely weary of the whole process.  I had finally started to entertain the idea of adoption, of just letting Little K be an only child, of adopting that puppy we talked about.

Despite all of that I was cautiously optimistic painfully desperately hopeful.  When I heard the number, the zero-point-effing-two, I felt like the air had been sucked from my lungs and a pile of bricks fell on my shoulders.  I laid on my freshly made bed and absolutely lost it.  Mr. B tried everything to get me to just stand up and hug him.  I physically could not move.  I don’t think I could have stood on my feet or sat up if I even wanted to.  I felt completely deflated.  It just felt so… so final.

I suppose I was mourning.  I mourned for the Easter and Christmas mornings that Little K won’t share with a sibling, the sibling rivalry that will never happen, the built-in best friend that will never be.  I mourned for the newborn baby we will never hold for the first time.  I mourned for the first kicks of an unborn baby that I will never feel.  I mourned for the daughter I was so hoping for – particularly the friendship that would form once she became a woman.  I mourned for not ever seeing the love of my life again hold a tiny wrinkly miracle made from our own flesh.  I mourned that all of Little K's firsts were the only firsts we’ll have.  I mourned the perfectly unique names we had chosen, never to be used.

The sibling thing I think gets me the most.  Mr. B and I are both quite close to our siblings.  And there is such a stigma with only children, that they are spoiled and bratty.  An old neighbor once told me that she “hates only children”.  Pretty strong words to a mama with a broken uterus.

A few weeks ago I had this conversation with Little K:

“Mommy why don’t I have a brudder or sister?”
“You have Daisy.”
“No mom!  A REAL brudder or sister.”
“Well Buddy, Mommy’s tummy is having a hard time making a baby.”
“Do you think you would be okay if you never had a brother or sister?  Do you think you’d be fine?”
“No.  I won’t be fine.”

Talk about ripping your heart out!  I subsequently texted every only child I could to ask them how they felt about being an only child growing up and now – news flash: they are all fine.

As Mr. B tried to console his mess of a wife, he said, “it’s okay – it’s all over now – we’re done – we don’t have to do this again.”  As terribly sad as it is, I can’t do it again.  I just can’t.  I can’t go through the spike of hormones followed by a crash followed by another hormone spike and another crash followed by hopeful anxiety followed by a broken heart.

I cannot spiritually or physically or emotionally make it through another round of this.  I told Mr. B it just seems to hurt more this time.  The first time around we were, I think, a little detached from the idea of being parents.  We knew we desperately wanted to have a baby, but we didn’t yet know how it felt to love another person so completely and wholly.  This time, every time the labs have come back, it has felt like someone was ripping our child right from our arms.  My stupid hoarding ovaries have broken my heart in a million pieces over and over and over.  And I’m done.  I am just completely done in every sense of the word.

Now our spare bedroom, left pink from the previous owners, feels sad and mocking.

During the process of trying to conceive Little K, someone accused me of not really wanting a baby because I didn’t immediately want to adopt.  I’m sure there will be people who will say that I am giving up now; that I didn’t really want another child.  I’m sure there will be people who say we didn’t try hard enough or long enough or seek out as many options as we should have.  Maybe so.

Maybe we could have tried longer, but at what expense?  I have been a terrible mother and a terrible wife and a terrible friend and a terrible daughter and a terrible sister through all of this.  My faith has been challenged, my will has been splintered.

I think right now, the best decision for us is to focus on counting our blessings.  We have so many.  Sure I feel like I am giving up.  I feel like I have wasted everyone’s prayers and kind words (even though Lent is over, I still haven’t been able to log back in to Facebook – I feel too sad to read any additional kind words).

But please know, that all of your acts of thoughtfulness, your texts, your kind words, your messages, have helped me more than you can begin to know.  Your kindness has truly kept me In Good Company.


  1. I remember being a hormonal mess, terrible wife and mommy, ugly crying for hours, no days, after the Joplin tornado and my following miscarriage. I remember feeling like i was dying right there, emotionally at least. It felt like in some small way i was sharing in Christ's suffering. Then the Holy Spirit reminded me that my God is in the business of redemption and resurrection. Part of you is dying right now, mourning, but cling to the hope of Easter morning that you know so well. You will not live in this place of loss forever. He has good and perfect plans for you. They are coming. Be sad for add long as you need, but know better days beyond you wildest dreams are coming. Hugs, Kels.

    1. Thank you for your encouragement Jenny. I really do appreciate it.

  2. One of my favorite mantras to help me through:

    This is It
    This is really It
    This is all there is
    And it's perfect as it is.

    There is nowhere to go
    but Here
    There is nothing here
    but Now
    There is nothing now
    but This.

    And This is It
    This is really It
    This is all there is
    And it's perfect as it is.

    1. Sarah,
      Thank you, more than you know, for sharing this with me.
      Much love!

  3. Even though I've read every word, I still cannot fathom what you're going through. You and Austin have been on my thoughts and prayers lately, and they'll continue to be! If you need to get away from you're world for a day, let me know. I'd love to meet Austin and I would love for you to meet Julie!!

    1. Ryan,
      Thank you so much for your thoughts and prayers. I will let you know if we are ever out your way and have a free evening!

  4. None of this process is easy and its only up to us to decided what is best for our specific situation, so dont let anyones ugly comments get to you, easier said than done, I know. But what is most important is that you are happy and that you do what is right for you, and your body and your family. Kepple is amazing and will continue to be with or without siblings. You are amazing. And strong, and such an inspiration. I never thought on this journey I would find another person that could literally speak the thoughts that I was thinking, but you have. Your thoughts and words are so familiar as if they were my own, and I cant tell you how good of a feeling that is to know I really am not alone. I think of you often and continue to pray for your happiness, in whatever form in may come. So blessed to know you!


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