The forecast called for a mild day with drizzle, a nice change from the month-long deep freeze we had been enduring. I happily dug my long spring coat from the back of the closet where it had been languishing behind our heavy winter gear. I shrugged into it and ran out the door, late as usual for the bus that was just pulling up to the curb. It was only when I got off the bus downtown and was walking with my face turned up to the newly softened spring breeze that I shoved my hands into my pockets and encountered the cardboard box. I pulled out my hand and opened my fingers. A small green box of organic raisins. In a heartbeat, my upbeat mood turned melancholy. <\/p>\n
Of course, I thought to myself. I haven\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t worn this coat since last fall. Last fall, when I was pregnant, I never went anywhere without a stash of granola bars and raisins to stave off that sudden lurch of nausea brought on by an empty stomach. I would have been switching to my winter gear just about the time we lost the baby. The last time I wore this coat, I was pregnant.<\/p>\n
It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s only been four months. Amazing to think that if I hadn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t lost the baby, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d still be pregnant right now, not even all that close to my May 8 due date. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d be huge and uncomfortable and obviously pregnant, able to feel even the smallest of the baby\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s movements. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d be having trouble finding a comfortable way to sit, let alone sleep, and would be deep into preparing the boys for the impending arrival of chaos. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d be pulling out the old cartons of baby clothes again, picking through to find sentimental favourites and reminiscing about how my giant boys used to practically swim in the tiny sleepers. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d be hating my maternity clothes and missing my old favourites that no longer came close to stretching across the vast expanse of my stomach. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d have forgotten what my feet look like. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d be uncomfortable and crabby and glowing, all at the same time.<\/p>\n
But, that\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s not how it turned out. Instead, on the weekend that would have been baby\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s first weekend at home, by a coincidence of timing we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll be enjoying the company of my extended family on the free camping weekend. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s taken a very long time for me to be able to consider the month of May without a sharp constriction of my throat. May finally no longer means the birthday that won\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t happen. It means the month with the fun getaway, the month before our big vacation, the month when the boys switch to their new (sshhhhh!) caregiver.<\/p>\n
Even though the shock and pain and immediate grief of the miscarriage have faded to a gentle melancholy, it only takes a little box of stale raisins to bring it to the fore again. And every month, the red tide of disappointment spills forth, dashing once again my hopes for another chance to be pregnant.<\/p>\n
My feelings on getting pregnant again are complex, not clear even to me. I would like to be pregnant, love the mechanics by which one gets pregnant, but am so very afraid to become embroiled in the emotional maelstrom that is Trying. And every month since January, when we officially started Trying again, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve been heartbroken to find myself not pregnant again, even as I wonder in the bright light of day whether I am ready or able to risk going through it all again.<\/p>\n
How ironic it all is. When I was speaking to the writer for the upcoming Chatelaine article, she seemed intrigued by my statement that I still consider myself in the camp of the infertile, even having conceived three babies naturally and Tristan and his twin through IVF. (I was still pregnant at the time.) For someone who considered herself infertile, we had really only spent that one year trying to conceive \u00e2\u20ac\u201c and then a bunch of other stuff happened.<\/p>\n
Sure, it took us more than a year and more than $10,000 of medical intervention (including the IVF and two IUIs) to conceive Tristan, but both Simon and the baby lost in November were conceived without concerted effort on our part. We weren\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t really even Trying with Simon \u00e2\u20ac\u201c in fact, we were celebrating the sign-off of waivers on our new house. Oops! We didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t Try before Frostie either, because we had high hopes for that to work out, and when it didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t I became pregnant the very next month anyway.<\/p>\n
And now, so ironically, for the first time since before Tristan was born, seven long years after we tumbled into the land of the infertile, here we are again. We are Trying and it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s Not Working. <\/p>\n
It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s different, of course. Back in those dark, lonely, scary days when we were first struggling with infertility, I was wracked with fear that we would never have the family we so dearly wanted. Now, the cruel and abrupt arrival of the monthly red messenger is disappointing, but not crushing. <\/p>\n
With each month, as we drift further and further away from the last pregnancy, the urgency to replace and restore my pregnant condition subsides. All things being equal, I think I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d like to have that third child some day, and so we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll keep trying for a while. Keep trying, without Trying, maybe. <\/p>\n
That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a whole lot of emotional detritus to stuff into one little box of raisins.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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