My husband is joining us once again here on The EcoFeminist, guest blogging his thoughts, his perspective, his two cents on where we are and how he’s feeling on the husband side of the infertility journey…
A long journey it is. A long one that seems to be stuck in an endless loop. One that has continually bombarded us with so much bad news that I know my subconscious has already prepared me to expect bad news. We tell each other that we must remain positive, and we do, but positive does not make babies and I want to make a baby.
I was thinking about this the other day and it struck me that for so many years babies were anathema to me. No way. They screamed, ate weird food and were stinky and took up so much time. I’m sure they still do but I want one. With Aimee.
Sure it was a new and weird and hard, especially when the infertility bombshell hit and the medial science jumped in to make it happen, matching up my cells with a donor’s and then transferring the results into Aimee. Nothing I ever envisioned when thinking about baby making but I got over the clinical nature of it all and accepted what we had been dealt. The end result was what mattered after all.
I had to remind myself and still do when I see her battling the side effects of the hormonal brew that she ingests and which I inject into her bum, the the end result is what counts, even when I see her struggling with the physical and mental side effects of the hormones. But fuck, its hard watching her sometimes. Trying to work out how I can support her is hit and miss.
Getting back yet more negative pregnancy results is even harder. The fuck are we spending this money on? Are these buckets of hormones going to permanently affect her? Will changing the drug combo work this time? How many more should we do? Now that’s a scary stress; the ‘let’s stop this now and accept that it is what it is’…
The biggest challenge for me was the miscarriage. It left me numb. Numb and empty. Numb and empty and sad. Even trying to articulate feelings in a cogent manner is proving difficult. Where there once was one there is now none. Taking the first tentative steps down the path of grief was something my logical brain wouldn’t allow my emotional brain do just yet.
In processing the reality of a successful implantation and consequent miscarriage, I’d go into immediate caretaker mode. How can I support her? What can I do to make this better?
I didn’t see the need to console myself just yet. I know that will come later.
The thought process is muddled by raw data being collected, analysed, interpreted and presented. Will statistics bend to provide a favorable outcome for us? Why did we fall into the negative percentile rather than the positive one? We beat the odds getting pregnant so why did we not beat them when it came to keeping that little seed growing inside her belly? Not being a believer in luck, I tried to narrow it down to numbers and probability, looking at large sets of numbers and creating patterns that weren’t there. Or patterns that were there but did not include us. Either way the marble thrown into that roulette wheel did not land the number that we hoped for and we were both grief stricken .
Now, me. And here comes classic illogical and disjointed reasoning. It is a non-linear. It resounds with non sequiturs. But when does such a heart wrenching event allow someone the time to respond with a well reasoned train of thought? It doesn’t. No, it is a raw, naked response. One that clutches at anything to stay afloat.
Who knows? This next transfer may be the one. Then comes the fear of being a parent. But more on that later…