Sunday, February 5, 2012


Nobody can see this disease. Nobody can see the pain; the physical, the emotional, the spiritual pain. Nobody can tell that my body is failing me. Nobody can see that I hate my body and I punish it with food. Nobody can tell that I hate my emotions and I bury them with food. Nobody can tell that I feel like a failure as a woman in one way so I cook and bake to try and make up for it. Nobody knows that every month I mourn the loss of a baby I had hoped I conceived; a baby that I calculated a birthday for and imagined seeing for the first time.
I try not to let my heart break when I see a pregnant woman or a newborn baby. I try not to get angry; angry at the woman, angry at myself, angry at God. I try not to beg and plead and whimper in my prayers. I try not to cry uncontrollably in the shower. I try not to give God the silent treatment on a bad day.
I suffer with infertility, PCOS to be exact. The most common endocrine disorder, a disease that can lead to heart disease or uterine cancer. Infertility is hard for most people to understand,
it makes people say stupid things even though they mean well. Relaxing won’t help. More sex won’t help. Not thinking about it won’t help. Trying to be perfect so God will reward me won’t help. Thousands of dollars, the best specialists, and prayer aren’t even helping at the moment.
I am happier with Charlie than I could ever imagine, but I still want another; I am not happy with just one. I want a bigger family even though I love the little one I have more than anything. I don’t want to adopt. I don’t want a surrogate. I don’t want to give up. I have carried a baby, I have pushed a baby out of my body, and I have nourished a baby solely with my breasts. I want that again. I wish that I could accept another’s baby as my own; I wish that I could accept someone’s selflessness.
I want people to be able to share their joys without walking on eggshells. I want the ones I love to know that my anger is not that they are having a baby, but that I am not. I want the ones I love to know that it’s not that I think I deserve a baby more than them, but that I deserve one too. I want the ones that I love to stop looking at me like a wounded puppy; I want them to stop trying to offer words of wisdom. I know that they mean well, but they do not understand. I want them to accept that I am grieving and nothing can make me heal.
So, while I am on many different cocktails of medications and have part after part of my body examined, and continually get disappointing news; please remember I am suffering. Please forgive my mood swings, my angry lashing out, and tears over silly things.