It keeps changing for me, but unfortunately, not for Mark. We have yet another month down the toilet (so to speak) in our efforts to have a second baby. I had a lot of terribly, desperately, pathetically high hopes riding on this month, since it was our first time on fertility medication. I was convinced that this little miracle pill might be just what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
And the weekend we were supposed to go in for our IUI (the procedure they recommend in conjuntion with this medication) coincided with the terrible flooding here, so UIHC closed down its IUI clinic to patients like me. That means that Mark and I missed the crucial ovulation-IUI window, and though we still tried on our own, Aunt Flo decided that she was having none of it. That crotchety old broad!
Yesterday, I told Mark that I was ready to completely revise my original no-IVF policy, especially since two people I know have had recent success with that treatment. However, Mark is adamant about holding me to my original statements about not going to such extremes.
I know he doesn’t feel this biological urge as dramatically and acutely as I do. I feel consumed and obsessed in a way that I know is not healthy. It’s a lonely place to be, I must say. I’m a mother already, so I feel like I’m not allowed to own this sorrow. My friends who have no children, or are pregnant with their firsts, must think me supremely selfish and self pitying. And my friends with two or more are very lovely and sympathetic, but they don’t really understand. They can’t–and how could they?
Right now, because of my age, I’m surrounded by new babies and pregnant friends–of all ages, even up to 40–and I must tell you that I covet what they have. I do. I covet. I covet. I covet.
At this point, I feel willling to do almost anything to have another baby. I’ve definitely moved my line, but Mark has not. And here we are, facing miles and miles of sand together, with no idea if we’ll ever be able to get across.