I don’t really have a clever way to open this post tbh but we’ll start with my recent trip to Target. I went for a PSL and spent $40 on stuff that I clearly realized I needed once I got there. I passed the baby section and started to cry. Out of nowhere, blindsided by these huge unceasing tears. Oddly enough it didn’t feel like sadness, just like…a sunshower popping up in the middle of a perfect day and the sun is still shining and you’re like “the hell did this rain come from”. I got nervous. “I’m broken again” I thought. Or I’m more broken then I have been. I got home to find that I had started Day 1 of my cycle. “Ha!” I thought. “I knew I wasn’t a weak ass bitch!” My inner monologue is a bit of a renegade. “I’m just ovary acting!” She’s kind of funny too.
This of course was my third Day 1 since stopping birth control after the all clear at my 1 year post surgical follow up. This was the end of the 3 months we said we’d give ourselves for the magical reversal of infertility after losing 100 lbs. It’s sort of why I did this crazy thing, thinking maybe it would fix me. A lot of people have unrealistic expectations for surgery, that it will fix all your problems. I had hoped it would fix just this one. But alas, the 3 months of #summerlovin’ with its own Amazon music playlist of slow jams is over. It’s September, a few weeks shy of our 8th wedding anniversary and the 6th year of seeking the stork, and as Hubby so succinctly put it: “What now?”
There is really only one stop left on the road to biological children and it looks like I’ll be calling my old friend Dr. Brian Beautiful. I am scared to fucking death. I’m scared of the emotional Tower of Terror I may be about to ride all over again. I hate that ride. You spend the entire time waiting for the drop and it’s always after a series of mini drops you’re convinced are the free fall, and you finally think it’s fine and then boom, you’re plummeting.
I’m scared to be hopeful again, afraid that I’m not reading the signs properly that this isn’t meant for me.
And yet, I’ve had several conversations lately about a reality where I’m carrying our child someday with a dragon themed nursery and gluten free cupcakes at my shower. As much as I fear hope, I’m also helplessly addicted to it. I always come back to the book of Romans, when paraphrased, that we also rejoice in our suffering because suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character and character, hope and hope does not disappoint us.
Maybe it was never the hope that did me wrong. Maybe I’m not wrong to want to hope again.
But why does it feel like I’m about to fall?