stopping

¥esterday I took a pregnancy test. It confirmed what I already knew. I am not pregnant. My breasts had not been sore enough, I didn't have enough heartburn, I wasn't waking up to pee in the middle of the night. I finally took the test so I would stop poking constantly at my boobs to see if they were possibly just a tiny bit more sore than they had been 30 seconds earlier.

I had been really hopeful. It had been somewhat amazing that I had produced two follicles and then my husband's count after "wash" had been the highest ever. The count was more than ten times higher than one year ago, when I got pregnant with one follicle and just over two million swimmers. So even though I told myself at least a hundred times that I knew the IUI had not been successful this time, the finality of the lineless test set off a flow of tears that could have been monitored by the local P.U.D.

I could not stop crying. I realized I am probably just too old. The fact that I have conceived three times in the last couple of years and then lost the babies seems to have been a warning that "too old" eggs were around the corner. Instead of being a hopeful sign that at least I could get pregnant, it was really a precursor to not being able to conceive at all.

Of course I realize that every cycle is different. I could still get pregnant, maybe it was just a bad month, maybe the IUI was ill-timed. But I don't ever think I'll find out.

When I started this blog, I envisioned the possible directions it would take. One, I would get pregnant and actually have a successsful pregnancy (my number one choice, of course.) Two, I would get pregnant and miscarry again, or have to terminate because of some horrific genetic permutation(uhh, last choice.) Three, I wouldn't get pregnant and I would make the blog a journal of the adoption process. I would also have ended up at number three if number two had happened.

It now appears that I will go in none of these directions. I knew that this IUI was probably my last attempt at pregnancy for the foreseeable future because my husband has had ENOUGH. He says the drive to have children has dominated me, and consequently our marriage, since before our son was born. He says I am wasting a big chunk of my life being sad. He says he wants his old wife back. He says I am damaging the actual family by obsessing over an idealized vision of what I want my family to be. He says he won't discuss having another child in any way, shape or form, for a year. He will not be dragged down by me anymore. He doesn't have anything left.

Infertility is a cancer to relationships and with us it is even more pronounced by the fact that my husband has never had a great urge to procreate. We started out in different places and have gotten further and further apart with each consecutive miscarriage. Deciding to have another child was one thing. Deciding to continuously put yourself through the ringer is a whole different story.

I don't agree with everything my husband thinks. For example, I don't think I'm "wasting" my life being sad. I think I'm processing the sadness I feel rather than trying to pretend it isn't there. But I have to admit he is mostly right. Why should we think about bringing another child into our family when the infrastructure feels so incredibly skewed? I have been struggling with this for a while. As I wrote in a previous post, I need to find a way to choose happiness, to see the glass as half full. That has been my goal for a long time. And I think I was moving in that direction, but became sidetracked once again with the clomid, and ultrasounds, and follicle measurements. Inevitably, I got caught up in all the minutiae of infertility and could no longer see the forest for the trees. It's wretched, and I can't blame my husband for wanting to be done with it.

But I'm really angry right now. Inside, I feel like a toddler having a tantrum. I want to scream, "how can you not give me this?! After everything I've been through! All the pain and the loss and the anguish. How can you not give me another child?! I hate you!" And my anger goes way beyond that. I'm mad that this has happened to me. I'm mad that society doesn't recognize the heartbreak that goes with pregnancy loss. I'm mad at myself for taking it all so hard. And I'm mad at myself for marrying a man who didn't place the same importance that I did on having children.

Oh and what else am I mad at? I'm mad that I have to justify my grief over secondary infertility. Getup Grrl's blog about us v. them from last week was so on the mark it made me bawl, but it had to come from someone with primary infertility issues because it is just not acceptable to complain if you have a child. Yesterday, my best friend, who is suffering from primary infertility, and has been incredibly supportive despite that fact, looked horrified when I told her it simply was not okay with me to have only one child. At least not now, not yet. It is not okay to have gone through the nightmare of those three miscarriages and not be rewarded with parenting another child. No. And to her, who would be so delighted with one, it is impossible to explain. I understand that. But I am sick to death of people telling me how fucking lucky I am to have one. Don't you think I know that, you fucking moronic mother of three?

I'm angry that I have to walk through the grocery store every day seeing pregnant women and mothers with two or three children. I'm angry that people will keep asking me forever whether my son has any siblings or if he's any "only" child. I'm mad that when I say yes, they will tell me how much easier I have it, how there's no squabbling or trying to get the kids to soccer matches at the same time.

Oh, I am so angry, and I don't know how to stop. My husband has asked me to change. To look at my life differently, to spend time as couple and a whole family, to let go of my obsession. It sounds very smart, very rational. And I don't have any choice in the matter any more, unless I want to throw everything that I have away. I have to know and accept that I may not have any more children in my life. It terrifies me, and that certainly is bad thing. To have children out of fear must be the wrong thing to do. So why am I fighting it so hard?

Comments

[Emily]

Primary or secondary, the coming to terms with the grief of realizing you need to stop is the same, I don't care the label.

I've been struggling with this myself and have been trying to finish a post explaining this. For me, it's figuring out what's next because I have primary infertility.

You have every right to be angry. You have every right to want more and you don't have to be handed a shit sandwich and tell someone, "Thank you, may I have another?" with style. I can't stand when someone says, "But others have it so much worse." "Yeah," is my usual reply, "And some have it better."

Thinking of you.

[alexhere]

Everything you said has so much truth in it...All of the things that you are mad about seem justified. I really believe that people should stop judging anothers pain altogether...secondary...primary...does not matter it is a loss of a dream...

I am so sorry....

[Marla]

The whole primary v. secondary, I can't comment on. I'm thridary (my own special catagory).

I would be angry if my husband said "done". The day the words "no" slip between his lips, Homeland Security would have to move the alert up to orange, or red, or whatever the highest color is.

I'm sorry about your BFN. I hope you don't quit blogging.

[Joanne]

I'm very sorry.

[chris]

I agree with Marla. I'm just speaking for myself here, but the word NO would be a serious problem at this point. No doesn't solve anything for me, at least not yet. No doesn't make it better or go away or change. There's got to be a compromise somewhere or there's going to be a lot of resentment.

You're husband has some valid points. I've felt that way myself at times, like I was putting my life on hold because of this. But I still don't think stopping would help me.

I hope things look up for you. Hang in there.

[Toni]

I'm so sorry...I totally understand where you are coming from. Thinking about you.

[Jen P]

I am so, so sorry and wishing I had wonderful words to say like the others. I so know the ache of being told 'no more' and it sucks. All of this sucks. You deserve so much more. Thinking about you and wishing you feel better soon.

[wavery]

I hope he just needs some recuperative time.
I'm primary IF though prematurely worrying about secondary/ tertiary and could care less at this moment.
Such a strong post. I'm so sorry.

[Here]

I'm sorry, but... THREE miscarriages? You have EVERY right to be angry and sad. I don't care if you have primary, secondary...whatever. That kind of experience just plain sucks.

When I was going through the "heart" of all my treatment, I got incredibly depressed. I could barely function at times. The TV was my best friend. One day my husband said, "You're not the person I married. I'm scared for you, and I think you need help." That was the wake-up call for me. I never said "no more" (neither did he) because I wasn't capable of thinking in those terms at that time, but I did take a well-needed break. Maybe that's what you need...simply to rest and be sad and angry too. You can always save the decision making for later...even if it's only a month or two later.

...I'm so sorry to hear your news.

[Heidi]

Ah...my name's "Heidi" not "Here". Not sure what happened there. Sorry.

[Karen M.]

Oh, I am so sorry. I'm primary IF but believe me, I know that three miscarriages are an absolute world of pain. Wish I could do something for you besides just commiserate.

[Erin]

I'm so sorry. :(
Hugs to you.

[bermuda]

Patricia,
Fellow SIF sista in arms here. We share the same reality, you are just a little farther down the road than I--my husband would never even consider IUI ("if it doesn't happen naturally, then obviously, we are only meant to have more than one")
I am so incredibly sorry that this IUI didn't end happily, I am sorry that your hubby does not share the same dream...and really, I am more sorry for the latter. A negative can be temporary, can be ammended at a later date. A fundamental difference of priority-well, that one is just harder to bear and hurts just a little more.
I hope that with some time and perspective, that there can be a common ground obtained once again.
I just want you to know how much my heart is aching for you after reading this post. Your truth is so close to my truth. I wish I could make that truth less painful for you right now, but all I can really do tell you that someone else in the blogoshpere understands you. I hope that your glass becomes more than half full, and quickly!

[Brooklyn Girl]

I'm sorry you're going through such a bad patch right now. Wishing there was something I could do.

[barren mare]

Wow, there is a lot going on here. I think you have a lot to work through, and hopefully you can keep blogging as that happens. Your anger and pain are so very valid- at your husband for wanting to stop, at the people who don't understand your desire for another child. I so wish you well through all this, and to come out the other end at a place of peace.

[Katie]

I'm so sorry. You have every right to be angry and sad. I don't know why some of us have to go through so much pain and suffering but I know we'll find the strength and courage to get through it. I'm glad that you are blogging and I'll continue to read no matter where the road leads you to.

[Menita]

I'm sorry about everything, particularly about your husband. This is so hard to deal with - you need support, not war in your own home. I am so sorry, and hope, as Wavery said, that he just needs to recouping time.

And rimary/secondary/ it doesn't matter - the unfairness and pain of it all is the same.